Future Perfect by Suzanne Brockmann Page A

was, the five months I spent in there was way too long.”
    Juliana risked looking up at Webster. He was watching her steadily, but his eyes held no accusations, no revulsion, no pity—only warmth. “It must’ve been awful,” he said.
    “It scared me to death,” she admitted. “Being locked up like that, constantly watched …”
    “Were you guilty?”
    She nodded, yes, unable to speak the word. “I was living on my own, in the street. I had two options when it came to surviving, besides going back home, that is. I chose stealing.” She looked at him, waiting.
    Webster just watched her. He didn’t say anything.
    “Well?” she finally asked.
    “Well what?”
    “This is where you’re supposed to say something clever to get me out of the room so you can count the money in your wallet, make sure it’s all there,” Juliana said.
    Webster laughed, then stopped as he realized she wasn’t kidding. “Oh, come on. When was the last time you stole something?” he asked.
    “It was only that one time,” she said, “and that was only because I was so hungry.”
    “When you were sixteen,” Webster said. “Twelve years ago. God almighty, Juliana, I hope you don’t intend to judge
me
by the mistakes
I
made twelve years ago.”
    Juliana looked down at her hands, willing away the tears that had somehow leapt into her eyes. “No,” she said softly. “I’d never do that.”
    “I also hope that you don’t judge me by the mistakes I made just last week,” Webster said softly.
    She looked up at him, startled, remembering the man she’d first known as Webster Donovan.
    His eyes held none of the crystal hardness she’d seen in that other Webster. Instead they held such sensitivity and warmth she felt she had a glimpse of this man’s soul.
    “I won’t,” she said, then managed to smile. “You know, Webster Donovan, I think we just might be able to be friends.”
    He smiled back at her. “Friends would be a really good place to start.”

Chapter Eight
    The next few days passed quickly, and Webster finally felt well enough to venture downstairs. The first day he was up and about, he followed Juliana into the kitchen after breakfast, staying and chatting as she cleaned up the dishes. The second day, he grabbed a sponge and helped. The third day, he followed her up to the guest rooms, continuing a running dialog on his favorite books, authors, movies, and musical groups, peppered with endless questions about her own favorites.
    As they went into the second room, and he started to help her strip the bed, she had to laugh. “Webster, I’ve never seen anyone procrastinate as diligently as you.”
    He looked across the bed at her, smiling slightly. “I’m not procrastinating,” he said.
    “You’re not writing,” she pointed out.
    “Yeah, but I’m not procrastinating.”
    She motioned to him, standing there, a pillowcase in his hands. “If this isn’t procrastination, what is it?”
    “It’s just … well …” He cleared his throat, tossing the pillowcases into the laundry basket. When he looked back at her, the softness in his eyes nearly took her breath away. “I just want to be with you, Juliana,” he said.
    She had to turn away, unsure of what to say and equally unsure how to feel.
Light
, she thought desperately.
Keep it light
. “Good,” she said. “Then today you can start paying me back for all those days I waited on you hand and foot.”
    He leaned on the bed, eyebrows on the rise. “You want me to wait on
you
hand and foot?”
    She threw a pillow at his head. He caught it and began stuffing it into a clean pillowcase. “I’ve got five ladies arriving at four-thirty,” she said. “They’ll be here for dinner tonight and tomorrow. If you’re game, I’d like you to help me entertain them.”
    Web’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Entertain? You mean, like tap dance? Recite poetry?”
    “The poetry would be nice.” Juliana smiled. “Look, I’ll show you what I mean. Come with