you had Lady since she was a puppy?” Abby asked, unaware that her smile scraped like sandpaper against Quinn’s already frayed nerves.
“I inherited her.”
“Inherited her?”
“My dad passed away last year. Lady belonged to him.”
Quinn didn’t bother to add that the dog had been another innocent victim of his father’s neglect. The day before the funeral, Quinn had followed a rusty chain anchored around the post of the deck to a box made of scrap wood underneath an oak tree in the backyard. He knelt down to look inside and was stunned to see a pair of bright but wary eyes staring back at him.
Quinn hadn’t known his father even owned a dog but it didn’t surprise him a bit that he hadn’t taken care of it. Mike O’Halloran’s legacy was one of abuse and neglect. He’d let his family splinter apart, his house practically fall down around his ears and his locksmith business slide to the verge of bankruptcy.
While Quinn debated whether he should try and lure the dog out or simply call animal control, Lady had taken charge of the situation. She’d sidled up to him, her coat matted and dirty, and politely lifted a paw for him to shake.
Quinn had picked her up, taken her into the house and fed her. Then he gave her a bath. That night, Lady staked a claim near his feet when he went to bed.
She’d been there ever since.
“I’m sorry about your father.” Abby rose to her feet and laid her hand on Quinn’s arm. It took all his self-control not to jerk away from her touch. “My parents died when I was fourteen. They were flying home from a convention in a friend’s twin-engine plane. There was some sort of mechanical failure…” Her voice trailed off, the memory—and the pain—as fresh in her eyes as if it had happened only the week before.
“You mentioned a brother. Alex. Do you have other siblings?” Quinn thrust his hands in his pockets, jostling her hand from his arm.
A heartbeat of silence preceded her answer. “No. Just Alex. He’s eight years older than I am. He was finishing his last semester of college but he came home and took over the…I mean—” Abby caught herself. “He kept things going.”
Took over, Quinn thought wryly, was probably a more accurate description. Still, he couldn’t imagine the kind of pressure Alex Porter had faced after the death of their parents. Not only had he stepped into his father’s shoes as CEO of Porter Hotels, he’d become an instant guardian to a much younger sibling. It went a long way in explaining why he was so protective of Abby.
Their eyes met and she backpedaled, almost tripping over the laundry basket in the process. “I’ll put these sheets and towels inside the cabin for you.”
Quinn released a sigh as the two dogs bounded after her. When he followed a few minutes later, he found Abby in the kitchen, eyeing the meager bag of groceries he’d dumped in the middle of the kitchen table.
“You brought…food.”
“I don’t expect you to provide my meals.”
Abby’s teeth tucked into her lower lip, a habit that Quinn had noticed seemed to coincide with her desire to say something she wasn’t sure she should. The trait must have slipped through the cracks of the Porter DNA. Alex had no trouble saying what was on his mind.
“I know, but…” She picked up a can of ravioli and it looked to Quinn as if she shuddered. “It’s silly to cook for myself when I can easily make enough for two.”
Sharing meals with Abby. Quinn stifled a groan. Granted, it meant more time in her company but it also meant…more time in her company.
He scooped up a few cans of tuna and shoved them in the cupboard. “That isn’t necessary. I’ll make do.”
“I’ve been trying out different recipes to serve to the guests.” Abby paused to study the label on a loaf of white bread. “Daniel was my official food critic. And since you’re taking his place as my carpenter, you might as well take his place as the taste tester, too.”
The offer was reasonable. And generous. At the moment, Quinn wasn’t sure he was in the mood to be either. He didn’t want to get to know Abby better. “Thanks, but I’ll get more done if I work at my own pace and don’t have to stop for meals at certain times.”
I’ll get more done. He’d said the words deliberately but Abby didn’t react the way he’d expected. Instead, she stared at him thoughtfully, as if he were a chessboard and she was studying her next move.
“Mmm.” That was all she said. But instead of leaving, Abby began to sort through the groceries and put them away. Quinn joined in, only to speed up the process so he could get back to work. And put some distance between them again.
She clucked her tongue with something that sounded like disapproval.
Quinn slanted a look at Abby and caught her frowning at the can of soup in her hand. “What’s wrong? Is it expired?”
“It’s chicken noodle.”
“So?”
“If you put chicken and water and some noodles into a pot, it turns into chicken noodle soup. Homemade. Which means it tastes better.”
“That takes time.”
“So?”
Quinn resisted the urge to smile when Abby tossed the word back at him. “So I work a lot. It’s easier to open a can.”
Both were the truth. He didn’t work full-time as a carpenter, which was what Abby assumed he did for a living, but the long hours spent rebuilding O’Halloran Security called for sacrifices in other areas. Like his entire life. But that didn’t appear to matter. Abby rolled her eyes and put it in the cupboard next to a box of generic macaroni and cheese.
“Macaroni. Cheese. This isn’t hard to make, either,” she muttered.
“Really?” Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Because I would think it’s extremely challenging to locate fluorescent orange cheese, grind it into a powder and seal it in a tiny foil package.”
Abby laughed. The lilting sound poured through the tiny kitchen. And swept right through his defenses. Fortunately, Abby’s cell phone chirped, granting him a few moments to shore them up again.
“I’m sorry.” She glanced at the number and a shadow skimmed through her eyes. “I should take this.”
“No problem.” Quinn retreated to the cabin deck and picked up one of the windows. Through the screen, he could hear one side of the conversation.
“I don’t care and I don’t think my attorney will, either.” A long silence followed before Abby spoke again, her tone glacial. “Did he mention that Abby Porter is the one who called? No? Well, you might want to mention my name…yes. Thank you.”
Quinn’s lips twisted.
He’d never have put that autocratic, hand-me-my-crown-and-scepter voice with the woman in the paint-splattered T-shirt who’d offered to make him dinner.
What’s
