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Knowing it was useless to argue — and that the woman had a point about the heat — Felicity followed. An iced glass of berry juice sounded very appealing.
The dogs launched their assault the moment she crossed the threshold.
Squashed faces, bulging eyes, relentless snuffle-snorting.
She didn’t like them. And the feeling was mutual.
At least the interior was cool compared to the heavy heat outside.
Galina hadn’t heard a thing. Nor had she seen anything. And her dogs hadn’t stirred either. All she knew was that she’d woken to her neighbor banging on the door after spotting the damage on his way to work.
And the usual questions — any recent altercations, anything out of the ordinary — turned up nothing.
She helped the woman navigate her insurance and secured a promise from Fischer Construction to stop by that afternoon to clear the mess and put up a temporary fence.
Two hours later, Felicity finally stepped out the front door into the relentless June heat, itching from dog hair, her boots and ankles coated in slobber, her nerves frayed to their last thread.
Cranking up the air-conditioning, she pulled away from the curb.
She’d gone two blocks when she saw it.
Her foot eased off the accelerator.
A U-Haul trailer sat parked in front of a house.
Her heart stuttered.
It was the house she’d slowed down to stare at more times than she cared to admit once the for-sale sign appeared. The one she’d told herself was impractical, irresponsible to buy.
Besides, she didn’t want to tie herself to the town.
Her time in Clearbrook was temporary.
The old Victorian sat centered on the property — faded blue paint, a sagging porch rail, gingerbread trim in desperate need of love. Tall windows caught the afternoon sun, but despite its tired bones, it still had presence.
She pulled over without thinking.
Boxes were stacked on the lawn. The back of the trailer yawned open. And there, lifting a crate with easy familiarity, was … him.
A shirtless him.
Her stomach dropped. “What the hell?” She was out of the vehicle before the engine fully died. “Marine.”
He turned, surprise flickering across his face before morphing into a grin. “Deputy.”
Sweat clung to the light dusting of dark hair across his chest. Muscles shifted under the strain as he set the crate down — arms, shoulders, the clean cut of his torso catching the sun. His shorts rode low on his hips, revealing corded thighs, sockless sneakers braced against the dirt.
She stopped a few feet from him. “What are you doing in Clearbrook? Here?” she demanded
“I bought it.”
“You bought—” She stopped, regrouped. “You bought … the house?”
“Closed last week.”
Her laugh came out brittle. “Of course you did.”
That night fifteen months ago had been a spectacular miscalculation. Instead of putting Ronan Murphy behind her, he’d become a persistent presence in her thoughts, starring in fantasies she had no business indulging in. Because since him, she hadn’t been able to tolerate another man’s touch.
