“Are you? Well, then, you’re probably right.” He leaned forward and crooked his finger, motioning for her to come closer.
It had been so long since a man had caught her attention, much less since she’d been beckoned by a hot guy, and her pulse quickened like a schoolgirl’s. Only she was a grown woman wearing a sweaty tank top with FLIPPIN’ AWESOME written across the chest and a picture of a spatula beneath it, which quite possibly made her look like a silly schoolgirl.
“I’m staying at the Silver House, but I’m not fond of crowds,” he said conspiratorially. “I bought this table and chair at a store around the corner, and I’ve been camping out here in the mornings. If you promise not to tell, I’ll share my raspberry-and-Bavarian-cream croissant with you.”
“Ah, draw me into your web of deceit with the allure of one of Keira’s pastries,” she said in a low voice, mentally shuffling through magazines and commercials, trying to figure out where she’d seen him before. “Normally I’m a rule follower, but I like your style, Chair Guy. I’ll keep your secret.”
He cut the croissant in half and pushed to his feet, bringing to light his six-foot-plus stature. His identity hit her with the impact of jackpot-winning bells, and before she could reel in her excitement, “You’re the guy from the Nautica underwear ads!” came roaring out.
His brows slanted.
“Oh God. You’re not him, are you?” She covered her face. “This is so embarrassing,” she said as she lowered her hands.
“Not for me. I’m taking that as a compliment. In fact, if you feel the need to narc someone out for trespassing, please say it was that underwear model and not me.”
She was glad he had a sense of humor. “They’d probably drag you in anyway. You look just like him.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He waved to the chair and said, “Join me?”
“I can’t. Thanks, though. I have to go meet my sister.”
He gathered half of the pastry in a napkin and descended the steps to the beach. His eyes remained trained on her, making her pulse quicken again. He handed her the napkin-encased croissant and said, “If you run this way tomorrow, I’ll have a whole pastry waiting for you.”
“Oh.” There was no hiding the surprise in her voice.
“Not all criminals are bad guys. I’m Aiden, by the way.” He offered his hand.
“I’m Abigail de Messiéres. Abby.” She shifted nervously on her feet, wondering what had possessed her to say her full name, as if she were someone special. “It’s nice to meet you.”
When she put her hand in his, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the back of it. “It’s been a pleasure, Abigail. I hope to see you tomorrow, and remember, if I get dragged into jail, you’re now an accomplice. I go down, you go down.”
Butterflies swarmed in her belly at the way he said her name and the low, seductive way he said that last part. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone down with anyone. “You play dirty, Chair Guy.”
“Only for very special people,” he said with a wink. “Thanks for brightening my morning, Runner Girl. I hope to see you tomorrow.”
She walked away, nibbling on the sweet croissant, but she couldn’t resist taking one last peek over her shoulder. Aiden was standing on the side of the patio watching her. Butterflies took flight in her stomach as he flashed that sexy grin and waved.
Real smooth, Abby.
She hurried toward the street. He was probably just as bad for her as the croissant—and even more delicious.
By the time Abby made it back to her mother’s house, she’d devoured the croissant despite the butterflies nesting in her belly and mulled over her conversation with Aiden at least a dozen times. It had been so long since she’d flirted with a guy, she was kind of proud that she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself. Well, except for the underwear model debacle.
She walked down the narrow dirt road to her mother’s driveway on the outskirts of Silver Haven, feeling lighter than she had when she’d left. But the sight of Deirdra’s car parked in front of their funky four-bedroom, three-bath bungalow brought a knot of tension. While Abby didn’t even own a car, her control-freak sister had brought hers with her on the ferry.
Their mother’s house also had a one-car garage with an apartment above it and a gorgeous view of the water, which Deirdra called their saving grace. The house looked as haggard as her mother had when Abby had visited over the holidays. The picket fence was missing boards, the lawn was long and uncared for, the vegetable and flower gardens overgrown with knee-high tangles of weeds. The white siding on the house was so dirty it looked gray, but the wide front porch still held memories of Abby singing with her mother as her father stood at his easel painting with the wind in his hair and the familiar spark of happiness in his eyes.
Deirdra had it all wrong.
The view she deemed as their saving grace was something everyone on that side of the island had. It was gorgeous and it added to their property value, but to Abby, her cherished memories were the real saving graces.
She held on to those treasured thoughts as she breezed through the front door, humming as she walked into the crowded living room, refusing to stress over Deirdra’s mood or the boxes and piles of magazines, records, books, and other things littering the floor. It was as if time had stopped when their father passed away. Their mother had never gotten rid of any of his belongings. Abby had already begun going through the living room, but she didn’t want to think about how difficult it would be to go through the other rooms. She was glad Deirdra would be there with her. She’d been embarrassed when her mother’s friends had stopped by over the last couple of days, bringing casseroles and pies and all sorts of other food, and had seen the mess. The freezer and refrigerator were packed full, and the counters held so many dishes, it looked like they were having a potluck gathering. You’d think her mother had just passed away. But that was life on Silver Island, where everyone pulled together during difficult times. Her mother’s friends had all known of her alcoholism, and Abby remembered the carefully choreographed dance of talking around the elephant in the room when she’d see them at the Bistro or around town. Thankfully, they had never looked down on her or Deirdra because of it.
Abby found her sister pacing in the cozy, though outdated, kitchen with her cell phone pressed to her ear. They shared the same brownish-blond hair color, but while Abby’s was coarse and rebellious, always appearing a little messy, Deirdra had been blessed with silky hair that looked perfect at any length. Her natural waves fell just past her shoulders. As always, Deirdra was ready to take on the day, although she looked like she was going out for drinks in the Hamptons in her skinny jeans, white-and-blue-striped shirt, a pink blazer with the sleeves rolled up, and sharp strappy sandals.
“Damn it, Malcolm, this is the one week—” Deirdra pursed her lips, anger simmering in her mossy-green eyes. Malcolm was her stern sixty-year-old boss. “No. I need to be here.” She paused, listening. “Fine. I’ll see you Friday afternoon.” She ended the call and grumbled, “Bastard.”
“What’s wrong?”
Deirdra put her phone in her pocket, closing her eyes. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, her eyes opening as a calm came over her like a curtain. The momentary slip in her behavior was pushed aside as if that part of her didn’t matter. But it did matter. Abby missed the unpredictable side of her sister, which she’d lost when their mother had started drinking.