Read Online Come Morning by Pat Warren - Free Book Online Page B

her through something as devastating as the loss of her entire family? Besides, after that business in California, he could no longer trust his own instincts.
    The last thing she needed was a relationship now, even a purely physical one. She had a lot of healing to do.
    As attractive as she was, as vulnerable as he now knew her to be, what made him think he could work alongside her daily and not get sucked in? No, he’d have to back off.
    He’d help her with the house for a while. After all, he’d told her he would and he was a man of his word. But after that, he’d find an excuse to stay away. Something, anything.
    Because if he didn’t, if he let himself care deeply, if he let her snare him in with her needs, like someone had before, this time he might never recover.

Chapter Four
    A s Briana slowed down from her morning run and went through her front gate, she saw a tall ladder leaning against the side of the house. Standing near the top, Slade was already scraping away. Aretha Franklin was belting it out on the portable wedged into a comer. “Starting off with a little early morning soul, eh?”
    “Trying to beat the heat,” he answered, glancing down. “I found this ladder in my garage.” He had to school himself not to call it his father’s garage. When, he wondered, would he be comfortable with the transition? “I think it’ll work better than yours.”
    “Great. I’ll be back as soon as I grab a quick shower. Can I bring you out some coffee?” It seemed the least she could do in exchange for his work, though helping her had been his suggestion. Briana still wasn’t sure it was the best idea, but when she thought of herself standing on that tall ladder, her stomach became slightly queasy.
    “Sure. Black. Take your time.” Peering through his sun-glasses, he watched her flap the hem of her damp T-shirt in an effort to cool off as she walked around front. How was it that women managed to look good even when hot and disheveled while men just looked sweaty and tired? he wondered. He sincerely hoped she’d cover those long, distracting legs while they worked.
    Tipping his head, he returned to chipping paint from the underside of the overhang. With all this sea and sun exposure, he’d be willing to bet that a lot of area homes needed regular painting. Maybe he’d look into starring a handyman service, working outside in season and indoors in winter. Through the years, he’d acquired enough knowledge about carpentry, plumbing, even electrical and heating, to do a variety of repairs, if not major replacement jobs.
    Or perhaps he could buy up homes in disrepair, now that he had some capital, refurbish and resell them. The idea of being his own boss held a lot of appeal. Something to think about.
    The sound of an inbound plane heading for Nantucket Memorial Airport had him looking up to admire the sleek charter aircraft skimming through the morning sky. That was yet another idea. He had his pilot’s license and could apply for a job with one of the four or five private carriers he’d noticed coming and going. There were plenty of possibilities in Nantucket.
    The question was, did he want to stay here?
    How, he wondered, had his father chosen this island a whole continent away from his former home in California? And how had he accumulated so much? All right so the paintings sold well. Now. But getting started as an artist, from everything Slade had heard, wasn’t easy nor did success usually happen overnight. Had he continued to work as a salesman until his work caught on?
    So many unanswered questions whirling around in his brain, he thought. He finished as far as he could reach, then climbed down. Out of the blue, he’d been thrust back into his father’s life, only to find the man as enigmatic in death as he had been in life.
    As he repositioned the ladder, Slade heard the familiar rumble of a large truck approaching. Moving to the front, hands on his hips, he watched a fire truck whiz by. Only one