probably never intended for anyone to find these sketches. Maybe why she’d so fiercely attacked her intruder this morning.
* * *
Braeden arrived at the main house with the portfolio case in hand. He let himself in through the screened porch. The aroma of simmering stew floated through the air.
“Amelia?”
He edged through the door frame. Best not to surprise that one. She might come at him this time with—
Braeden grinned.
The mind boggled at the idea of Amelia Duer with sharp kitchen weapons. He strolled into the living room and stopped in front of a photograph on the mantel over the fireplace. The stairs creaked.
“Oh, hey.” Amelia descended from the second floor. “I finally persuaded Max to take a much-needed nap.”
He glanced up. And his mouth went dry.
This Duer sister cleaned up well.
Her hair, still wet from the shower, flowed around her face. He admired the fit of her jeans and the glow her three-quarter-sleeved lilac blouse cast on her freshly scrubbed face.
She ought to wear lilac more often.
Braeden handed the case to her.
Amelia’s face clouded. “You opened it?”
He waited for a redheaded explosion. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was curious. I didn’t realize it belonged to you. They’re good.” He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “I mean, you’re good. Are you self-taught or did you have training? Do you show at any galleries on the Shore?”
She pressed the case to her chest. “I’m not good enough for galleries.”
“I think you underestimate yourself.”
She shook her head. “A few art classes in high school, but I’m mostly self-taught. My mom gave me a few lessons, too, before...” Her gaze traveled to the picture on the mantel. “I’d been accepted into the Savannah School of Design—”
He whistled. “Impressive.”
“But then...” She moistened her lips. “That’s why it’s so important Honey finish her education.”
He pointed to the image of the lovely auburn-haired woman on the flat-bottomed scow the Virginia watermen favored for oystering and clamming in the shallow tidal waters. “Your mom?”
Amelia squirreled the case behind the piano. “That’s us ten years ago.” She ticked off the names. “Dad, Mom, Lindi—who is Max’s mother and the eldest Duer sister—the pretty one.”
She gestured to another sister forever captured in time, a replica of their auburn-haired mother. “Caroline—”
A college student, Braeden surmised from the Virginia Tech hoodie.
“The smart one.”
He frowned at Amelia.
“You’ve met Honey. She was in elementary school when Mom died of ovarian cancer.”
Braeden winced. A slow, painful death.
“Honey’s the baby, and there’s me.” She veered toward the kitchen. “I’ll dish out the stew.”
Braeden caught hold of her wrist. “Which are you?”
She tilted her head. “I showed you. Between Caroline and Honey.”
Braeden ran his thumb over her cheek.
Her blue-green eyes widened.
As deep and fathomless as the Great Machipongo Inlet.
Deep enough for a man to drown?
He lifted her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Which are you? The talented one? The strong one?”
She quivered and stepped out of his reach. “Just Amelia. I’m just me.”
The one who’d made a career of sacrificing everything for her family.
Something tore inside his chest. Braeden hunched his shoulders.
Amelia Duer. His exact emotional polar opposite. Since his dad’s death and his fiancée’s betrayal, he’d made a career out of not getting involved with anyone outside the line of duty.
Especially not with redheads like Carly.
Or Amelia Duer.
She called from the kitchen. “Coffee or sweet tea?”
“Tea, please.” He followed her into the cheery yellow-and-white-tiled kitchen. “I get enough coffee when I’m on watch to float a battleship. Can I help?”
She signaled toward a drawer. “Spoons.”
Amelia ladled the stew into blue crockery bowls, steam rising. “As far as the tea goes, since you hail from Alaska, I think it only fair to remind you that you’re in the South.” She placed the bowl on top of a yellow place mat.
“How’d you know I was born in Alaska?”
Amelia’s mouth opened in an O. Closing it with a snap, she gripped the handle of a glass pitcher.
She’d taken the time—amid getting Max into bed for a nap—to look him up.
He grinned as red—a lovely color on her—crept up her neck.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “It’s sweet.”
He dragged his attention from his contemplation of her pink-tinted lips to her sea-flecked eyes. “What is?”
She shoved the pitcher into his hands. “The tea. Real sweet, if you think you can stand it.”
Their fingers brushed. His heart jackhammered. She recoiled as if she’d been stung.
Braeden decided to crank up his flirting another notch. Just to see if her skin could approximate the color of her hair. For scientific purposes, of course.
He smacked his lips. “The sweeter the better.”
And laughed when her color went off the charts.
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