and took a step toward her. “Metaphorically speaking.”
She took a step back, arms tight over her chest. “Excuse me?”
“I’m a writer. Thrillers.”
“Oh.” The big doe eyes blinked. “You’re a writer. You don’t kill people literally.”
“Only in the pages of my books.”
She put a hand to her heart and blew out a breath. “Thank goodness. I thought for a minute...stormy night, thunder, lightning, murder.” She arched her back in a body shrug.
“Bad habit of mine.”
“Murdering people?”
“That, too.” He smiled. She was pretty cute.
“Wait a minute.” She held up a finger. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Hayden Winters.”
“Well, do I ever feel stupid.” Fists on hips, she shook her head in self-disgust. “Hayden Winters. The novelist. We have all your books in the library—very popular, too, I might add—but apparently my brain did not register an actual bestselling author here in Honey Ridge.”
He braced for it, fully expecting her to fawn over him and make all kinds of gushy noises before an onslaught of tedious questions about the easy way to get published and why he’d chosen to write thrillers. He hadn’t. They’d chosen him.
Why couldn’t he have a conversation with a woman without things getting awkward?
“Now that I know you’re not going to kill me,” she went on, “I’ll share a secret with you. I know where Julia keeps the cookies.” She clinked her cup on the countertop, stood on tiptoe and opened an overhead cupboard. “Oreos or pecan sandies?”
The back side of her intrigued him, threw him off. Everything about her threw him off. She wasn’t impressed by Hayden Winters, and he didn’t know if that bothered or pleased him.
He let his eyes roam, taking her in, a writer’s habit of observing nuances, gestures. And yet something essentially male stirred, just a bit, as he watched Carrie Riley stretch up high for the cookies. He should have offered to reach them, but he’d rather watch her.
She wasn’t tall—average height, maybe, with ample curves, maybe a little extra in the hips that he found...comforting. Her hair was the color of roasted pecans, short and shoved behind her ears and messy on top. Side bangs fell across her forehead. She looked good sleep-mussed, her classic pajamas in an almost see-through shade of pink cupcakes.
And her feet were pretty.
He must be asleep and dreaming because he didn’t have a foot fetish. Never noticed women’s feet unless they were in shoes sky-high and strappy at the end of very long legs. But Carrie’s bare feet were perfectly shaped, feminine and smooth, and her toes polished a shiny pearl. Around her left ankle was a delicate silver chain he found particularly intriguing.
She turned her head and looked over one shoulder at him. “Which kind?”
He snapped his eyes to hers. “You choose.”
She handed down the sandies and then reached back for the Oreos, grinning. “Who says we can’t have both?”
Plastic crinkled as she ripped open the packages and offered him first dibs. He took his mind off the interesting little ankle bracelet to help himself to an Oreo.
“Julia prefers to bake from scratch. This is her emergency stash.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“In a storm of this proportion? You bet it is.” She crunched down on a sugary sandie, scattering crumbs.
He saluted her with the Oreo and thought how pleasant and comfortable this unexpected late-night encounter had become. She had no idea she’d saved him from a bout of melancholy after the conversation with his mother.
He was about to pry into her life, a natural result of his writer’s curiosity, when a sound from outside caught his ear.
He tilted his head. “Did you hear something?”
Carrie’s espresso eyes got bigger. “No. Did you?”
“A clatter. On the porch. As if a chair fell over.”
Thunder rolled, and rain gushed against the house as loud as Niagara Falls. “How can you hear anything over the storm?”
He shrugged. “Probably nothing.”
“It’s your murderous writer’s brain.”
She wasn’t wrong about that, but he walked to the window anyway and peered out.
“Black as the heart of a coal mine.” He started to turn back to his bold coffee and chocolate cookie when a shadowy bulk caught his eye.
“What is—?” He tensed, leaned in, squinted. “Turn the light off.”
“What? What do you see?”
“Turn the light off so I can be certain.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“It’s probably some poor animal trying to get out of the storm.”
“A mountain lion. Or a bear.”
He smirked at her. “You have a vivid imagination.”
“From the mouth of Hayden Winters.” She clicked off the light. “Don’t do something juvenile and try to startle me. I’ll scream and wake the whole house.”
But Hayden’s attention was focused on the dark lump against the wall of the porch. “There’s someone on the veranda.”
“No way.” She flipped the light back on. “No one would be out in this.”
“No one should be.” He strode to the entry leading out onto the veranda, flipped on the porch light and jerked the door open.
Rain and wind battered the flowers along the railing and sprayed mist against the entry. Hayden felt Carrie’s warmth close behind him, felt her shiver.
Her sharp intake of breath matched his.
“Oh, my gravy,” she whispered.
Storm or no storm, Hayden strode outside. A wind gust sprayed him with fat drops of rain, and cold prickled the skin on his arms.
A boy, drenched to the bone and shivering, huddled against the wall, a soggy bundle of plastered hair and pale skin.
“What are you doing out here?” Hayden demanded.
The kid’s teeth chattered. “I—I got lost.”
“On a night like this?”
Miserably,
