Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(43)

He let her go. “Yeah. I’m right behind you. I just want to call the police, okay?”

“The police?”

“This was breaking and entering. Yeah. Definitely we’re calling the police.”

Cameron took his phone out of his back pocket and dialed 911while Margaret made her way into her cottage.

It had always been her treasured heaven, but now it felt unexpectedly foreign to her. Defiled. Even sinister.

In the snug sitting room all of her books had been knocked from the shelves and left in a heap on the floor. Her eyes filled with tears as she noted her antique coffee table overturned, one of the legs broken. In the kitchen, the flowered china containers that held flour and sugar had been swiped off the counter and lay in pieces, covered in white powder and granules, on the floor.

With tears streaking down her face, she walked back through the sitting room and up the stairs to her bedroom. Unlike the sitting room and kitchen, her bedroom was mostly untouched, except for the rug at the foot of her bed, which was curled up, like someone had slid under the bed, and a sudden chill rocked through her as she wondered if they were still there.

“Cam!” she screamed. “Cameron!”

Within seconds he’d bolted back into the cottage and up the stairs, his eyes huge and focused, his body taut, on high alert.

“What? What happened?”

“Is anyone under the bed?” she asked in a very small voice.

“No, baby,” he said, pulling her into his arms and pressing his lips to her head. “No one’s here but you and me.”

Her tears fell freely then, wetting his shirt—in thanks for his comforting and protective presence, in frustration for the evening they’d missed out on, in anger for whomever had chosen to target her home.

“I’m s-sorry,” she sniffled, resting her forehead against his damp shirt.

His palms cradled her face, lifting it to face him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m just . . . Who would do this?”

He shook his head, looking terribly sorry and angry. “I don’t know. But I’m sure as hell going to find out. The police will be here in a few minutes.”

“O-okay. You know, I think I want to s-stay in Philadelphia tonight.”

“I was going to insist.” He brushed his lips against her forehead and pulled her back against his chest. “Did you notice anything missing?”

“Missing?” she asked, inhaling raggedly as she looked over his shoulder.

Wait a second. Missing. Yes.

“The box from this morning. The one with my yearbooks and pictures. It’s gone.”

Cameron loosened his grip on her, looking over his shoulder at the bureau behind him.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Yes. Remember? I took it from you and brought it upstairs, then grabbed my sweater before we went to Harrell. I put it there on the bureau. It’s gone.”

He crossed the room to check out the bureau just as a car pulled into the cottage driveway.

“Let’s go talk to the police,” he said, holding out his hand.

Once again, she felt profound relief that he was here with her, that she wasn’t alone. “Thank you, Cameron.”

He entwined his fingers with hers and pulled her toward her bedroom door. “Come on, baby. We’ll talk more on the way back to the city.”

***

After the police left, Cameron helped Margaret clean up her kitchen and sitting room. She found some cardboard and duct tape, and they covered the window as best they could. Tomorrow she would call Shawn and ask him to have the glass replaced.

The police seemed capable and said they would look into similar occurrences in the area, in addition to having a squad car patrol the road near the vineyards more regularly. Their theory was that one of the folks at Harrell’s wine tasting had had a little too much to drink and gone looking for trouble, a scenario that seemed possible, though Cameron hadn’t noticed any stumbling miscreants headed in the direction of The Five Sisters.

The whole thing frustrated him. The idea of Margaret’s safety in jeopardy was unbearable. As much as Cameron was disappointed that the breakin had crushed their romantic interlude, he wouldn’t have traded anything for the opportunity to protect and help her. Which is precisely how he knew, on the ride back to Philly, driving with one hand on the wheel and holding her hand with his other, that he wasn’t on the precipice of falling in love with Margaret Story. He was already there.

As the city lights drew closer, he spoke softly.

“I need a week.”

“What?” she asked, turning away from the window to face him.

“I told you that when I came for you, there would be no half measures. Well, here I am. I want to be with you, baby. Is that what you want too?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“I just need a week to get my business under control. Will you wait for me?”

“Of course.” She lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a long, sweet kiss to his skin.

“Next Saturday I want to pick up exactly where we left off . . . before we got back to the cottage. Does that sound okay to you?”

“Mm-hm,” she murmured. She rested her cheek against the back of his hand before kissing it again. When she finally lowered their hands to the bolster between them, she braided her fingers through his.