Right Where We Belong (Silver Springs #4)(8)

Savanna knew if the man she’d married could be dangerous, anyone could. But Gavin’s face was so delicately sculpted, and he had such kind eyes—big and brown with a thick fringe of lashes—that it was difficult to be afraid of him. Even if he hadn’t given her the impression that he was a pacifist, his gentle manner would’ve put her at ease. He’d been teasing the kids since they came in. The way he interacted with them reminded her of her father, which made her think she was being paranoid to be so cautious of him.

Evil people weren’t funny, were they?

Not in her experience. Gordon had never had much of a sense of humor...

“Sprite—or Pepsi?” Gavin turned his attention to her after he finally let Alia wrangle her soda out of his grasp.

Savanna shook her head. “Neither, thanks.” Her stomach had been churning all day. It was anxiety and not true illness, but she didn’t see any point in exacerbating the problem by drinking loads of sugar and carbon dioxide.

“What about a beer?”

“No.”

“Some water, then?”

“That’d be nice.”

He poured a glass from a chilled pitcher in the fridge. When he brought it over, she couldn’t help thinking—once again—about how quickly Gordon would’ve judged her new neighbor based solely on his looks. And yet it was all-American, wrestling-champion Gordon with the stocky build, lantern jaw, green eyes and short blond hair who’d been a danger to society. She’d seen the crime scene photos—the way he’d battered his victims before and during each sexual assault. The detective had shown them to her, trying to upset her and shake her faith so that she’d talk more freely about him.

Gavin popped open a beer and took a long pull. “So...what brings you to California?”

When he glanced at her left hand, she realized he was checking for a wedding ring. Because she’d shown up out of the blue, and hadn’t given him much of an explanation, he was trying to figure out who she was and what she was doing in Silver Springs alone with two children, trying to move into an old, dilapidated house. “I’m no longer married,” she said, even though it wasn’t the answer to the question he’d voiced.

He didn’t act surprised that she’d correctly interpreted his thoughts. “Is that new?”

“Yes.” The divorce wasn’t final, but she didn’t care to go into the details. She didn’t consider herself married anymore; that was the salient part. Gordon had refused to sign the papers, was trying to convince her that he still loved her and was wrongly accused, but her attorney insisted that once he was convicted, especially of such heinous crimes, he wouldn’t be able to waylay the process any longer. The law would then be entirely on her side. “I’m starting over.”

“Do you plan on living next door for any length of time?”

“At least a year. I’m a half owner, remember? I figure I might as well take advantage of that. Why pay rent?”

He looked pained when he said, “I see the logic. But how much did your father tell you about the condition of the place?”

“I know it’s not in good shape. Fixer-uppers rarely are.”

“I doubt this one’s even livable.”

“That’s okay. I’m here to make it livable.”

“Then you have some experience with renovating?”

She took a drink of water. “No, but there’s a tutorial for everything on YouTube these days.”

When he laughed, she couldn’t help smiling. She liked that he immediately knew she was joking. Gordon would’ve freaked out and set her straight on how difficult restoring a house would be. He’d always taken everything so literally. “Maybe there’s a video on how to back a twenty-foot trailer down a narrow country road in the dark,” he said, and opened his laptop. “Should we check?”

“Why not? Might save you the trip into town,” she replied, but she could tell he wasn’t serious, either.

“I don’t mind dropping you off.” He called up his browser and typed in “The Mission Inn, Silver Springs, CA.”

“What’d you do for a living in Utah?” he asked while a list of links began to appear.

“I was an administrative assistant in an insurance office.” She considered adding what Gordon had done to contribute—no way could they have survived on her income alone—but bit her tongue. The less she said about him, the better.

“Oh, an administrative assistant. I should’ve guessed,” he said.

“Guessed?” she echoed.

“Office work. Contracting. It’s the same thing.”

It was her turn to laugh. “What about you? What do you do for a living?” She gestured toward the guitar he’d carried in when he let them into his house. “Or does this give it away?”

“I write and sing, gig now and then. But I also have a day job.”

“Doing...”

After he clicked on the website for the Mission Inn, he keyed the phone number into his cell. “Maintenance and repair at New Horizons Boys Ranch.”

“You don’t mean ‘ranch’ as in ‘ranch,’ right? You’re talking about one of those boarding schools for teenage boys who act out?”

“Yeah. We take in troubled kids. Quite a few have been through some traumatic—” he seemed about to say “shit” but substituted as he glanced at her children “—stuff. Others are just angry. Or narcissistic. Or both.”