The Man I Love (eBook, ePUB)
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Half a dozen years old. With just one glance, those fabulous eyes made him behave like a teenager.Trent felt his heartbeat. "Good heavens, Bryn."He regained his composure and cleared his throat, pretending to ignore the woman at his father's bedside.Her presence made him sweat. Desire, loathing, and anger gripped his stomach, making it impossible for him to behave naturallyespecially since he didn't know whether his anger was directed at himself or not.His father, Mac, watched them with avid curiosity; then he gave his son a shrewd, calculating look.Aren't you going to tell Bryn anything?Trent...
Half a dozen years old. With just one glance, those fabulous eyes made him behave like a teenager.
Trent felt his heartbeat. "Good heavens, Bryn."
He regained his composure and cleared his throat, pretending to ignore the woman at his father's bedside.
Her presence made him sweat. Desire, loathing, and anger gripped his stomach, making it impossible for him to behave naturallyespecially since he didn't know whether his anger was directed at himself or not.
His father, Mac, watched them with avid curiosity; then he gave his son a shrewd, calculating look.
Aren't you going to tell Bryn anything?
Trent tossed aside the damp towel he'd been drying his hair with upon entering the room. He crossed his arms over his chest, uncrossed them, and shoved his hands in his back pockets. He turned to the
silent woman with what she hoped was an impassive expression.
Hi, Bryn. It's been a while...
The insolence in his tone made her blink, but he watched her recover quickly. Her eyes were fresh and clear like a Wyoming morning.
"Trent," she bowed her head tensely.
For the first time in weeks, Trent noticed anticipation on his father's face. Although pale and weak, he said in a strong voice:
"Bryn's here to keep me company for a month. She won't bother me like those other bores. I can't stand a stranger poking around in me..." Her voice trailed off, slurring the last words.
Trent frowned, worried.
"I thought you said you didn't need a nurse anymore. And the doctor agreed with you."
Mac grumbled.
"And that's right. Can't a man invite an old friend over without being questioned? As far as I know, this ranch is still mine."
Trent hid a weak, reluctant smile. His father was usually a curmudgeon, but lately he'd become Attila. Three nurses had quit their jobs, and Mac had fired two more. Physically, the Sinclair patriarch was healing, but mentally he was still fragile.
Trent was comforted to see his father as irascible as ever, despite the signs of exhaustion on his face. The heart attack he'd suffered two months earlier, resulting from the death of his youngest son from a heroin overdose, had cost the family nearly two lives.
Bryn Matthews said:
"I was so glad Mac called and asked me to come. I've missed you all."
Trent's back tensed. Was there mockery in her kind words?
He forced himself to look at her. When she was eighteen, her beauty had struck a chord with him. But back then, he was an ambitious twenty-three-year-old with no time to think about marriage.
Bryn had matured into a lovely woman. Her skin resembled sun-kissed ivory. A lustrous mane of black hair adorned her delicate features while almost violet eyes regarded him cautiously.
She seemed surprised to see him, but he was. His heart was pounding, and he was afraid she'd see it in his eyes.
She was wearing very formal clothes: a dark pantsuit with a white blouse underneath. She had a narrow waist and generous, curvy hips. The cut of her jacket concealed her chest, but his imagination spared no detail.
Trent felt his heartbeat. "Good heavens, Bryn."
He regained his composure and cleared his throat, pretending to ignore the woman at his father's bedside.
Her presence made him sweat. Desire, loathing, and anger gripped his stomach, making it impossible for him to behave naturallyespecially since he didn't know whether his anger was directed at himself or not.
His father, Mac, watched them with avid curiosity; then he gave his son a shrewd, calculating look.
Aren't you going to tell Bryn anything?
Trent tossed aside the damp towel he'd been drying his hair with upon entering the room. He crossed his arms over his chest, uncrossed them, and shoved his hands in his back pockets. He turned to the
silent woman with what she hoped was an impassive expression.
Hi, Bryn. It's been a while...
The insolence in his tone made her blink, but he watched her recover quickly. Her eyes were fresh and clear like a Wyoming morning.
"Trent," she bowed her head tensely.
For the first time in weeks, Trent noticed anticipation on his father's face. Although pale and weak, he said in a strong voice:
"Bryn's here to keep me company for a month. She won't bother me like those other bores. I can't stand a stranger poking around in me..." Her voice trailed off, slurring the last words.
Trent frowned, worried.
"I thought you said you didn't need a nurse anymore. And the doctor agreed with you."
Mac grumbled.
"And that's right. Can't a man invite an old friend over without being questioned? As far as I know, this ranch is still mine."
Trent hid a weak, reluctant smile. His father was usually a curmudgeon, but lately he'd become Attila. Three nurses had quit their jobs, and Mac had fired two more. Physically, the Sinclair patriarch was healing, but mentally he was still fragile.
Trent was comforted to see his father as irascible as ever, despite the signs of exhaustion on his face. The heart attack he'd suffered two months earlier, resulting from the death of his youngest son from a heroin overdose, had cost the family nearly two lives.
Bryn Matthews said:
"I was so glad Mac called and asked me to come. I've missed you all."
Trent's back tensed. Was there mockery in her kind words?
He forced himself to look at her. When she was eighteen, her beauty had struck a chord with him. But back then, he was an ambitious twenty-three-year-old with no time to think about marriage.
Bryn had matured into a lovely woman. Her skin resembled sun-kissed ivory. A lustrous mane of black hair adorned her delicate features while almost violet eyes regarded him cautiously.
She seemed surprised to see him, but he was. His heart was pounding, and he was afraid she'd see it in his eyes.
She was wearing very formal clothes: a dark pantsuit with a white blouse underneath. She had a narrow waist and generous, curvy hips. The cut of her jacket concealed her chest, but his imagination spared no detail.
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