A Weaver Beginning. Allison Leigh

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      “Okay. Happy New Year, Sloan,” his sister said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

      He pinched the bridge of his nose. He wished he could say the same, but he didn’t know what he felt. If anything. “Happy New Year, kiddo.”

      Then he hung up and watched Abby cross in front of the window where he was standing. A second later, she knocked on his front door.

      He left his beer on the table and answered the door.

      “Hi.” Those gray eyes of hers looked up at him, carrying the same cheerfulness that infused the smile on her soft, pink lips. “Sorry to bother you.”

      “You’re not.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. He ought to feel like a letch, admiring her the way he was. But he didn’t. He felt...interested.

      The first time he’d felt interested in longer than he cared to remember.

      “What d’you need?”

      “Wood, actually.”

      The devil on his shoulder laughed at that one. No problem there. The angel on his other shoulder had him straightening away from the doorjamb. “It’s back behind the house.” He pushed the door open wide. “Come on in.”

      The tip of her tongue peeked out to flick over her upper lip. “Thanks.” She stepped past him into the house, and he saw the way her gaze took in the sparsely furnished living room. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

      “Nope.” He led the way through the room to the kitchen at the back of the house and outside again. He gestured at the woodpile stacked next to the back steps, protected from the weather by the overhang of the roof. “Help yourself.”

      She went down the steps, her shiny hair swaying around her shoulders. He shoved his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and tried not to think how silky her hair would feel.

      “Thanks again.” She stacked several pieces of wood in her arms. “I’ll restock as soon as I can.”

      “No need.” Thanks to his connection to the Clay family and their gigantic cattle ranch, the Double-C, he had a ready supply of firewood, whether he wanted it or not. “House warming up okay over there?”

      She nodded. Her hair bounced. Her eyes smiled.

      She’d have the boys at the elementary and junior high schools sticking their fingers down their throats just to have a chance to visit her in the nurse’s office.

      The devil on his shoulder laughed at him again. Wouldn’t you do the same?

      “Your brother live with you all the time?” Sloan was betting the “brother” story was just that. The boy looked just like her. He was probably her son. Which would mean she’d had him very, very young.

      “Yes.” She lifted the load in her arms and started backing away, making fresh tracks in the snow. “Thanks for this. Hope you and your wife enjoy the rest of your evening.”

      Interesting. “Who said there’s a wife?”

      Her gaze skipped away. “Just assuming.” She smiled again. Kept backing away. Right until she bumped into the side of her house. She laughed and began sidestepping instead.

      “Assuming wrong.”

      She hesitated. Just for a moment, before continuing right along. But it had been long enough for him to notice.

      Definitely interesting.

      “Ah. Well.” She clutched the logs to her chest. “Hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, then.” Her smile never faltered.

      He wondered if it ever did. She had a face made for smiles.

      “You, too.”

      She reached the end of the fence and finally turned away, crossing into her front yard.

      Her hair swayed and bounced.

      Sloan shook his head and went back inside. Whether or not the boy was her brother or her son, a young woman like Abby Marcum didn’t need something temporary in her life.

      And temporary was all he had to offer.

      * * *

      The car was unloaded. Most of the boxes unpacked.

      Abby sat on the wooden barstool at her breakfast bar and looked at Dillon. He was sprawled on the couch, a fleecy blanket pulled up to his chin, sound asleep. He’d had his triumph at ‘White Hats.’ Had his popcorn. Had the casserole she’d managed to throw together.

      It was nearly midnight. She could have gone to bed herself.

      She sighed and poked through the box of chocolates, selected one and followed it up with a chaser of milk. She doubted her girlfriends would approve. They’d also sent her away with a bottle of champagne. It was sitting, unopened, in the refrigerator.

      No champagne and no horizontal entertainment for her, both of which they’d insisted it was high time she finally experience.

      She held up her grandmother’s delicate crystal flute and stared at the milk. “Happy New Year,” she murmured just as the lights flickered twice then went out completely.

      With the television silent, all she could hear was the ticking of the clock that she’d hung on the kitchen wall and the faint hiss from the log burning in the fireplace.

      By firelight, she leisurely finished her milk and waited for the electricity to come back on. When it didn’t, she retrieved the lighter from the mantel where Sloan had left it and lit several candles.

      Then she headed back to the barstool and the chocolates.

      There was a loud knock on her door as she picked up the gold box. And at that hour it was certainly unexpected. But it wasn’t alarm that had her hurrying to the door; it was the fact that she didn’t want Dillon waking up. He was sleeping so soundly, and she didn’t want to ruin it. It was a rare night that passed without him waking out of a bad dream.

      She cracked open the door and looked out. Sloan stood there, a sturdy flashlight in his hand, and she opened the door wider. The air outside felt bracingly cold in comparison to the warmth slipping through her at the sight of him.

      “Everything okay here?”

      “Fine.” She poked her head out the door, looking up and down the darkened street. “Why?”

      “Just making sure.”

      “It’s only a power outage.” She smiled. “Did you think I’d be over here shaking in my boots?”

      The beam of his flashlight shifted, moving across her bare feet. “You’re not wearing boots.”

      She curled her toes against the carpet. “You caught me.” She realized she was still holding the gold box and extended it. “Care for one?”

      “I don’t know.” His СКАЧАТЬ