small garage, and Merry crossed the
threshold to peer into the orderly shadows. Most of it was taken up by a Land Rover.
Not a shiny one like a soccer mom would use to shuttle the kids. A good fifteen years
old, she guessed, crusted with dried mud, grass mummified between the tire treads.
“I suppose you would need one of those, to stock up on supplies.” She looked around,
finding no other surprises—lots of firewood, garden tools, bins and buckets.
“Nope,” she said, shutting the door for him. “No pile of dead hikers.”
“Oh dear.” He slipped the lock through its latch. “Have I let you down? Has my creepy
loner cachet taken a nosedive?”
“You can make it up to me with that coffee.”
“Save that assumption for after you’ve tasted it.”
He led her back into the cottage, and they pushed off their boots inside the rear
door.
Merry took a seat at the little kitchen table, thinking there was no more intriguing
creature on earth than this strange man, making her coffee in his wool socks.
So much for this crush being a side effect of the crypto or head injury.
She was perfectly conscious and rested now, and, if anything, her attraction had
gotten worse.
You really ought to reserve those feelings until you know what on earth sent this
man fleeing civilized society to play Davy Crockett.
True. And with Rob more candid this afternoon than she’d yet seen him, it seemed their
coffee date might be the perfect opportunity to do some gentle prying.
Once the fire was stoked and the kettle filled, they moved the table and its chair
to the den area, and Merry took the rocker.
“So,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest.
“So?”
“I’ve met Rob the weird survivalist loner. And Rob the secret archer. And Rob the
nice guy who’s making me coffee, and who slept on his floor so I could steal his bed.”
Ever hopeless with compliments, he turned his attention to his hands.
“What was Rob from back in England like?”
He frowned. “Sort of a miserable git.”
“Being a businessman didn’t suit you, I take it?”
“I can’t say it did. Though I was good at it, at least to start.”
“You said you had a few businesses. What kinds?”
He wiggled a pair of fingers and met her gaze. “Two bars. I opened them with my best
mate from university.”
“Oh, okay. I was trying to picture you in a boardroom or someplace, but that makes
a little more sense. What sort of bars? Trendy?”
“The first was your typical British corner pub—already established. We bought it when
the owner retired, kept it pretty much as it had been, plus basic improvements to
get some younger clientele in the door.” He spoke mainly to the window, with only
an occasional glance at Merry. “It did well. We used the first couple years’ profits
to open a second one. Emphasis on the cocktails and a bunch of upscale starters. My
mate’s pet project, bit posh for my taste. He was onto something, though—that one
did even better than the pub.”
“Sounds like an awfully social pursuit, for a man who’s exiled himself to the top
of a lonely Scottish hill.”
“I, um . . .” He stared off at the mountains, blue eyes somber in the cool, waning
light. “I was going through the motions, I think. Playing at being whoever that man
was. The one who opened those places.”
She nodded. She’d done the same—played the part of the chatty, happy, chubby girl,
the nonthreatening life of the party who’d always lend you a shoulder to cry on, posed
no danger of boyfriend-theft.
“I think lots of us spend our twenties trying on personas,” she offered.
Rob’s brows rose, and he met her eyes squarely.
“I know I got myself jammed in a rut, trying to be everybody’s best friend,” she said.
“Trying to make everyone happy. By the time I was thirty I was like, Jesus. If I’d
charged these people for all the therapy I doled out, I’d be a millionaire by
threshold to peer into the orderly shadows. Most of it was taken up by a Land Rover.
Not a shiny one like a soccer mom would use to shuttle the kids. A good fifteen years
old, she guessed, crusted with dried mud, grass mummified between the tire treads.
“I suppose you would need one of those, to stock up on supplies.” She looked around,
finding no other surprises—lots of firewood, garden tools, bins and buckets.
“Nope,” she said, shutting the door for him. “No pile of dead hikers.”
“Oh dear.” He slipped the lock through its latch. “Have I let you down? Has my creepy
loner cachet taken a nosedive?”
“You can make it up to me with that coffee.”
“Save that assumption for after you’ve tasted it.”
He led her back into the cottage, and they pushed off their boots inside the rear
door.
Merry took a seat at the little kitchen table, thinking there was no more intriguing
creature on earth than this strange man, making her coffee in his wool socks.
So much for this crush being a side effect of the crypto or head injury.
She was perfectly conscious and rested now, and, if anything, her attraction had
gotten worse.
You really ought to reserve those feelings until you know what on earth sent this
man fleeing civilized society to play Davy Crockett.
True. And with Rob more candid this afternoon than she’d yet seen him, it seemed their
coffee date might be the perfect opportunity to do some gentle prying.
Once the fire was stoked and the kettle filled, they moved the table and its chair
to the den area, and Merry took the rocker.
“So,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest.
“So?”
“I’ve met Rob the weird survivalist loner. And Rob the secret archer. And Rob the
nice guy who’s making me coffee, and who slept on his floor so I could steal his bed.”
Ever hopeless with compliments, he turned his attention to his hands.
“What was Rob from back in England like?”
He frowned. “Sort of a miserable git.”
“Being a businessman didn’t suit you, I take it?”
“I can’t say it did. Though I was good at it, at least to start.”
“You said you had a few businesses. What kinds?”
He wiggled a pair of fingers and met her gaze. “Two bars. I opened them with my best
mate from university.”
“Oh, okay. I was trying to picture you in a boardroom or someplace, but that makes
a little more sense. What sort of bars? Trendy?”
“The first was your typical British corner pub—already established. We bought it when
the owner retired, kept it pretty much as it had been, plus basic improvements to
get some younger clientele in the door.” He spoke mainly to the window, with only
an occasional glance at Merry. “It did well. We used the first couple years’ profits
to open a second one. Emphasis on the cocktails and a bunch of upscale starters. My
mate’s pet project, bit posh for my taste. He was onto something, though—that one
did even better than the pub.”
“Sounds like an awfully social pursuit, for a man who’s exiled himself to the top
of a lonely Scottish hill.”
“I, um . . .” He stared off at the mountains, blue eyes somber in the cool, waning
light. “I was going through the motions, I think. Playing at being whoever that man
was. The one who opened those places.”
She nodded. She’d done the same—played the part of the chatty, happy, chubby girl,
the nonthreatening life of the party who’d always lend you a shoulder to cry on, posed
no danger of boyfriend-theft.
“I think lots of us spend our twenties trying on personas,” she offered.
Rob’s brows rose, and he met her eyes squarely.
“I know I got myself jammed in a rut, trying to be everybody’s best friend,” she said.
“Trying to make everyone happy. By the time I was thirty I was like, Jesus. If I’d
charged these people for all the therapy I doled out, I’d be a millionaire by
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