Free Warm Hearts by Barbara Delinsky Page B

spend his nights alone, and for the longest time that had been okay. Now, though, it seemed wrong. He wasn’t sure when the change had taken place. Life had a way of speeding by, a blurred panorama of events that came into focus only when one slowed down to make a turn. He hadn’t planned on turning. His subconscious must have stuck a hand on the wheel.
    He wondered if it had something to do with his age. Women weren’t the only ones aware of biological clocks. Any man who was active in sports knew that at thirty he was a tad slower than he’d been at twenty, at thirty-eight a tad slower than he’d been five years before. Brendan had never been bothered by that; what little he’d lost in speed he’d gained in finesse.
    Nor was he vain; he didn’t fear going gray or needing glasses or getting wrinkles. It was more a matter of health and strength. He wanted to be able to enjoy a wife and kids when he was in his prime, which brought him back to the biological clock. He was reaching his prime damn fast.
    Sprawling lower on the sofa, he steepled his fingers against his mouth. Where was she? Her apartment was still dark as pitch, and it was nine o’clock. The thought of her on a date made him jealous. The thought of her away for the weekend left him in despair. Feeling distinctly antsy, he bolted from the chair and stalked into the bathroom. A tepid shower brought relief from the night’s heat, but it did little to settle his mind. Moments later, barely dry, he tugged on a pair of nylon running shorts, grabbed a Miller Lite from the fridge and climbed onto the fire escape. Popping the tab with his thumb, he chugged a third of the can before setting it down on his knee.
    He’d be a good catch, he argued in his own defense. He was easy to look at, easy to be with. Having lived alone for so long, he was self-sufficient. Okay, so his apartment wouldn’t pass a white-glove test, but he knew the rudiments of cooking, regularly emptied the trash and, when inspiration struck, could make his bed. He came from good stock, had a solid education, a stable job in a stable profession. Granted, as a public servant he didn’t earn the big bucks that he might in the private sector, but he had lived modestly over the years and had saved. If she gave the word, he’d buy a house. He kind of liked that idea. Something out of the city. Something with lots of privacy. Something with acres of land for the kids.
    She’d want kids; he knew she would. She’d even want to put her job on hold while the kids were young. He’d never ask her to do it. It would be her own decision, but it would please him. He was a modern male and all, and he’d insist on doing his share when he was home. Still, that old-fashioned part of him believed kids did best in those early years when they were with their moms, particularly with moms like her.
    He took another drink, then stared grimly into the dark. So he was into the fantasy again, and the scariest part was that it seemed so real and so right picturing Sweet-and-Sexy in his future.
    My man, you’re in for a fall , he told himself. She’ll turn out to be an accountant with a squeaky voice and an aversion to sex.
    But all such thoughts flew from his head then, because the light in her apartment came on. Teeth against his upper lip, he watched closely while she set the mail on the counter, laid down the blazer she’d been carrying along with her briefcase, opened the French windows wide, then turned on the answering machine. As she listened, she was working at freeing the buttons of her blouse. His teeth sank deeper when the blouse flared open, and though she kept her back to him, his imagination went wild.
    That was all she allowed. Skirting the bed, she passed from his line of vision.
    He was aching for more, his entire body tight. Exhaling the breath he’d held, he slowly drew in another, let it out, drew in another, let it out. By the