Throwing on a sweatshirt over her soiled shirt, Carly started unpacking her books, placing them with care onto the built-in shelves Liz had forced John to install. He’d probably thrown a little fit over the pretense, but caved after one smile from his wife. That funny little weirdness gurgled up inside her when she let the mental image form ...it must be that special love thing those two had that excluded everybody else in the world.
Weirdness aside, no matter how she felt in her gut, she knew she wouldn’t mind having that love thing going for her.
Hell, she’d been to
Europe. She’d visited castles and palaces and galleries and museums, spoken with the natives, eaten exotic food, learned more in the months abroad than she had in all four years of college. But she’d come back just as untouched as when she’d left.
Books thudded back into the box.
She leaned against the wall, overcome with a sense of longing and--something--she couldn’t quite put into words.
It wasn’t because nobody had wanted her. She’d turned down lots of men, good-looking guys, rich guys, not so rich guys, musicians, computer geeks, geniuses--whatever was on the menu for the day.
Too Catholic, she figured. That’s what she got for hanging around nuns most of her life. And Father Mike. And her father, though he was not a shining example of restraint, he was an example of the opposite kind. What not to do concerning the opposite sex.
She laughed out loud. “Oh, Daddy, you must have been something else! A studmeister. And look where it got you.”
It had gotten him her.