Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,70

get a doughnut?”

“I think that would be a fine Sunday treat.” He stood.

But before he could follow his usual pattern and take her hand, she tucked her small fingers into his.

He froze.

That was a first.

And it had to be a positive sign—didn’t it?

Or would everything go back to the status quo once they got home?

Impossible to know—and he was done predicting the course of his relationship with Molly. Nothing had gone as he’d expected, and the breakthrough he’d been certain he’d made the night she’d let him stay with her after he found her crying had ended up being a bust.

This could be the same.

But as they strolled toward the hall, a surge of warmth and optimism percolated through him, lifting his spirits.

Even if they weren’t making any real progress, why not enjoy these small victories?

And who knew?

If he could string together enough brief positive moments, in the long term they would add up . . . and perhaps become a way of life.

At least he could hope—and pray—for that outcome.

Resist, Jeannette. You have plenty to do to clean up after today’s tea. Quit standing here watching your neighbors trek down to the beach.

But she couldn’t help herself.

Especially after they both glanced her direction as they walked along the perimeter of the lavender beds, Toby straining at the leash.

And the last vestige of her resistance melted after Molly stopped and pointed to the house.

She was probably asking about the kitten.

Why not let the child take a quick look at Button? What harm could there be in that? She—and her uncle—had been involved in the rescue, after all.

Before she could change her mind, she crossed to the door and pulled it open.

“Hi!” She waved at the pair as they approached the end of her property.

Logan and Molly pivoted in unison. Delight suffused the child’s face, but beyond his obvious surprise, Logan’s expression was harder to decipher.

“Would you like to peek in on Button?”

She couldn’t hear what Molly said to her uncle in response to her question, but a few seconds later she was towing him toward the house.

Logan didn’t appear to be resisting—and she’d be willing to bet it wasn’t because he was all that interested in the cat’s condition.

A delicious tingle ran up her spine . . . which she immediately squelched.

That reaction was not appropriate.

“Hi.” Logan lifted a hand in greeting as he approached. “You made a little girl’s day—and in the interest of full disclosure, a big boy’s day too.”

O-kay. That bit of candor had come out of the blue.

Since she hadn’t a clue how to respond, she ignored his comment and motioned them in. “I’m keeping Button in the kitchen. It’s the warmest room in the house, and the closest to his food.”

Logan tied Toby’s leash to the patio table umbrella—and the pup expressed his displeasure with a loud howl.

“Sorry, boy—you can complain all you want, but you’re staying out here.”

He responded with another plaintive yowl.

“He doesn’t like to be by himself.” Molly bent down and petted the dog.

“No kidding.” Logan angled toward her. “If you want to retract your invitation in view of the noise machine here, I’ll understand.”

“No. You won’t be here long.” Jeannette stepped aside to usher them in, shutting the door behind them while Toby continued to protest at full volume.

Molly made a beeline for the box on the floor in the corner and squatted down beside it. “Ooh! He got bigger!” She reached inside to pet the kitten.

“He is growing fast. I think he’ll be ready for solid food soon.” Jeannette joined her.

She could feel Logan behind her, his presence almost palpable as the subtle aroma of his musky aftershave swirled around her. And the warmth of his breath on her cheek as he leaned close to examine Button sent her pulse soaring.

“He seems to be thriving. You’re obviously taking excellent care of him.”

“Th-thanks.”

Oh, for pity’s sake.

She sounded like a besotted teenager, not a thirty-two-year-old woman who’d vowed to avoid romance.

“You’re paying a price for providing such diligent care, though.” Logan swept a finger under her lower lash, his touch as gentle as the wing of a butterfly. “There are some smudges here.”

Her lungs stuttered.

At this proximity, the silvery flecks in his blue irises shimmered like the sun dancing on the cobalt water of Hope Harbor. The faint web of lines at the corners of his eyes spoke of caring and compassion and laughter. Here and there in his sandy hair, a copper strand glinted in the early evening light beaming through