Her Kind of Hero Excerpt
By Kathleen Dienne
I kissed him because he was better than nothing.
Derek froze for a moment and I thought I'd made a mistake.
I felt better when he rested his hand on my hair, even if
it had all the weight of a butterfly's wing.
"Do you mean it, Van?" he asked.
I couldn't look at him. "Of course I do," I whispered into
his neck.
He put his arms around me. I rested my head against his
chest and listened to his heart thump at a rate that
contrasted with his calm embrace. With one finger I doodled
on his shirt pocket.
"That's interesting," I said.
"What's that?"
"You've got quite a pectoral muscle here."
"I should think so," he said drily. "I lift a lot of heavy
things." He worked as a research librarian at the college,
but a few years back he'd bought a little land where he
grew hay for two elderly horses. I'd tried to lift a bale
of hay once, and the attempt almost yanked my arms from
their sockets. I'd noticed a few months ago that farm
chores had put some serious muscles on this quiet, gentle
man.
"I see." I put my hand on his arm. "Derek, I'm going to buy
you short-sleeve shirts for your birthday."
"Why?"
"Long-sleeve shirts rolled to the elbow are not showing off
your arms." I had my fingers on an incredible biceps.
He laughed. "I can't wear short sleeves to work. Too cold
in the winter, and the air conditioning at the library
makes it way too cold in summer."
"You're too practical."
"Probably."
This time he kissed me. He was still tentative, but his
lips were soft and warm. His unexpected strength warmed my
response. I let my lips open a little wider and wrapped my
arms around his neck. He tightened his embrace but made no
effort to speed up our kiss.
I pressed against him and moaned softly. His breathing
picked up. Finally I felt his tongue against mine, hesitant
and slow. I ran my fingers into his thick brown hair and
pulled him closer.
That convinced him I was serious, I guess. His lips grew
firmer, and his tongue explored mine with more sureness.
When he nibbled gently on my bottom lip, I jumped in
surprise and pleasure. He smiled and went back to kissing
me. I let my hands wander down his powerful arms, hidden in
the loose oxford shirt.
He broke it off just as I was getting into a
groove. "What's wrong, Der?"
"Nothing. Just remembered...need to stop by the farm supply
store, get a thing," he muttered. He went to the front door
where he'd left his coat. I followed, wondering if I should
stop him. He looked at me, agony on his face. He took one
step toward me.
When I held out my arms, he fled.
Derek Lane was my husband's best friend, and when Luke died
three weeks after turning thirty-six, Derek kept me going.
When I accidentally gave the funeral home Luke's cell phone
number on the contact form, Derek stepped in and finished
the planning. When the last mourner left my house, Derek
awkwardly hugged me and handed over a thumb drive. It
contained a spreadsheet with the name and address of
everyone who'd sent flowers or cards.
That was Derek's style in a nutshell. Reliable, thoughtful
and low key. Nothing wrong with that, of course. It's just
that Derek would never sing love songs at karaoke night.
Derek would never propose to a woman on a Jumbotron. And
Derek would certainly never stop mowing the lawn to seduce
his wife under a tree.
Derek would finish mowing the lawn. Then he'd put away the
mower, lock the shed, take a shower and lead his wife to
the bed with the blinds drawn.
If he had a wife, which he didn't.
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