were apologizing? She didn’t owe him an explanation, and why did he care what she did anyway? In the few days he’d been home, he’d gone into town only that one day when they’d had their shopping expedition. The rest of the time, he remained here, at the house, as if he were…hiding?
Even as she considered that, she discounted it. Why would Hunter Cabot want to hide from the very town in which he’d grown up? He wasn’t the kind of man to avoid confrontation or uncomfortable situations.
“Sure seem to do a lot of ‘helping,’” he commented dryly.
“And it seems that you don’t do enough,” she countered, enjoying the quick spark of irritation she spotted in his eyes.
But she wondered why he was so determined to keep himself separate from the town and the people here. He would only be here another few weeks; then he’d be gone back to the Naval base, back to the danger and adventure he seemed to want more than anything. So why, then, wouldn’t he want to spend what little time he had here seeing old friends?
She knew she’d be leaving at the end of the month, so Margie wanted to do as much as she could for the town she’d come to love.
So why didn’t he love this place? He’d been raised here. He’d had family to love. A spot in the world to call his own. And he’d given it all up for the chance at adventure.
“Now,” Calvin announced, interrupting her thoughts again, “I’ve got weeding to do.” But before he left, he gave Hunter a quick look and said, “You remember what we talked about.”
Then Calvin wandered off and Margie watched his progress through the lush, cottage-style garden. When the older man rounded the corner of the big house, she shifted a look to Hunter. “What did he mean by that?”
“Nothing.” He muttered the one word in a deep, dark grumble. “It was nothing.”
“Okay,” she said, while wondering what the two men had been talking about before she’d stepped onto the patio. But one look at Hunter’s shuttered expression told her that he wouldn’t be clearing up that little mystery for her. So she said, “He probably thinks he’s giving us a chance to be romantic in the garden.”
“Probably,” Hunter agreed and didn’t look like he appreciated it.
“Calvin never stops to chat for long anyway,” Margie said, coming down the stone steps to the edge of the garden.
“Yeah, I know. He’s always preferred his flowers to people.”
She stopped, bent down and sniffed at a rose before straightening again. When Margie saw Hunter’s gaze lock briefly on her breasts, she felt a rush of something completely female and had to hide a small smile. Really, she was in serious trouble. She was beginning to enjoy the way Hunter looked at her, and that road would only lead to disappointment.
He didn’t trust her. He made that plain enough every time they were together. But he did want her. That much she knew. Every morning, she woke up to the feel of his heavy leg lying across hers, his strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulling her tightly against his warm, naked body. And every morning, she lay there, quietly, enjoying the feel of him surrounding her, until he woke up, shifted carefully to one side of her and replaced the pillow wall between them.
Margie knew he didn’t realize she was awake for those few brief, incredible moments every morning. And she had no intention of telling him, because he’d find a way to end them and she liked waking up to the feel of his body on hers. To that sense of safety she felt lying next to him.
Oh, God. She looked up at him saw those blue eyes go cool and distant and knew she was only making things more difficult for herself. There was no future here for her at all. Pretending otherwise was only going to make leaving that much harder.
“Why’d you come out here?” he asked, his voice low, his features strained. “Did you really want to talk to Calvin, or were you just following me?”
So much for daydreams. “Were you born crabby, or do I just bring it out in you?”
“What?” He scowled at her.
He probably thought he looked ferociously intimidating. But Margie had seen that look often enough that it hardly bothered her anymore.
“Crabby. You. Why?”
“I’m not crabby,” he said and blew out a breath. “Hell, I don’t know what I am.” Shaking his head, he glanced across the garden and Margie followed his gaze.
The back of the house was beautiful. Late-spring daffodils crowded the walkways in shades from butter-yellow to the softest cream. Roses sent their perfume into the air, and columbine and larkspur dipped and swayed brilliantly colored heads in the soft wind off the ocean. It was a magical place, and Margie had always loved it.
“You really like it here, don’t you?” he asked.
“I love it.”
“I did too for a while.” He turned and started along the snaking path of stepping-stones that meandered through the garden. Margie walked right behind him, pleased that he was finally talking to her.
“When I was a kid,” he mused, “it was all good. Coming here. Being with Simon.”
“Your parents died when you were twelve. Simon told me. That must have been terrible for you.” She didn’t even remember her parents, but she’d been told they’d died in a car accident when she was three. She’d give anything to have the few short years of memories of being loved that Hunter no doubt had.
“Yeah, they did.” He tipped his head back to glance at the clouds scuttling across the sky before continuing on through the garden. “And I came here to live, and it was a good place to grow up,” he admitted, now idly dragging the palm of his hand across a cluster of early larkspur. A few of the delicate, pastel blossoms dropped to the ground as they walked on. “The place is huge, so there was plenty of room for a kid to run and play.”
“I can imagine.” Though she really couldn’t. Growing up in a series of foster homes, Margie had never even dreamed of a place like this. She wouldn’t have known how.
As if he’d guessed where her thoughts had gone, he stopped, looked over his shoulder and asked, “Where are you from?”
“Los Angeles,” she answered and hoped he’d leave it at that. Thankfully, he did.
Nodding, he said, “Coming from a city that size, you can understand how small Springville started to look to me.”
“That’s exactly what drew me in when I first moved here. When I answered the ad to become Simon’s assistant, I took one look at Springville and fell in love.” It was the kind of small town that lonely people always dreamed of. A place where people looked out for each other. A place where one person could make a difference. Be counted. But she didn’t tell him all of that.
“I like that it’s small. Big cities are anonymous.”
“That’s one of the best parts,” Hunter said and gave her a quick, brief smile that never touched his eyes. “There’s a sense of freedom in anonymity. Nobody gives a damn what you do or who your family is.”
“Nobody gives a
