Rustling noises suggested Marcus had gotten to his feet. Once awake, Marcus had to be moving. Rory expected he’d just disrupted the guy’s sleep for most of the rest of the night. He’d have to make that up to him, damn it.

  “You going to give me any specifics, or are we going to keep talking generalities?” Marcus asked. “What happened to get you to this place in your head?”

  “I’m not going to disrespect her by talking to you about specifics.”

  “Give me the high level.”

  “She was responding to something the way I expected. And then suddenly she wasn’t. On the surface, with her background, it makes total sense, but I think there’s more to it. I think I’m missing something.”

  “That’s what a good Dom does, Rory,” Marcus said. “He looks deeper than the obvious. If there’s anyone in the world who needs a Dom with that kind of radar, it’s Daralyn. To her psychiatrist, she’s a puzzle of behaviors, treatment options. Dr. Taylor is great for her, and Daralyn needs her approach. But she needs yours as well. Stick with your perspective. Set your worries aside. What do you want to do?”

  He thought. “I want to dig. I want to figure out what’s really going on.”

  “Then that’s what you do. If she had a rough day today, give her some breathing room. If you set the boat rocking, settle it down, put it back on an even keel, then go after the problem. Or, in terms you’ll understand, wait until the rains have passed to dig the hole, so the shovel doesn’t clog it up with mud.”

  “Farm analogies. Next thing, you’ll be saying y’all and wearing overalls.”

  “You just reminded me why I need to get my ass back above the Mason Dixon. Before I fucking forget how to be a New Yorker.”

  “What’s sad is you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Shithead. One last thing. Try not to get pissed off about her father and uncle around her. She can’t use the anger.”

  “I know. But it’s tough.”

  “Tell me about it. You and I prefer violence to handle asshole behavior. But your brother? He’s better than anyone I know at looking past the anger and hate and seeing the people behind it. Like your mom. I literally wanted to kill her a couple times. He saw her pain, her confusion, and that became more important to him than stepping on her to get to the relationship we wanted to have. It took time and pain to get there, but because we took the harder route, we are where we are right now, all of us in a better place. You could express all that rage you have on Daralyn’s behalf, but what does that do for her? How does that help her love you and you love her in a healthy way?”

  Rory thought about it. “Didn’t you get all of this from years of experience with the Dom and sub stuff?”

  “Some of it, and that’s why it’s important to mentor with an experienced Dom, the way you’re doing. But it’s more than that.” Marcus sighed. “Thomas and I might be Master and sub, but we learn from each other. If we’re doing it right, we grow in love with one another, like any other couple out there. Talk to her, Rory. Read everything she gives you, from the words that come out of her mouth, to every bit of body language. The things she doesn’t do or say, as much as those she does. You’re asking yourself the right questions, and reaching out when you need help. That’s all the way it should be.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Marcus grunted. “I do twenty hours of community service a month. Helping the handicapped and all that. Mentally handicapped, that is.”

  “Pansy.”

  “Cripdick.”

  Rory clicked off. Much as he hated to admit it, his brother’s husband was becoming something he never would have expected.

  A good friend.

  Chapter Six

  Rory glanced over as Daralyn put a cup of coffee at his elbow. Then she was gone, headed for the trio of women chatting at the handmade quilt display, even though they hadn’t signaled a need for help. That didn’t necessarily mean she was avoiding him. From watching his mother and Les manage the tourist traffic, she’d learned they bought more if there was a smoothly inserted comment about the women who’d made the quilts, some backstory to reinforce their authenticity.

  They hadn’t had any one-on-one time. When Rory opened the door this morning, a customer had already been waiting. Mr. Hernandez had needed a replacement part for his tractor, so that he didn’t lose daylight on the field he had to work today. More customers had arrived on his heels, a steady flow until ten-thirty. Then this vanload of church ladies had arrived from Asheville. The store had been a planned stop on their meandering tour to the beach.

  In their few interactions since she’d arrived a few minutes behind him, Daralyn had been friendly, pleasant, acting as if nothing had happened. But she avoided eye contact, more than usual, and stayed in a flurry of activity. Which was as big an alarm flag to him as the giant Stars and Stripes that flew over the car dealership in town.

  Up until today, she’d developed a pleasant habit of incidental contact, brushing against his shoulder or knees as she came behind the counter to get things. Laying her hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she reached up to retrieve something from a shelf.

  Today she was giving him a wide berth, as if touching him might turn her into a frog.

  He’d considered several ways of dealing with it, and had settled on the one that made the most sense to him. To break the brittle wall of self-consciousness around her, he picked a couple times to call her over, request her help with a customer. He talked to her in his usual way, teasing her a little. Touched her arm or hand like he might normally do while making a point, before moving on smoothly, as if all was good. Normal, the way it should be.

  She began to relax, act more like herself. By early afternoon, they were pretty much where they’d been before yesterday. The only time he put a hitch in her stride was when she was taking off. She worked until two today, part of the modified schedule he and his mother had imposed upon her, so she didn’t burn the candle at both ends on her schoolwork.

  “Remember, I’m taking you to dinner tonight,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “Oh. Yes. Fine.” She looked as if she might say more, but then she slipped out the door. He pushed his chair to the window to watch her pedal her bicycle to the road. She liked riding it to and from the store on the good weather days.

  He’d taught her to ride a bike. Well, it had been a group effort, Thomas explaining the basics, Les demonstrating, but he’d been the one to stick next to her on the bike, since he could run the fastest. He smiled. He’d been her spotter.

  He remembered when he’d put his hand on the seat to steady her, his fingers curled near her buttocks, his body leaned in as he held one of the handlebars.

  She’d turned her head toward him once or twice, her ponytail swiping him. She’d stumbled through an apology, but he’d just rubbed his jaw where it itched and smiled.

  “Focus on your balance,” he said. “I’ll be holding onto the bike until you find it. Don’t worry about anything but that, okay? I’ll take care of the rest.”

  He brought himself back to the present. She usually ate her lunch with him, but she’d made an excuse about not being hungry, that she’d eat when she went home.

  If they’d moved too fast, he’d slow it down. But after last night’s conversation with Marcus, he was resolved. He wasn’t going to stop unless he had a more compelling reason than his fears. She deserved more courage from him than that. He watched her hair flutter over her shoulders, the straight line of her back as she pedaled, the slight movement of her hips. God, everything about her called to him.

  You have every right to be at the front of the line.

  Marcus was right. He damn well did.

  He was taking her to The Purple Swan in Florence, one of those bistro style places where the portions were small and overpriced. The food was good, though, and the inside was decorated nice.

  It had once been a typical diner which did breakfast and lunch, offering cardiac attack, man-sized entrees for five bucks a plate. Once the bypass was finished, cutting Florence out of a big chunk of beach traffic, the town business owners had been smart enough to revamp the way Rory and his family had done. A crop of trendy-styled places had sprung up, touched with a small town flair. The combination tempted city people to detour.

  Daralyn had been to The Purple Swan with his mother and Les, to celebrate Les’s birthday, followed by some shopping in the local array of “quaint” stores, as his mother put it. What had stuck in his mind was Elaine mentioning how enchanted Daralyn seemed by the restaurant’s décor and that she’d eaten most of the small portion she’d been served. That was good enough for him.

  He’d called ahead and confirmed access logistics and whether the optimal seating locations would accommodate a wheelchair. Nothing could cast a pall on an evening like finding out the place was so jammed with people and tables a wheelchair patron would get stuck in a back corner near the restrooms, server’s station or a noisy kitchen access.

  After he closed up the store, he went home, took a shower, got dressed. It took him longer than most people to get ready for things, especially when he wanted to look his best, so he’d done his workout early this morning, rather than at the end of the day like he usually did.

  Elaine was home, but headed for her book club at six. She knew about the date but, to her credit, she didn’t make a big deal of it, though he saw her doing the mom secret smile thing. When he came into the kitchen, he had his suit coat folded over his lap. He hadn’t yet tied his tie, the two silky ends draped on either side of the collar, the shirt open a couple buttons.

  As usual, his mother looked attractively put together. Except for the unsettling year after their father’s death, she always emerged from her room in the morning fully dressed in flattering outfits, her dyed dark hair curled and arranged, her makeup in place. Tonight, she’d dressed up a bit. Even if he hadn’t already known, it would have reminded him it was book club night.

  Her eyes sparkled as they lighted on him. “You look very handsome. Want me to help with the tie?”

  “I’ll do it. But if I ever meet the guy who invented a noose as a fashion statement, I’ll string him up with one.” Rory winked at her as he popped the collar and started the process. He’d typically check himself in a mirror after, but Mom was better for that. “How many bottles of wine are you ladies planning to finish off tonight? Sorry, I meant books.”

  She sniffed. “I noticed you had a tear in your sock when I did the laundry yesterday. Everything okay?”

  She’d learned not to hover so much, but she’d still ask. A mom was going to be a mom, no matter if he was in his twenties or his fifties.

  “Yes, ma’am. Caught my ankle on the metal shelf edge in that back corner of the store, where it’s hard to maneuver. I checked and it didn’t even leave a scrape.” He shot her a wink. “A little higher up and it would have caught my pants. I’d have a good start on those fancy hundred-dollar jeans the kids run to the store to get.”

  Not that his were much cheaper. His day-to-day jeans were designed for the wheelchair disabled, with no back pockets, and a lined seat with no seams that could rub against his skin and cause sores. But from the front and sides they still looked like anyone else’s jeans.

  “Just so they rest on your backside the way they should,” his mother said primly.

  “But I was looking forward to wearing them belted around my thighs.” He grinned at her. “For me, that’d make dressing in the morning a lot easier.”

  She snorted, and surveyed him as he finished with the tie, putting his collar down. “Good?” he asked.

  “Perfect. Your father never could do that without help. Must have skipped a generation, because your grandfather could do it in his sleep.” She closed the distance between them and put her fingers on the tie, smoothing it, and him beneath, then touched his face, his brushed hair.

  “I won’t go on,” she promised in that way that told him she would, with very little encouragement. “But I’m glad you asked her to dinner. You’re helping her see she deserves that kind of attention from a man.”

  “Well, I’m likely a better choice for that than Thomas.”

  Shit, he hadn’t meant to go there, but her wording had raised his hackles. Like he was some kind of hands-on app to help Daralyn learn how to date.

  Elaine’s lips pressed together, but before she could say anything, he closed a hand over hers. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t need to say that.”

  “The truth is the truth,” she said.

  He’d reversed their hands, was holding hers firmly. “I’m nervous, and that turns me into an inconsiderate jerk,” he said. “She matters to me, Mom. I’m not doing this as a community service.”

  “I know.” Elaine took a breath. “I’m just…I’m trying not to do what I did with the two of them. Make you feel like I’m expecting something that doesn’t fit with what you truly want. Who you truly are.”

  Fair enough. He should have known better than to react to everything through the lens of what was going on with him. That was a surefire method to convince himself he was being treated differently because he was in a chair. Sometimes yeah, it was that, but a surprising number of times, it wasn’t. It just took stepping outside his own head to see it.

  “Think I should take her flowers?”

  Elaine looked toward the kitchen table. She’d already assembled a small bouquet for him from her flower garden, the base in a damp paper towel wrapped with green paper, tied with a yellow ribbon. “Will that do?”

  She really hadn’t meant what he thought she had. From the light in her eyes, he could tell she was genuinely happy about him and Daralyn spending the evening together.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Anytime. I’m off to my book club. Have fun.” She managed to bite back, “Don’t be late” before she said it.

  Once he’d passed twenty-one, plus achieved the physical shape where he could have lived on his own if he’d chosen to do so, he’d had a sit-down with her. As a grown man, his comings and goings were his decision. But because he knew she worried, he usually texted her his ETA, and updated it if it changed. A compromise, him respecting her love for him, and her respecting his age and independence.

  But as she picked up her purse and looked at him, he could tell there was something else, and he addressed it. “I’ll have a care with her,” he said. “I wouldn’t do anything in the world to hurt her.”

  “I know that, son.” She took a breath, gave him a quick smile, and slipped out the door.

  He could feel her worry. For him and Daralyn both, and for so many things. But though he and his mother still butted heads at times, her care was a gift he’d learned never to take for granted. And not just for himself.

  Daralyn had never experienced the gift of a mother’s love, not until she was fifteen. It had helped save her. For that reason and so many more, Rory would never give his mom too much shit for being a mom.

  Finally growing up had given him the skills and resources to take care of those he loved. Which meant not just the obvious things, but their feelings, too.

  When he didn’t see Marcus’s car at the house, Rory remembered he and Thomas had driven to Charlotte earlier in the day for some art party networking thing. They’d be back later tonight.

  Daralyn was standing by the road waiting for him, something she’d have done to be considerate to him. Which he appreciated, but he’d be telling her not to do that in the future when he picked her up for a date. She deserved to have a man come to the door for her, just like any other woman.

  The look of her got his heartrate going. Maybe there were more glamorous women in the world, but he couldn’t care less about that. She’d left her hair down, as he’d requested, and it was in loose curls on her shoulders and down her back, shorter pieces wisping around her face. She wore a yellow dress with a V-neckline and little buttons down the front. He imagined getting a glimpse of sweet curves cradled in lace when she bent over her menu. He didn’t think that in a creep kind of way. It was just another part of her he appreciated, that unconscious femaleness that made her Daralyn.

  As he slowed next to her, he saw she also wore a gold necklace with a pendant on it, a sunflower in gold and green metal. She’d probably found it on one of those shopping trips with his mom or sister. When Elaine’s sunflowers grew tall and sunny in the summer, they were Daralyn’s favorite flower. She’d stand beneath them, her head tilted back, face wreathed with a smile as she reached up to touch the over weighted blooms, making them sway.

  He wanted to get out and open her door for her, but it would be kind of obnoxious, making her wait while he did that. He wished he could lean over far enough to open the door from the inside for her, but he’d end up overbalanced and on the floor. So when she got in on her own, he settled for taking her hand and showing her in his expression how much he felt the next three words.

  “You look beautiful,” he said.

  The gold and green pendant picked up those colors in her hazel eyes as they brightened. She smiled, but her hand was cold, and he could feel a little tremor. “Nervous?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s never been just the two of us for dinner.” She looked down at their clasped hands and seemed at a loss to say anything else. She wasn’t wearing the chain bracelet, but he knew she wore it to give her courage for class. He took it as an encouraging sign she didn’t feel like she needed that, despite her nervousness.

  Her gaze lighted on the bouquet. He’d pulled a glass from the kitchen that would fit snugly in one of his cupholders, and set it up there as a vase to hold it.

  “For you,” he confirmed. “Full disclosure—Mom cut and arranged them, but she was on the same page with me. I wanted to bring you flowers tonight.”