style="font-size:15px;"> Her heart hammered.
“What’s with this place?”
Braeden ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Should’ve known you’d be another redhead.”
Her eyebrows curved. “What did you say?”
Braeden folded his arms across his chest.
Amelia jabbed her thumb toward the dock. “I take it that sailboat out there is yours?”
Biting the inside of his cheek, he nodded.
“And just what have you got against redheads?”
“I think my boat speaks for itself.” He cocked his head at the grappling hook in her hands. “Redheads are nothing but trouble, plain and simple.”
She curled her lip. “By the way, you’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For saving your life.”
His mouth dropped open. “You didn’t...”
She pointed at the doughnut lying against the baseboard.
He tightened his lips. “Thanks for saving my life, Ms. Duer.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She inspected him from the top of his head to his regulation black shoes. And something in her face told him she found him wanting. Heat crept up his neck.
He clenched his jaw. “Someday I’ll try to return the favor.”
“Don’t bother. I won’t be in need of your help. As you can see, I’ve got my own back. Me and God.”
He uncrossed his arms and took a step back.
What was with the God talk around here?
Braeden’s eyes traveled over Amelia Duer—her clothing, her boots, her face.
Her hair.
Not a slave to fashion, he guessed, with her ragged-at-the-knee blue jeans tucked into the navy blue Wellingtons. And that gosh-awful neon yellow slicker, which clashed with her wind-tossed strawberry blonde hair. As he’d wrestled her for the grappling hook, the scent of seawater, mud marsh and...something else...brought the Florida Keys to mind.
Tall for a woman, with an athletic build. Late twenties, maybe. A sprinkle of freckles—the bane of redheads, in his considerable and unfortunate experience—dotted the bridge of her nose. Temper and redheaded attitude—he shot another glance at the grappling hook—in abundance.
If this was God’s idea of a joke, it was a bad one from his point of view. Good thing he preferred petite, feminine women.
A phone warbled a tune about burning kisses.
Her eyes rounded, and she fished through the pockets of her rain slicker.
Blushing, she extricated her cell. But flustered, her fingers fumbled. She dropped the phone on a phrase about love that couldn’t be denied. The cell skidded across the table.
“Love, huh?” He smirked and shoved the phone in her direction. “Like Romeo and Juliet?”
She ignored him, seizing hold of the cell. “Honey and her pranks.” She stabbed the talk button as the Pointer Sisters belted, “Fire—”
“Hello? This is—” She swung away. “Is Max okay?”
Braeden frowned at the concern lacing her voice.
“I’ll be right there. Thanks for calling.” Pushing the off button, she headed for the door.
Braeden caught her arm. “Is everything okay? Can I help?”
Lines of weariness carved grooves around her lovely rosebud mouth. She shook her head, the red waves coming loose, falling in soft tendrils around her face. “I’ll take care of it. I need to pick up Max at school. He’s not feeling—” Her face constricted. “I shouldn’t have let him talk me into allowing him to go to school today.”
Max?
Feeling sucker punched, he removed his hand from her arm. She had a son? A husband, too?
Duh...children and husbands usually went together, Scott.
This redhead was someone else’s headache.
Which didn’t make him feel any better.
He snapped his fingers. “Key lime pie.” She smelled like—
“Excuse me?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
A bleak expression in her eyes, she rubbed her temples as if she had a headache. “Dinner’s at six. I’ll see you then?”
“Eighteen hundred. I’ll be there.”
“Don’t expect haute cuisine.” She cut her eyes at him, a challenge animating her face once more. “The redheaded Duers are plain and simple folks.”
As she exited the cabin, he followed her onto the porch, watching her disappear through the cover of trees. So that was Amelia Duer. Gutsy. Tough as a sea barnacle. She’d have made a great Guardsman. He stroked his chin, admiring her strength. Able to take care of anything life threw her way.
But who took care of her?
* * *
Rounding the square, Braeden caught sight of Seth Duer standing in front of the Sandpiper. The older man stared through the plate-glass window, shielding his eyes with his hand. Glancing at his watch, Braeden figured he had enough time to find out what was up with Amelia Duer before visiting Station Kiptohanock just across the street.
Parking, Braeden exited his truck. Gravel crunched. “Mr. Duer? Sir?”
Seth Duer jerked and whipped around. “Oh.” His shoulders relaxed. “Already been to the cabin and back, huh?”
Braeden pursed his lips. “Interesting little reception committee you’ve got there in your older daughter, Mr. Duer. You might’ve warned me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or at least warned her to expect me.”
Seth’s eyes widened. “You met ’Melia?” He rubbed his hand over his jawline stubble. “Thought she’d be on the water till lunchtime.”
“What’s going on here, Mr. Duer?” Braeden rocked onto his heels. “Does our rental agreement still stand or not?”
“Course it does.” Seth attempted a weak laugh. “You introduced yourselves to each other, I take it, son?”
Braeden grimaced.
