Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(12)

“First morning out, can’t be without it.” He raises his mug, watching me with a thoughtful look. “I didn’t take you for an early riser.”

“I’m not,” I admit. “Not on weekends, anyway. You?”

“Always.” He gives a rueful grin. “I was in the office by seven every day, I guess I can’t shake the habit now.”

I try to picture him in his suit and tie again, but even after just these couple of encounters, I can’t imagine it. He looks like he was born in jeans, and if the gods had any justice, he would never take them off.

Except, when someone takes them off him . . .

Franny returns with my paper cup of coffee, and a bag for the cinnamon bun. I fish a five-dollar bill from my sports bra, but she waves it away. “No need, sweetheart. We still owe you for finding that apartment for my Becky.”

“Fran!” I protest, but she shakes her head firmly. “Fine.” I pretend to surrender, but I stuff the bill in the tip jar instead. “How’s she getting on?” I ask after her niece. “She must be starting that new job now.”

“Next week, she can’t wait.” Franny smiles affectionately. “And there’s a new guy, too.”

“Do we like him?”

“We do.” Franny nods. “This one might work out.”

“Well, let me know when they need an upgrade,” I wink. “I know some great single-families . . .”

Franny laughs. “Ooh, that reminds me, I heard on the grapevine that Liv Sullivan’s sister is thinking of moving to town. She just lost her husband, poor thing, and wants to be close to Liv and the grandkids.”

“Makes sense.” I nod. “Any update on Rich Hargreaves and, you know?”

Franny leans in. “You didn’t hear it from me, but someone saw him in Charlotte, talking to a divorce lawyer, I bet.”

“How do you find out all the gossip first?” I ask, impressed.

Franny winks. “I ply them with sugar, that’s the secret.”

“Well, keep it up.”

She heads back to work, and I make a mental note to call Liv—and Richard, too. Town gossip isn’t just for fun; for me, it’s a constant source of new clients. Births, deaths, and divorces: they all mean real estate changing hands down the line, and nobody’s better placed to help them through it than me.

I turn to find Will still watching me. “Well, have a good day,” I say brightly, and head to the door.

“Join me?” he asks casually, nodding to the empty chair beside him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I pause, feeling my cheeks flush.

“Why’s that?”

I shrug. “Just, you know, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“And what would that be?” he asks, still smiling—clearly enjoying my rejection for some reason.

“That I don’t think you’re slightly crazy for moving down here to be with me without calling first?” I try to be delicate.

He laughs. “Only slightly?”

“Fine. Totally, all-out crazy,” I agree, then pause. “Look, not to sound harsh or anything, but I want to be clear. I don’t do relationships, they’re just not my style. So if you came here expecting something . . .” I trail off, awkward, but Will just lifts an eyebrow.

“Good to know,” he says. “And just for the record, I moved down here because of you, not to be with you.”

“There’s a difference?” Now I’m really confused.

“Maybe not.” Will unfolds himself and gets up, tucking the newspaper under one arm. “It depends.”

“On what?” I ask, my breath catching as he saunters closer. He pauses, right beside me, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I’m suddenly hit with the memory of kissing him, blazing in Technicolor in my mind. Those hands on my body, that mouth seducing mine . . .

Maybe Will can see it too, because he gives me knowing look.

“On how long you can resist me.”

He winks, then strolls past me out onto the street, leaving me flushed and breathless in the doorway.

Because of my run, I tell myself. Just because of my run.



Back at my place, I jump in the shower then do a quick clean-up and throw on a load of laundry to be ready for the week ahead. I love my apartment; it’s part of a brand-new building they converted from an old carriage house, set back just a few blocks from the town square. Everything is brand-new, low maintenance, and stress-free, just the way I like it. It barely takes ten minutes to run a duster over the bookshelves and set the cycle to spin—leaving me way too much time to replay my morning run-in with Will. I’m jittery and on edge, and I haven’t even touched my coffee.

That guy is more powerful than a gallon of caffeine.

I shouldn’t be affected like this; I’ve turned down plenty of guys, and had my fair share of rejection too. That’s why I never take it too seriously: either something turns out fun, or it doesn’t, but it’s not worth getting hung up over. I can count on the fingers of one hand the nights I’ve spent waiting around for the phone to ring, or wondering if a guy is thinking about me or not. It’s not my style to waste a moment’s thought analyzing their text messages, or all of the other things my girlfriends wind up agonizing over.