Brambleberry Shores. RaeAnne Thayne

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      Good grief, the cost of his tailored shirt alone could probably feed a family of four for a month.

      She didn’t like him, she told herself. While her brain might be certain of that, the rest of her was having a tougher time listening to reason when she just wanted to curl against his strength and heat like Conan finding a sunbeam shooting through the window.

      She sighed and pulled her lasagna out, attributing her flushed and tight skin to the heat pouring from the oven.

      “Can I help with anything?” he asked, standing in the doorway.

       Yeah. Go away.

      She forced herself to stuff the thought back into the recesses of her mind. She was a strong, independent woman. Surely she was tough enough to endure an hour or so with the man.

      “Everything’s just about ready. Chloe and I were finishing things up in here when you arrived. Would the two of you mind setting the table?”

      She regretted the question as soon as she asked it. Eben Spencer probably had a legion of servants to do that sort of grunt work at his house. To her surprise, he didn’t hesitate.

      “No problem. Come on, Chloe.”

      Through the doorway beyond him, Sage saw Chloe get up from the floor where she had been playing with Conan. She and the dog both tromped into the kitchen, making Sage even more claustrophobic.

      “You’ll have to point me in the right direction for plates and silverware,” Eben said.

      “I’ll grab them for you.”

      She pulled out her favorite square chargers—she’d bought them from a ceramics studio in Manzanita, attracted by their wild, abstract designs—and the contrasting plates she always used with them, then held them out for Eben to take.

      Their hands connected when he reached for them and a spark jumped between them.

      Sage flushed. “Sorry. It’s the, uh, hardwood floors. Makes electricity jump in the air, especially when there are a lot of negative ions flying around from the storm.”

      She was babbling, she realized, and forced herself to clamp her lips shut. She didn’t miss the long, considering look Eben gave her.

      “Oh, is that what it’s from?” he murmured.

      Before she could formulate what would no doubt be a sharp retort, he grabbed the plates and carried them out of the kitchen. Only after he left did she release the breath she suddenly realized she was holding.

      “Silverware is in the top drawer to the left of the dishwasher,” she told Chloe. “Glasses are in the overhead cupboard.”

      She didn’t have the luxury of a dining room in her apartment, but she had commandeered a corner of the good-sized living room for the table Will Garrett had made her.

      The chairs were a mismatched jumble picked up here and there at thrift stores and yard sales, but she coordinated them with cushions in vivid colors to match the placemats and chargers.

      She always thought the effect was charming but she imagined to someone of Eben Spencer’s sophisticated tastes, her house probably reeked of a lousy attempt at garage-sale chic.

      She didn’t care, she told herself.

      It was a waste of time even worrying about what he might think of her and her apartment. In a week, Eben and Chloe Spencer would just be a memory, simply two more in a long line of transitory visitors to her corner of the world.

      The thought left her vaguely depressed so she pushed it away and pulled the salad she and Chloe had tossed earlier out of the refrigerator. After a few more moments of them working together, the meal was laid out on the table.

      “Everything looks delicious,” Eben said, taking the seat across from her.

      “Sage is a vegetarian, Daddy,” Chloe announced with fascinated eagerness.

      “Is that right?”

      “Not militant, I promise,” she answered. “Steak lovers are usually still welcome at my table.”

      A corner of his mouth lifted. “Good thing. I do enjoy a good porterhouse, I’m sorry to say.”

      “You can enjoy it all you want somewhere else, but I’m afraid you won’t find any steaks here tonight.”

      “I can be surprisingly adaptable.” Again that half smile lifted his features, made him seem much less formidable. Her insides trembled but she stubbornly ignored them, serving the lasagna instead.

      They were all quiet for a few moments as they dished breadsticks and salad.

      Sage braced herself for a negative reaction to her favorite lasagna dish. She wasn’t the greatest of cooks but after choosing a vegetarian lifestyle in college, she had worked hard to find dishes she found good, nutritious and filling.

      But her tastes were likely far different than Eben’s. He probably had at least one Cordon Bleu-trained personal chef to go along with the legion of servants she’d imagined for him.

      To her relief and gratification, he closed his eyes in appreciation after the first taste. “Delicious. My compliments to the chefs.”

      Chloe giggled. “There weren’t any chefs, Daddy. Just Sage and me.”

      “You two have outdone yourselves.”

      “It’s super good, Sage,” Chloe agreed. “I wasn’t sure I’d like it but I can’t even taste the carrots and stuff.”

      Sage smiled, charmed all over again by this little girl with the inquisitive mind and boundless energy.

      “Thank you both. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

      “Maybe you could give me the recipe and I could make it sometime at home, if the new nanny helps me,” Chloe suggested. “I like to cook stuff sometimes, when I have a chance.”

      “I’ll do that. Remind me before you leave and I’ll make a copy of the recipe for you.”

      “Thank you very much,” Chloe said, with a solemn formality that made Sage smile again. She shifted her gaze from the girl to her father and immediately wished she hadn’t.

      Eben watched her, an odd expression in those brilliant green eyes. It left her breathless and off balance. He quickly veiled it in that stiff, controlled way of his she was coming to despise.

      “This is a beautiful house,” he said into the sudden silence. “Have you lived here long?”

      “Five years or so—I moved in a few weeks after I came to Cannon Beach.”

      “You’re not from here? I wondered. You have a slight northeast accent every once in a while, barely noticeable.”

      Her mouth tightened as if she could clamp down all trace of the past she didn’t like remembering. “Boston,” she finally said.

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