The Late Bloomer's Road to Love Page 7

  Rachel didn’t even want to begin to imagine what life would have been without him had he not recovered.

  “No, you’re not an old man,” she agreed. “Which is why I’ve been after you to listen to the doctor and do your physical therapy sessions faithfully. They can only help you be young.”

  Without realizing it, Rachel had given him an opening and he definitely intended to use it to his advantage. “Speaking of physical therapy,” he began as he slowly made his way to the staircase.

  Rachel braced herself, knowing what was coming. “Yes?”

  Her father stopped moving toward the stairs and looked at her. “Is that a ‘Yes, go on talking’? Or the yes I’ve been trying to get you to say ever since I came home from the hospital?”

  Rachel debated drawing this dialogue out and making her father wait for an answer. It would have served him right for what he had put her through. But, by the same token, she liked seeing her father happy, and there was no question that he did look happy as he stood there, waiting for a positive answer.

  “Let’s just say that Wyatt Watson is a very persuasive man who knows how to present facts in just the right light,” Rachel told him.

  George’s green eyes sparkled, and for one precious moment, he looked exactly like the man in the wedding photo, standing next to the laughing, happy bride who had been her mother.

  “Then it’s yes?” he asked eagerly.

  “It’s yes—but with a condition,” she quickly injected, wanting him to be aware that there were two sides to this bargain. “The second you stop keeping up your end of this and let your physical therapy sessions start to slide, the deal is off. Do you understand?”

  Her father sighed. “Yes, I understand. You know, you’re every bit as hard a taskmaster as your mother was.”

  The observation just made Rachel smile. “I take that as a compliment.”

  “You would,” her father chuckled. His smile just widened. “Well, I guess I’ll go off to bed as my taskmaster demands.” And then he paused, looking at his daughter. “What about you?” he asked. “Are you going to go to bed, too?”

  She only wished. “Dad, you know I have online classes to catch up on.”

  He frowned. “Being a nurse isn’t going to do you any good if you run yourself into the ground putting in all these hours studying for it.”

  She knew he meant well and that he cared, but this was something she had already lost too much time trying to achieve. “I’ll be fine, Dad.”

  George eyed her skeptically. “You’ll be the girl with a permanent keyboard imprint on her face if you’re not careful,” he warned.

  “You do have a vivid imagination, Dad,” Rachel told him.

  He stopped just at the base of the stairs. “Promise me that you’ll get some sleep before midnight,” he requested seriously.

  Despite the fact that she felt really drained right now and would have loved to crawl into bed, she didn’t want her father overthinking this, or worrying about her. She could take care of herself.

  “Hey, if Cinderella could stay up until after midnight,” she laughed, “so can I.”

  “Cinderella had a fairy godmother,” her father pointed out.

  “And I have you,” she countered cheerfully, patting his cheek affectionately as she drew closer. “If you ask me, I was the one who got the better end of the deal. Now go to bed, Dad, and let me get to my classes. I’ve got a lot to catch up on and a lot of classes to make up.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” he apologized with sincerity.

  The expression on her father’s face made her feel guilty. She hadn’t meant it that way. She was just thinking of the actual online classes that she hadn’t managed to absorb yesterday.

  “That wasn’t meant as a dig, Dad. That was just a simple fact,” she told him. She appealed to his sense of logic. “Now, the more time I spend talking to you—much as I love it—the more time I’m going to have to make up for in ‘class.’”

  “Message received.” George bent over from where he was standing and kissed her temple. “Good night, light of my life.”

  “Good night, Difficult Dad,” she teased with a straight face.

  George pretended to shake his head and lamented, “No respect,” as he went up the rest of the way to his room.

  Rachel waited until she heard her father’s bedroom door close, then hurried up the stairs to her own room. Flipping on the light switch, she walked inside and then settled in at her desk in front of her computer.

  She had every intention of putting in at least a couple of hours of studying, if not more. But try as she might, she found that she really couldn’t concentrate. Even though she was reviewing facts she already knew, they just seemed to drift through her brain without sticking.

  Between feeling really exhausted and having images of Wyatt unaccountably pop up in her head when she least expected it, Rachel found herself reading the same words over and over again without having them make any sense at all—or even penetrating her brain.

  Not only that, but it felt as if every bone in her body ached from all the work she had put in today at the restaurant.

  There was no doubt about it, even though she would never admit it out loud to anyone—she was pushing herself too hard.

  This was an exercise in futility. In addition, it had never happened to her before. She was usually able to absorb at least a little bit of information before her brain surrendered and called it quits.

  However, tonight the battle seemed lost before it was even undertaken. If she was being honest with herself, her eyes had started to close the moment she sat down in front of the computer.

  There was no point in beating her head against the wall, Rachel told herself.

  Maybe tomorrow would be better, she hoped.

  With that thought uppermost in her mind, she lay down and curled up on her bed. She was sound asleep less than five minutes after her head hit the pillow.

  * * *

  Rachel’s inner alarm clock woke her up at the usual time, not any later, not any earlier. She had been that way ever since she had gone to first grade. All she had to tell herself was what time she wanted to wake up and she just did. There had never been a need to set an actual alarm clock. The power of suggestion took care of all that.

  As soon as she was up, guilt over last night’s missed lesson set in. She couldn’t allow that to become a habit. She would have to find some way to make up for that after work, Rachel promised herself as she quickly hurried into her shower stall.

  Maybe if she went in earlier to work and everything went smoothly for a change, she could do some studying at lunch and catch up with the rest of the missed lesson when she got home tonight.

  At least that sounded like a plan. Moving at her usual fast pace, Rachel was dressed and ready to go in ten minutes. Preoccupied, she didn’t hear the voices in conversation until she was almost at the bottom of the stairs.

  At first she thought her father had the radio on, or maybe even the small television set he kept in the kitchen and turned on for occasional company.

  But then she listened and heard a deep, baritone voice. A voice she could have sworn belonged to Wyatt.

  No, it couldn’t be, Rachel insisted to herself. She just had Wyatt on the brain, that was all.

  In a state of denial, she walked into the kitchen. And stopped dead.

  Wyatt was standing there, his back to the doorway, and from what she gathered, he was in the middle of fending off her father’s invitation to eat breakfast.

  “Wyatt?” she asked uncertainly, wondering why the man was here so early. From what she had picked up, the physical therapist didn’t usually get here until ten o’clock in the morning.

  At the sound of her voice, both Wyatt and her father looked in her direction.

  Her father was the one who spoke first. “Maybe you can ta
lk Wyatt into having breakfast,” he said, appealing to his daughter. “After all, he got here incredibly early and this way he won’t have to wait while I make breakfast for you and me.”

  She was still trying to sort things out. “What are you doing here so early?” she asked. That hadn’t been their arrangement. Had things changed around for some reason?

  “I thought your father and I could start our routine early,” Wyatt explained easily, not missing a beat. “This way, he can arrive at the restaurant closer to the time he used to get in.”

  Obviously her father hadn’t told Wyatt everything. In his mind, to do so would have been bragging. “Then you would have had to have been here at least a couple of hours ago,” she told Wyatt. “Dad believes in getting an early start—just slightly before the rooster got up.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why your father had that heart attack,” Wyatt said, looking pointedly at his patient.

  “She’s exaggerating,” George protested, looking far from pleased about the nature of his daughter’s narrative.

  “No, I’m not,” Rachel insisted, “and you know it.” Rachel smiled at her father fondly. She was only keeping after him for his own good.

  George made a dismissive noise and turned toward Wyatt.

  “About that breakfast,” he prodded, thinking he stood a much better chance of getting the man to eat than he had of winning an argument with his daughter.

  To George’s delight, Rachel was apparently backing him up.

  “You might as well say yes, Wyatt. My father’s not going to give up until you do. Unlike me,” she added with a wide smile, “the man doesn’t retreat.”

  “What’s this about you ever retreating?” George asked his daughter incredulously. Then, as an amused sidebar, he told Wyatt, “But she’s right. I don’t give up. Ever.” And then he focused on Rachel. “Now what’s all this about you retreating?”

  “When he stopped by at the restaurant last night to make the case for you going back to work if you played by the rules, I tried to convince him to stay for dinner. But I didn’t have any luck. Your physical therapist just left the restaurant without taking a single bite.”

  “Oh, you should have stayed,” George told him in all sincerity. “Rachel here is almost as good a cook as I am. I taught her everything she knows—well, almost,” her father amended with a wink in Wyatt’s direction. “After all, a man’s got to have some secrets.”

  “As you can see, false modesty is obviously not one of my father’s qualities,” Rachel quipped. “But Dad is the main reason that people keep coming back to Vesuvius in spades. You might as well find out what the fuss is all about sooner than later. You’ll be glad that you did.”

  Wyatt didn’t immediately agree. “And you’re staying for breakfast?” he asked.

  He watched her mouth curve in amusement and found himself captivated again. “Well, I guess I’ll have to now,” Rachel answered, “since I played it up the way I did.”

  “Less talking, more eating,” George dictated, using the spatula in his hand like a pointer. Turning all the way around, he distributed what he’d prepared onto three plates. “It’s ready.”

  She looked at her father, stunned. He had made three equal, tempting portions. The aroma was wonderful, but that didn’t divert her from the question that sprang up in her head.

  “Then you knew he was coming?” she questioned. He didn’t make this much normally.

  Her father flashed his lopsided smile at her. “I’m your father. I know everything,” he told her matter-of-factly.

  She would have appreciated a heads-up about Wyatt being there. In all likelihood, she would have left earlier to avoid running into him. Her brain still felt hazy.

  Too late now, she thought philosophically. “You keep telling yourself that, Dad.”

  “Does it matter where I sit?” Wyatt asked, assuming that both father and daughter had seats that they tended to favor.

  “Just as long as it’s at the table, it doesn’t really matter where. Nothing’s written in stone. Rachel and I are both flexible people,” George cheerfully told the physical therapist.

  Wyatt could have sworn that there was a twinkle in George’s eye as he placed his plate next to Rachel’s. He might have had a choice when it came to having breakfast, but it was plain that his patient had made that choice for him.

  With a smile, Wyatt sat down.

  Chapter Eight

  Wyatt wasn’t really thinking about the food that his patient had made and placed before him when he started eating. Breakfast was just something to keep his stomach from rumbling. So when the taste suddenly snuck up on him, exploding on his tongue and catching him totally off guard, he was more than a little surprised.

  Wyatt heard himself blurting out the first words that came to his mind.

  “Hey,” he cried, “this is really good.” There was no missing the enthusiasm in his voice.

  Rachel’s father had taken his seat directly opposite Wyatt. The note of surprise in Wyatt’s voice obviously amused him. He smiled at the young man, clearly pleased. He never took a compliment for granted. No matter how many times he had heard it voiced before.

  “Did you expect me to poison you?” George asked, smiling at him.

  “No, of course not,” Wyatt replied. “But I just expected this to taste like, well, breakfast,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing out of the ordinary. And certainly nothing to make my taste buds stand up and cheer.” He grinned. “Bar none, this is probably the best breakfast I have ever eaten—no offense to my mother.”

  “Well, I won’t tell her if you won’t,” George promised with an unexpected twinkle in his eye. And then he looked at his daughter. “I’m sure that Rachel can be trusted to keep a secret. You won’t say anything, will you, honey?”

  “About what?” she deadpanned, wide-eyed.

  “See?” George said, looking at his therapist. “Nothing to worry about.” He noted with pleasure how quickly Wyatt’s breakfast was disappearing. “Do you want seconds?”

  “No, this is more than enough,” Wyatt assured his patient. He knew that this was far more than he usually consumed. Usually, a piece of toast would see him through to lunch. “If I have any more I won’t be able to go through the paces and show you how to do those new exercises.”

  George looked at the French fries he’d made for Rachel that still remained in the bowl. There had to be a little less than half a bowl left. He didn’t believe in pushing the food he made, but neither did he believe in just tossing food away, either.

  “Well, the fries are here if you find that you’ve changed your mind and want them.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Wyatt replied good-naturedly.

  Her father rose to get more coffee for himself. Rachel took the opportunity to lean in closer to Wyatt and tell him in a low, conspiratorial voice, “You realize that you’ve just made my father very happy.” And because he did, she was very grateful to the physical therapist, and saw him in an entirely new light. “After all these years, my father still never gets tired of hearing favorable comments about his cooking. Keep that up,” she said with a grin, “and he may be tempted to adopt you.”

  Wyatt’s eyes swept over her face before he looked directly into her eyes. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” he confided in a similar whispering tone.

  Rachel was caught off guard, not knowing what to answer as she sensed what he meant by that.

  Just then, her father returned with his oversize mug filled to the brim.

  “You two whispering about anything I should know about?” George asked, looking at the pair as he took his seat again.

  “We’re just discussing how his compliment about your food made you exceptionally happy,” Rachel said. Leaning over, she snagged a couple of French fries, making short work of both of them.

  “Only
if he meant it,” George qualified, looking at the man who was putting him through his physical therapy paces.

  Wyatt’s expression remained serious. “I never lie.”

  He had already eaten too much. But considering how tasty the fries were, Wyatt could easily see himself quickly disposing of the entire portion of the remaining fries.

  George nodded. “Now, there’s a rarity these days. An honest man.” His voice sobered. “Say, now that we’ve broken the ice, why don’t you come by Vesuvius at the end of the week and I’ll whip up one of my specialties for you. I should be in full swing by then, able to prepare my specials.” And then he slanted a glance in his daughter’s direction. “That is, if my warden decides to take my shackles off.” He turned his attention toward Wyatt. “So what do you say?”

  “Offhand, I’d say that sounds like an offer that I can’t refuse,” Wyatt answered with a straight face. “Provided you don’t push yourself too hard and overdo it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rachel told Wyatt. “I intend to watch my father like a hawk. He’s not going to get a chance to overdo anything.”

  George sighed dramatically. It was only half in jest.

  “You heard the warden,” he lamented. “But I have to warn you that I won’t be at the top of my game, making that dinner for you,” he told Wyatt as if he was a fellow conspirator. And then he brightened. “Maybe when you come, you can distract her for me. Because I don’t do very well when I have someone breathing down my neck—even if it is my own daughter.”

  Wyatt didn’t bother hiding his amusement. His patient had just used the same wording that he had when he’d tried to explain to his family and friends why he decided to leave the company he’d been working for and go off to start his own. Because, just like George, he found he fared a lot better without having someone breathing down his neck.

  George saw the grin on Wyatt’s face and felt he interpreted it correctly. He was really growing to like this young man. A lot.