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Authors: J. M. Stewart
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he stopped running from the past, and it started with her. One night or twenty, if she was going to accept him for who he was, he had to be straight up with her.
Chapter Four
Cat leaned back against the kitchen counter downstairs. Behind her the coffee maker dripped, filling the small space with the sound of liquid streaming into the glass pot and scenting the air with the delicious aroma of a fresh brew. Her shower with Michael had been phenomenal. Her insides still tingled, and as they’d dried each other off, he’d kissed her gently, and told her he had something he wanted to tell her. He’d asked her to come down here and make coffee while he shaved.
The night had been exactly what she’d wanted it to be. A single night with a gorgeous man who made her feel alive, truly alive, for the first time in a long time.
She turned her head, scanning the kitchen around her. The house itself was small and quaint. One bedroom, which took up the top floor, containing the only bathroom. An open living room and a small dining room she’d passed on her way into the kitchen. The furniture was sparse and modest, everything done in warm, earthy colors. The place had a humble, homey feel that wrapped around her, somehow suiting the man she’d come to know.
The coffee maker began to sputter, and she turned, intending to search the cabinets for mugs when a picture on the wall opposite the stove caught her attention. In it, Michael sat with a dark-haired woman on a good-sized wooden deck. He was younger then, barely a teenager, and the woman appeared to be in her late forties. She clutched Michael’s hand, her bright smile lighting up her face.
She recognized the woman. Abby Brant. The Brants were the other big, prominent family in Crest Point. They played a huge role in supporting the community, were trusted and well respected. There’d been a Brant in Crest Point since before the town formed more than a hundred years ago. They were old money. Rumor had it their family was part of the original settlers who came during the gold rush in the eighteen hundreds. Nowadays, they owned a chain of five-star hotels scattered all along the West Coast.
They owned the bar she’d met Michael in. According to the
Weekly Tribune
, the town’s small newspaper, they kept it open as a piece of nostalgia.
“I wasn’t completely honest with you last night.”
At the sound of his voice, Cat turned to find Michael in the kitchen entrance. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt that clung to his torso like a second skin, outlining every solid muscle. His wet hair still had a tousled look, as if he simply dragged his fingers through it, but his jaw was now clean shaven and smooth. He looked … delicious.
She yearned to mold her body to his length and run her fingers over his freshly shaven chin, but resisted the urge. Their night was over, and it was time to separate her emotions from the night itself. “About what?”
“Who I am.” He pushed away from the doorway, moving into the room at a slow, easy pace.
The expression on his face had uneasiness settling in her stomach. Gone was the playful glint in his eye that had made their shower something she wouldn’t soon forget. Worry had seeped into his dark eyes. As if he had bad news, or perhaps was afraid of how she’d react.
She let out a nervous laugh. “It can’t be that bad — can it?”
His gaze flitted over her face, as if gauging her reaction. “I don’t think so, but it depends on who you ask around here.” He pulled the picture off the wall and stroked his thumb over the glass. “This is me.”
She nodded. “With Abby Brant. Judging by the look on her face, she’s very fond of you.”
“I sure hope so.” He let out a quiet laugh, and while his tone said he teased, when he met her gaze, the worry in his eyes was palpable. “She’s my mother.”
Her smile fell as exactly what he meant hit home. She knew him. Okay, she didn’t know
him
, but she knew
of
him. “You’re
Chapter Four
Cat leaned back against the kitchen counter downstairs. Behind her the coffee maker dripped, filling the small space with the sound of liquid streaming into the glass pot and scenting the air with the delicious aroma of a fresh brew. Her shower with Michael had been phenomenal. Her insides still tingled, and as they’d dried each other off, he’d kissed her gently, and told her he had something he wanted to tell her. He’d asked her to come down here and make coffee while he shaved.
The night had been exactly what she’d wanted it to be. A single night with a gorgeous man who made her feel alive, truly alive, for the first time in a long time.
She turned her head, scanning the kitchen around her. The house itself was small and quaint. One bedroom, which took up the top floor, containing the only bathroom. An open living room and a small dining room she’d passed on her way into the kitchen. The furniture was sparse and modest, everything done in warm, earthy colors. The place had a humble, homey feel that wrapped around her, somehow suiting the man she’d come to know.
The coffee maker began to sputter, and she turned, intending to search the cabinets for mugs when a picture on the wall opposite the stove caught her attention. In it, Michael sat with a dark-haired woman on a good-sized wooden deck. He was younger then, barely a teenager, and the woman appeared to be in her late forties. She clutched Michael’s hand, her bright smile lighting up her face.
She recognized the woman. Abby Brant. The Brants were the other big, prominent family in Crest Point. They played a huge role in supporting the community, were trusted and well respected. There’d been a Brant in Crest Point since before the town formed more than a hundred years ago. They were old money. Rumor had it their family was part of the original settlers who came during the gold rush in the eighteen hundreds. Nowadays, they owned a chain of five-star hotels scattered all along the West Coast.
They owned the bar she’d met Michael in. According to the
Weekly Tribune
, the town’s small newspaper, they kept it open as a piece of nostalgia.
“I wasn’t completely honest with you last night.”
At the sound of his voice, Cat turned to find Michael in the kitchen entrance. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt that clung to his torso like a second skin, outlining every solid muscle. His wet hair still had a tousled look, as if he simply dragged his fingers through it, but his jaw was now clean shaven and smooth. He looked … delicious.
She yearned to mold her body to his length and run her fingers over his freshly shaven chin, but resisted the urge. Their night was over, and it was time to separate her emotions from the night itself. “About what?”
“Who I am.” He pushed away from the doorway, moving into the room at a slow, easy pace.
The expression on his face had uneasiness settling in her stomach. Gone was the playful glint in his eye that had made their shower something she wouldn’t soon forget. Worry had seeped into his dark eyes. As if he had bad news, or perhaps was afraid of how she’d react.
She let out a nervous laugh. “It can’t be that bad — can it?”
His gaze flitted over her face, as if gauging her reaction. “I don’t think so, but it depends on who you ask around here.” He pulled the picture off the wall and stroked his thumb over the glass. “This is me.”
She nodded. “With Abby Brant. Judging by the look on her face, she’s very fond of you.”
“I sure hope so.” He let out a quiet laugh, and while his tone said he teased, when he met her gaze, the worry in his eyes was palpable. “She’s my mother.”
Her smile fell as exactly what he meant hit home. She knew him. Okay, she didn’t know
him
, but she knew
of
him. “You’re
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