Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

house? My young, single, handsome boss—Mother would jump to conclusions and be full of questions. “I removed the binding last weekend, and he’s been exercising it. He’ll fly again, I’m sure.”
    “You did a neat job placing that pin,” Luke said. “What’s your rehab setup like?”
    “I’ve got outdoor space for several large animals and some smaller cages I can set up indoors if I need them. The hawk’s outdoors.”
    “This is in your yard?”
    “Yeah. Well, my mother’s yard. It’s her house.”
    “Ah.” His eyebrows shot up, and for a second he seemed to consider. “You live with your mother.”
    It occurred to me that it might seem odd, a woman my age still living at home. Normally I never gave it a second thought, but for some reason I wanted to justify it to him. “Yes,” I said. “It’s convenient, it’s near work. And my mother has a big beautiful house. I couldn’t afford comfort like that on my salary.”
    “You mean your boss doesn’t pay you enough?”
    “Oh, I’m not angling for a raise. He has a big loan to pay off.”
    “You’re very understanding.” We grinned at each other like flirting kids. “Your father, does he live in that big beautiful house too?”
    “No, he doesn’t.” Last night’s black dreams ambushed me, made my breath catch in my throat. I lifted my cup, put it down again because my hand was trembling. With an effort I shoved the invading phantoms out of my head and slammed the door. “My sister lives at home, though,” I added, surprised my voice was steady.
    “So, tell me,” he said, “what do you do when you, uh, have a visitor and you want privacy?”
    I watched his long fingers lightly stroke the side of his cup and let myself imagine his touch on my cheek, my neck. What would he be like, avid or gentle? Both, I thought. Yes, both.
    “Privacy’s out of the question,” I said, mock serious. “We sit in the parlor and make conversation with my mother and sister.”
    “Very proper.”
    He was leaning forward, and I’d almost unconsciously moved closer. I had a quick and vivid fantasy of him ravishing me, or me ravishing him, in the middle of Starbucks on that little green table, with clerks and customers cheering us on.
    “So,” he said, “can I come and see your hawk?”
    “Sure.” I mentally ran through the possibilities. Tomorrow was Friday. On Saturday Mother and Michelle would be gone from early to late. I alternated Saturday duty with another young vet, and this was my week to be off. Rosario didn’t work on the weekend. We’d have the house to ourselves.
    Crazy. What was I thinking? I barely knew him. And he was my boss.
    But I said, “How about Saturday? Come at noon. I’ll feed you.”
    “Sounds great. Your mother won’t mind?”
    “Not at all.” I’d let him think my family would be home, so he wouldn’t come expecting anything to happen between us. Nothing would. Not in Mother’s house, the first time Luke and I were alone. If anything happened, it would be much farther down the road, when I knew him better.
    But oh, how I loved this feeling. The rush of excitement. The newness of it. The look in his eyes made the air crackle between us.
    In my car on the way home that night, I pushed a Mary Chapin Carpenter tape into the player and sang I want to be your girlfriend along with her, jubilant, silly as a teenager, tapping time with my palm against the steering wheel.
    ***
    Mother and Michelle were in the kitchen, putting the final touches on the dinner Rosario had left for us.
    “Hey, Mish,” I said, swinging an arm around my sister’s shoulders. “How’d it go at the dentist?”
    She looked startled by the hug. I released her quickly, feeling obscurely foolish.
    “It was okay,” she said. “You’re in a good mood.”
    “It’s nice to see,” Mother said. She smiled at me but her slender fingers went on mincing basil leaves in a saucer. The strong minty aroma filled the kitchen. “You went out of here this morning with a cloud over your head.”
    “I had a good day.” I stood at the sink to wash my hands and hide my smile.
    When I turned back, Mother was still watching me, her expression quizzical. She dropped her gaze and sprinkled bits of basil over a bowl of cold pasta salad. “Rachel,” she said, “would you bring in the iced tea?”
    She carried the pasta through the doorway to the dining room.
    Michelle poked at her jaw. “I’m still a little numb,” she muttered. “I hope I don’t