Secrets in the Sand - Carolyn Brown Page 0,86
Barn. Abby propped one side of the gate open, then she and Georgia crossed the easement to the neighbor’s property. The dilapidated house was dark, so they went around back, and Abby tapped on the sliding glass door of the pool house, where the glow of interior lighting indicated a human presence.
Charcoal-gray curtains had been pushed aside. The ceiling fan’s globe light revealed brand-new furnishings. A gray couch and rug and overstuffed armchair, a distressed barn-wood coffee table and end tables, a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall across from the couch. No throw pillows, no lamps, no pictures on the walls.
Georgia whined and looked back toward the farm.
“No. We’re doing this.”
The new neighbor walked into the room shirtless, wearing jeans slung low on his hips and headphones in his ears. The headphones’ yellow cord trailed down his toned chest and washboard abs, then twined around his waist and disappeared into his back pocket.
“Lord above, Georgia. Would you look at that?”
Unimpressed, Georgia whined and pawed Abby’s leg.
“No, I said. No.”
Realizing that he must not have heard the knock, Abby waved. But he kept going to the small kitchen and opened the fridge. She tapped on the glass door again. He took out a beer and turned, then saw her. His eyes opened wide. He set the beer aside, pulled out his headphones, and opened the sliding glass door. “Hey. Is there a goat in my pool or something?”
Georgia ran inside and leaped onto a chair.
“Georgia, no.” Abby felt a blush spread up her neck and into her cheeks. “You weren’t invited.”
“It’s fine.” He stepped away from the door. “Come on in.”
Abby handed over the basket. “This is a housewarming/apology basket.” She couldn’t help but notice the hoof-shaped bruises on his lower back. “I’m sorry Elijah hurt you. I’m sure he didn’t mean to, but he can’t resist sweet-tasting treats.” Out of breath with anxiety, she powered through her prepared greeting. “I hope we can pretend this morning never happened and start over again.”
He set the basket on the coffee table and held out a hand. “Quinn Lockhart.”
She put her hand in his. “Abby Curtis, house-sitting for my aunt Reva. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thank you, Abby.” His fingers wrapped around hers, his grip strong but gentle, his palm callused but warm. Up close, blue eyes the color of new denim smiled into hers. His touch and his smile melted the crusty outer layer of her anxiety.
He let go of her hand. “Have a seat while I put on a shirt.”
Abby perched on the couch, crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. She inhaled and blew out a deep breath to release another layer of anxiety. The room smelled of fresh paint, newly dyed fabric, and recently milled wood.
Georgia’s restless gaze tracked something outside the glass door. She whined, a worried furrow between her brows.
Abby leaned forward. “You see something out there?”
Quinn came into the room wearing a plain white T-shirt that wasn’t too tight but still somehow clung to every muscle. He sat beside her on the couch and slid the basket closer. “Hmm.” He held up the bottle of cider. “This looks interesting.”
Abby was more of a wine girl herself, but after twisting and turning over the decision of what to bring, she’d settled on cider, in case the new neighbor didn’t drink anything containing alcohol. “I hope you like it.”
He set the two glasses on the coffee table and opened the bottle. “Anything I share with you will be better than a lonely beer by myself.”
Smooth talker. The sort she’d already fallen for once too often. “Please don’t feel obligated to share. I meant it as a gift, not an intrusion.” Her nervousness lifted her like an overfilled helium balloon. She half stood, then sat again.
Since she’d moved in with her aunt this spring, she had learned to handle hundreds of school kids along with their adult teachers and chaperones. But social situations requiring small talk still made her palms sweat. “I only came to welcome you to the neighborhood and apologize for Elijah’s rude behavior this morning. I’m very sorry about the whole thing.”
He poured cider into the two glasses and handed one to her. “Apology accepted, incident forgotten, starting over. Remember?”
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About the Author
Carolyn Brown is a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, Publishers Weekly, and #1 Amazon and #1 Washington Post bestselling author, as well as a RITA finalist. She is the author of more than one hundred novels and several novellas. She’s a recipient of the Bookseller’s Best Award and the prestigious Montlake Diamond Award, as well as a three-time recipient of the National Reader’s Choice Award. Brown has been published for more than twenty years, and her books have been translated into nineteen foreign languages.
She’s been married for more than fifty years to Mr. B, and they have three smart, wonderful, amazing children, fifteen grandchildren, and too many great-grands to keep track of. When she’s not writing, she likes to plot new stories in her backyard with her tomcat, Boots Randolph Terminator Outlaw, who protects the yard from all kinds of wicked varmints like crickets, locusts, and spiders.
Carolyn can be found online at carolynlbrown.com, facebook.com/carolynbrownbooks, on Instagram @carolynbrownbooks, and on Twitter @thecarolynbrown.
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