the outside, the place looked much the same except for a newer and larger deck that wrapped around to the side entrance. Hank beat them up the steps and shucked off his shoes before opening the squeaky-hinged screen door and going in. That left Holly and Nate standing on either side of the welcome mat.
Nothing about Nate’s demeanor at the moment was very welcoming.
“This is too much of an imposition,” she began. It definitely was too much of something.
“It’s fine,” Nate insisted. “No big deal.” He toed off his soggy shoes and pushed them against the side of the house next to Hank’s battered sneakers.
“I’ll pay—”
“It’s only one night, Holly … Hollyn … Princess ….” He shoved his damp hair back from his forehead in agitation. “What am I supposed to call you?”
From his tone, she imagined he already had a pet name or two in mind. “Holly is fine.”
She wanted to be just Holly again. That was, after all, why she’d made this rash trip in the first place.
He looked doubtful, but nodded. “I insist you stay, all right? As my guest.”
His words might have been more reassuring had they not been issued through clenched teeth. But any retort she might have offered was lost when he reached for the back of his damp T-shirt and pulled it over his head.
Holly swallowed hard, but that didn’t keep her mouth from watering. As a teenage girl, she’d admired Nate’s form. He’d been wiry then, lean and several inches shorter than the six foot three she judged him to be now. He’d shot up, filled out. Quite obviously, he worked out. A sculpted abdomen such as his was no happy accident of genetics.
“Your turn.”
His words startled her. She felt her cheeks grow warm, though it wasn’t only embarrassment that caused the building heat.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your shoes. If you wouldn’t mind, take them off out here.”
Half of his mouth crooked into a wry smile as he draped his shirt over the banister. He was enjoying her discomfort, enjoying that she was as off balance now as he’d been while wading through the surf earlier.
Holly glanced down at her feet. The shoes he’d tried to spare damage with his chivalrous offer to carry her ashore were not only wet, but also covered in sand and other natural debris from their trek over the beach.
“Your mother never minded the sand.”
“She did, but she was too polite to say so. Regardless, since I clean the place now, I make the rules.”
“Right.” Envisioning him with a mop in one hand and a feather duster in the other helped take some of the sting out of his words.
She did as Nate asked and padded inside behind him.
Hank already had made himself at home on the couch in front of the television. His stocking feet were propped up on the coffee table, a long-necked brown bottle was in one hand and the remote control was in the other. A baseball game was on. Holly didn’t know much about the American pastime, but she’d always enjoyed listening to the announcers explaining what was going on. Their voices were so soothing, spiking here and there as warranted by a key play. The sound made her nostalgic. As did the house, even though the furnishings now were more masculine and sparse than the fussy decor that had obviously been Mrs. Matthews’s taste.
Gone were the knickknacks and kitschy collections that had filled two curios cabinets. Gone was the mauve-and-blue color scheme, the lace curtains and flowered camelback sofa. Now the main living area sported top-of-the-line electronics, a brown leather sectional and some surprisingly high-quality pieces of artwork, all of them seascapes.
Nate must have noticed the direction of her gaze. “Rupert Lengard,” he said, supplying the name of the artist. “I wish I could say they’re originals, but they’re limited edition prints.”
“They’re stunning.” She pointed to one. “That looks like that little island we used to take the canoe out to.”
They’d pretended to be castaways and had even tried to erect a tree house à la the Swiss Family Robinson. But getting building supplies over in the canoe had proved too much of a hassle. They’d made do with a lean-to crafted from sticks and cedar boughs.
“Horn Island,” Nate said. “Lengard spent a couple summers on Heart and the surrounding islands. All of the prints I bought are local scenes.”
She admired the subject matter as much as the artist’s obvious skill. “I’ll have to see about getting some of them for home.”
“His stuff is not exactly on par with Poussin or Renoir.”
Apparently, Nate thought only work of old-world masters would suit her sensibilities. Holly decided to set him straight. “My tastes run a little more modern than that. Like you, I buy art, whether prints or originals, because I like it, not because of the value an insurance appraiser might put on it.”
Nate nodded curtly. It sounded like he might have said, “Touché.”
But he was already turning away and heading over to the couch.
“Anything else I can get you, Hank?” Nate asked dryly.
The other man either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “You got anything to munch on? Like nachos maybe?”
Holly hid her grin.
“You want nachos?”
Hank dragged his gaze from the television. His expression was hopeful. “Yeah.”
“They sell them down at the Fishing Hole Tavern. Bring back an order for me, too, while you’re at it,” Nate replied before using his shin to knock the other man’s feet off the table. To Holly, he said, “Follow me. I’ll show you to your room.”
He went back to grab her bags from their spot by the door and started for the stairs. At the top, he turned right and continued to the room at the end of the hall.
She stood uncertainly at the threshold after he entered. “But th-this is your room.”
And it was just as she recalled it, though she hadn’t spent much time in it as a girl. His parents wouldn’t have allowed that, especially once she and Nate were teenagers.
Even though they were both adults now, she felt awkward and oddly aware. She blamed it on the fact that he was shirtless and she was … tired. Really, really tired.
“Not anymore. I have the master these days. After my folks moved out I did a little renovation work and added an en suite bathroom, so the one in the hall is all yours.” His brows rose in humor. “Well, yours and Hank’s. You’ll have to share.”
He set down her bags and crossed to open the window a few inches. He repeated the process for the one on the opposite wall. The wind rushed inside, ruffling the edges of the curtains and bringing with it the mingled scents of cedar trees and wood smoke. She recalled that earthy scent
