where Allie felt safe and hidden from prying eyes.
And where the love of her grandmother remained, as comforting as a hug.
There was definitely somebody at the door but Allie calmed herself with the rationale it was probably not a thief, though it was unlikely to be a real estate agent at this time of day, either. Whoever it was, they weren’t ringing the bell.
The bell hasn’t worked for three weeks, Allie told herself. It’s not a thief.
But whoever it was, they weren’t giving up, either.
Allie put down her guitar, not unaware that she felt relieved for a distraction, no matter how unpleasant that distraction might be. She got up, and went through the back into the cottage, not sure of the proper protocol for a would-be break-in.
Should she make lots of noise and throw on all the lights so it was apparent someone was home? Or should she tiptoe up to the door and peek out the front window?
Coming from the brightness outside into the cottage was like being plunged into a mine shaft. It had originally been a fisherman’s place—the only one that remained on this stretch of beachfront. Back in the 1920s, when it was built, no thought at all was given to such frivolous concerns as where to place windows to take most advantage of the view. Windows would have been regarded as a luxury in those days.
And so the kitchen was in the back of the house, cramped and dark. Faucets dripped and cabinet doors hung crookedly, and the painted wooden floor was chipping. Despite all that, there was a determined cheeriness to the space, a laid-back beach vibe that Allie adored.
One summer she and her grandmother, in an attempt to brighten things up, had painted all the cabinets sunshine yellow, and they had liked the color so much they had done the kitchen table, too. They had installed a backsplash of handmade sea-themed tile, and hung homemade curtains with a pink flamingo motif.
Off the kitchen, there was a narrow hall, painted turquoise, with Allie’s childhood art hung gallery style. There were three tiny bedrooms on one side of the hall, each holding little more than a bed, a bureau and a nightstand. Her grandmother, a quilter, had loved fabric and every closet in the whole cottage was stuffed with it. Allie could not bring herself to throw a single remnant away. Each bed was adorned with a handmade quilt. Allie’s favorite, the double wedding ring pattern, was on her own small bed.
Still tiptoeing, Allie followed the hallway to the front door, and the arched opening to the living room, where a paned picture window looked onto the street. The furniture and the wooden floors, worn to gray, sagged equally with age and good use.
In the heyday of her career—imagine being twenty-three years old and the heyday of your career was already over—Allie had been in many houses that looked like the ones on either side of her. Houses that were open plan, with light spilling in huge windows, and stainless steel appliances bigger than most restaurants required. They had miles of granite countertops, gorgeous beams and sleek furniture. Not one of them had ever made her feel this way.
Home.
That’s what she needed to remember about the career that had soared like a shooting star, and then fizzled even more quickly, and that’s what she needed to remember when another million-dollar offer was made. Neither success nor money could make you feel at home. She steeled herself to the possibility of temptation as she moved past the door to have a peek out the window.
But before she made it past, there was another thump. Someone had kicked the door! Her heart flew into double time. Then, to Allie’s horror, the door creaked open an inch. Allie stopped and stared, her heart in her throat. Her first instinct, the one she had reasoned herself out of, had been correct.
Home invader.
She was sure she had locked the front door since seeing the news report.
Not that it mattered. Locked or not, her space was being invaded! Her safe place was being threatened.
In one motion, she reached out and grabbed the nearest thing she could lay hands on—a heavy statue, one of her grandmother’s favorites. It was a bronze of a donkey, looking forlorn and unkempt. Weapon firmly in hand, Allie threw her weight against the opening door, trying to force it closed again.
Sam Walker was beyond exhaustion. He’d been late getting away. The traffic heading to the beaches of Southern California, in anticipation of the upcoming Fourth of July holiday, had been horrendous. And his traveling companions were cantankerous.
The key had been sticky, but finally worked. But despite trying to persuade it with his foot—twice—the door remained stuck.
He was used to the cottage being a touch temperamental, but his patience was at a breaking point. Sam had had quite enough of cantankerous anything for one day. The floorboard beneath the door was probably swollen with moisture or age. He’d put it—and the lock—on his list of things to fix while he was here. Not even in the door yet, and he had a list of things that needed doing. Normal, mature man things. What a relief.
The door had finally opened a miserly inch and then jammed stubbornly. Sam’s patience broke. He put his shoulder against it and shoved, hard, two years on the college football offensive line finally put to good use.
The door flew open, and his momentum catapulted him through the opening. He was rendered blind by the sudden entrance into cool darkness, in sharp contrast to the outside, where the world was being washed with end-of-day light.
The hair on the back of his neck rose when he heard a startled grunt somewhere in the dark space in front of him. He squinted, his muscles bunching. Hadn’t he seen on the news there had been break-ins along this stretch of beach?
Sure enough, there was the intruder. The force of the door opening had slammed him to the floor, where he lay, stunned, catching his breath. He didn’t look immediately threatening—small, probably a teenager up to no good.
Casting one quick look at his cantankerous companions—thankfully, stuck in the yard—Sam thrust himself forward. He realized the kid, burglar, intruder, whatever, was starting to sit up. It appeared he had something in his hand to use as a weapon.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sam asked, his voice a growl of pure threat. And then he lunged forward, easily won a tug-of-war for the object and tossed it aside. He pressed down on the kid’s shoulder, hard, forcing him to sit, not rise.
The squeak of pain was sharp and, he registered slowly, not masculine. At all. A light, clean fragrance tickled his nostrils.
The momentum that had been propelling Sam forward came to a screeching halt.
His eyes adjusted to the lack of light. It wasn’t a kid. And it wasn’t a boy, either. Eyes as big as cornflowers, and nearly the same color, flashed up at him, filled with fury and indignation.
He let go of her shoulder instantly, but still, held up his hand, warning her not to get up.
It was the perfect ending, he thought wearily, to a perfectly awful day.
