fully expected their first face-to-face meeting m sixteen years to be stilted and awkward. She’d resigned herself to the idea that she would be nervous and tongue-tied. She’d been braced for him to use that awful mck-name and she’d even conceded, since she’d seen him around town upon occasion, that he was more heart-stoppingly handsome than he’d been in high school.
But never had it occurred to her that he might come to the door without all his clothes on.
How foolish of her. After all, hadn’t he been the bane of her adolescence and the baddest boy to ever roam the streets of Kisscount, Oregon? So wasn’t it right in character that he was now lounging in the doorway as tall, golden and self-possessed as ever, clad in nothing more than a scanty pair of cutoffs and a mildly inquisitive expression?
Yes, yes and yes.
She took a long, shuddering breath and told herself she was not going to hyperventilate. Careful to keep her eyes fixed on his face, she rubbed her damp palms against the full skirt of her high-necked cotton dress and tried to ignore the way her heart was pounding. “E-E-Elijah. I hope I d-didn’t wake you.” Oh, dear. She was stammering. She hadn’t done that since he’d caught her alone in the hallway after high school graduation and pretended he wanted to kiss her.
“As a matter of fact...” He leaned one broad bare shoulder against the doorjamb as if standing required more energy than he could muster and yawned.
Her gaze took advantage of his momentary preoccupation to slide downward. In a sort of slow motion haze, she registered the solid expanse of his bronzed chest and hard, flat abdomen. A silky arrow of gilded hair started above his navel and led down past a distinct tan line to disappear beneath the unbuttoned waistband of his abbreviated jeans.
She swayed, feeling dizzy.
“Hey, Boo. You okay?”
The warm brush of his fingers against her shoulder jolted Norah. She jerked her gaze to his face, mortified to see the lazy amusement in his hooded eyes. He knew, drat him. He knew the disconcerting effect his near nakedness was having on her. Worse, he was enjoying her discomfiture, just as he had a thousand times in the past. “I’m p-perfectly fine,” she lied.
A ghost of a smile hovered at the edges of his chiseled mouth. “Good.” He eased back and resumed his lazy stance. “What time is it, anyway?”
She glanced gratefully at her wristwatch. “Elev—” Her voice cracked, and she stopped to clear her throat. “Eleven-thirty.”
“Ah.” He yawned again and raked a hand through his thick, sun-streaked, gold-on-bronze hair. “That early.” After an unhurried perusal of the mostly empty parking lot, he brought his gaze back to her. “So... To what do I owe the pleasure? You lost? Your car break down? Or...” He lowered his voice an intimate fraction and his incredible navy eyes got even bluer. “Did you finally realize how much you’ve missed me all these years?”
The businesslike speech she’d practiced all morning deserted her. Trapped in his mesmerizing gaze, she could barely recall her name, much less how she intended to convince him he ought to help her keep Willow Run—her home, her haven, her sanctuary.
Instead, every instinct she had urged her to run. It was only the promise she’d made to young Chelsea Wilder that she’d try to think of a way to aid the child’s father that kept her in place.
A promise, after all, was a sacred trust.
She dampened her suddenly dry lips. “M-may I come in?”
His eyebrows, as elegantly shaped as the rest of his chiseled face, rose fractionally. He shrugged. “Why not?” He stepped back, inviting her to follow with a crook of his hand.
Norah took a deep breath, then stepped cautiously after him, giving a little jump as the door swung shut behind her. There was no foyer and as soon as her eyes adjusted to the gloomy light she began looking around curiously.
On her left was the kitchenette, comprised of a yellow counter, a sinkful of dirty dishes, an oven with a chipped corner and an old refrigerator. A small table and two chairs were set against one wall beside a dingy window. Straight ahead a pair of doors opened onto a small bedroom and bathroom. To her right was the living room, identifiable by the TV bolted midway up one wall and by a scarred walnut coffee table and a squat chair upholstered in a nubby orange fabric. The furniture had been pushed aside to make room for an open hideabed sofa, which sported a thin double mattress and a tangle of limp white sheets. Cardboard boxes, which she assumed were filled with his and Chelsea’s belongings, were stacked around the room.
She turned as Eli swept a jumble of clothes off one of the kitchen chairs, dropped them on the floor and gestured for her to sit. “Excuse the mess. It’s the maid’s day off.”
She sat, grateful for the chance to take the weight off her shaking knees. The bungalow’s interior was warm and stuffy, the air flavored with a faint, acrid odor of smoke. She looked around for a fireplace before it dawned on her that the smell must be coming from the boxes.
With a stab of remorse, she looked over at Eli as he strolled toward the counter, moving with the easy, graceful motion of a well-oiled machine. “I’m sorry about the fire,” she said quietly, her eyes riveted to the long, clean lines of his bare back.
There was the slightest hesitation in his stride. He shrugged, setting off a ripple of muscle. “Stuff happens.”
“At least no one was hurt.”
“Yeah. That’s true.” He turned and propped himself against the kitchen counter.
“I... understand there’s some question about what may have started it.”
Just for an instant, his mouth tightened and he didn’t look quite so benign. “Where did you hear that?”
“I... believe Chelsea may have mentioned it. You do know, of course, that she comes to the library, don’t you? She’s taking part in my summer reading program.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, his expression abruptly softening at the mention of his daughter. “She likes books.”
“She’s very bright. And sweet and engaging and...and very creative.”
“Yeah, she’s that, all right.” He was silent for a moment. “So what happened? She try to check out Madonna’s book again? Or hack into some bank accounts with the library’s computer?”
Startled, she sat up a little straighter. “Oh, no. No! I’m sure Chelsea would never dream of doing either of those things.”
“Yeah, right.” That amused look was back on his face as he studied her. “Look, you want something to drink?” He pushed away from the counter without waiting for her answer.
“Why, yes. That...that would be nice.”
He opened the refrigerator, reached in and emerged holding a pair of aluminum cans. He bumped the appliance door shut with his hip, then crossed the narrow space that separated them and offered her one.
She accepted it, unprepared for the inexplicable little tingle she felt as his fingers touched hers. Flustered, she watched through her lashes as he restaked his claim on the counter, popped the tab on his can, then tipped his head back and took a long swallow, ending with a drawn-out “Ahhh.”
Something
