Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

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СКАЧАТЬ he help me? Geez. That one little question stopped me right up. How often had a man said “Can I help you?” to me and really meant it? Not often.

      “I don’t need help Mr. Bridger. I’m perfect. One hundred percent. Fine. Dandy. Do I seem weak? Some damsel in distress who needs an effeminate white guy with skinny thighs charging up on a white horse for a pathetic rescue?”

      “No, ma’am, you don’t.” He grinned. “And I did not bring my white horse anyhow or my skinny thighs.”

      I immediately stole a peek at his legs. Long, muscled, not skinny, powerful. Big mistake.

      My breath caught and I glanced longingly at my front door, wanting to escape from He-Man here. I had saved every penny and had this house built in a farmhouse style seven years ago. It was small, fifteen hundred square feet, but there were no walls in the downstairs, so it felt bigger. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and my studio, flooded with light from floor-to-ceiling windows and two skylights. I did not want to think about skylights.

      “You have a very nice home,” he said, quite serious.

      And you have very nice hips. And your shoulders aren’t so bad, either, under that beige, outdoorsy jacket you’re wearing. And sheesh. That jaw. Even the scar above your eyebrow turns me on. Oh, do shut up, Chalese. To distract myself from the prince’s thighs, I said, “Thank you.

      “Your view is incredible.”

      “It calms my nerves.” You, however, have set my nerves on fire.

      “I’ll bet.” He laughed, low and rumbly. “I think it would calm anyone’s nerves.”

      My yellow home sat on five bucolic acres on Whale Island off the coast of Washington, with a view of the ocean and two neighboring islands through towering pine trees. The pine trees acted as a natural frame for the moving, changing post-card. I watched sailboats and rowboats glide in and out of a small harbor as I worked.

      “I’m detecting a longing note in your voice,” I said. “Do your nerves need calming?”

      “Uh, yes. More than I can tell you at this time.”

      I nodded. We smiled at each other. Couldn’t help myself. My smile hurt my aching face.

      “The deer think they own the place,” I rattled out to fill the silence. “The raccoons have almost formed a union, there’s so many of them. The squirrels have raucous, argumentative family reunions on my back deck, and the birds are bossy and rule the sky.”

      He shrugged. “Deer are possessive, raccoons should be unionized, squirrels never get along, and birds always have to see what’s going on in everyone’s lives because they’re nosy. Didn’t you know that?”

      Oh no. A he-man with a sense of humor.

      He gazed around, his eyes stopping at my seriously dilapidated barn and then the building with the heated kennels for various abused/stray dogs I had taken in over the years until I could adopt them out to happy homes.

      My home, and this island, had been the perfect hiding place for me, my mother, and my sister.

      And now, after one award, Mr. Bridger here was going to ruin it. “Mr. Bridger …”

      “Aiden.”

      “Mr. Bridger,” I started again, trying to sound firm through my throbbing headache. “I have already told you I am not interested in doing an interview with you or your newspaper. Any questions from the media always go through my agent. I believe I forwarded you Terry Rudolph’s number already?”

      “Got that,” he said softly, still staring at me.

      “And?” I raised my eyebrows at him and pushed a stray curl off my face. At least I wasn’t wearing my black burglar cap that covered all my face except my eyes and mouth. I brushed my leather pants with my hands. Gall.

      “And what?” He smiled at me then, his intense gaze never leaving my face. I was doomed, doomed. He was even more yummy smiling.

      “Shurx …” I tried to speak, could not find words. “Anr … Bix …” I cleared my throat, studied my red Adirondack chairs, the hanging flowers, the wind chimes tinkling over my porch. “And you should leave. Good-bye, Mr. Gorgeous.” I turned away, my kneecaps feeling like they were cracking, then froze.

      Oh, please, I begged myself. Please tell yourself you did not say ‘Good-bye, Mr. Gorgeous.’ I hadn’t, had I? My body prickled with pure mortification.

      It was his laughter that confirmed it.

      “Damn,” I muttered. “By damn, damn. I did say it.”

      I did not turn around. “Mr. Bridger, please go. I don’t want an article written about me, not now, not ever. I’m a private person, have a private life, and I want to keep it that way.”

      “I understand that. Privacy is one cool thing.”

      I did not turn around to look at him, because my acute embarrassment was causing a hot flash. Hot flashes at thirty-five years old. Gimme a break. My mother had had them early, too. And her mother. My mother called them her “skin boilers.” Her mother called them “the devil’s heat spells.”

      I called them my “sweatfests.”

      “Ms. Hamilton, it’s going to be announced very shortly here that you’ve won the Carmichael Children’s Book Award. Our paper had a contact on the committee, and we want to get the story written on you first. You’re already famous under your pen name. Your books are famous. They’ve sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and yet no one knows anything about you.”

      “I would bet, Mr. Bridger, that you know a thing or two about me, isn’t that correct?” I could feel my spine tingling, that old fear of discovery flaming around me. “After all, you found me, you know my name.”

      “I know your pen name is Annabelle Purples but very little else. Certainly not enough to write my article.”

      “There will be no article.” I shook my head. Glass tinkled to the porch. “Nada. None.”

      I saw the alarm on Aiden’s face. “You had glass in your hair. Are you all right?”

      “Absolutely splendid.” I was exhausted. My body ached, I had dried blood on my legs and hands, my hangover was merciless, and I’d hardly slept. First thing this morning I’d paid Mervin to repair Stephen’s skylight. Brenda and I had done our best to clean up the kitchen after making a serendipitous call to Christie to tell her to stay out of the house.

      The Man-eater in her red negligee had been furious, scathing, degrading. Stephen hadn’t been much better. I believe the words “pathetic … jealous … criminal” had left his mouth. I had promised him a better skylight, immediately installed, and a cleaning woman to fix the rest of the mess in exchange for his not calling the police.

      The Man-eater had smirked at me when we’d left. “Get over it, Chalese. Be a mature woman and leave us alone. Stephen doesn’t need a jelly maker who is always doing stupid stuff and is obsessed with animals for a wife. He doesn’t want you.”

      I’d СКАЧАТЬ