Temptation moves in next door

Sylvie Carson has no idea what she’s going to do with the rest of her life! Artistically blocked, she hopes a prolonged stay in the seaside village she grew up in will help her get over this hump. But when Adam Hunter moves in next door, things only get more complicated, not less.

The artist in Sylvie is immediately intrigued by her new neighbor—the haunting lines of his face, the natural athleticism of his body. Maybe Adam is the muse she’s been looking for…but his shadowed eyes suggest he’s just one more person keeping secrets from her. Though Sylvie can’t deny that Adam inspires passion in her, the last thing she needs is a romance…right?

“I thought you’d given up on me,” Sylvie said.

“Sorry about that,” Adam said. “I’m selfish sometimes, and all I think about is what I want or need.”

She leaned back, surprised by Adam’s honesty. After a minute, she laughed. “You and the rest of us.”

“Yeah.” A crooked smile hooked the corner of his mouth up. “But that doesn’t excuse my behavior. You’re a good friend, and I shouldn’t have let you down.”

Friend. Why did that have a hollow sound to it? She set her computer on the side table and stood. “Is this another rescue for the underdog?”

When he looked sheepish, she turned away from the temptation to hug him. Imagine that big, hard-muscled body of Adam’s, holding her, his smell and heat surrounding her. Her body trembled at the sudden, vivid image.

Dear Reader,

With every book I write I’m inevitably drawn to one character. I want to say it’s Adam with this book, because in my mind he’s not only the perfect hero, but I like him! If I met Adam in real life, I’d want to be his friend. But for all the heroic qualities he possesses, Sylvie is the character who fascinates me. As is often pointed out to her, unlike Adam, she has it all. How much harder it must be to admit failure when you appear successful to everyone around you.

I thought a lot about success while writing this book. More specifically, fear of success, which is one of Sylvie’s challenges. It’s not that Sylvie is afraid of succeeding; she’s already a well-known artist. But the foundation or reason she pursues success is faulty, and eventually her world comes tumbling down. Luckily for her, Adam, and her family and friends, are there to help her rebuild her world.

I’ve always thought of success as a linear process. You set a goal, then work to achieve it. But human beings are rarely simple, and many of us set land mines along the way. Sylvie excels at sabotaging herself. In order for her to succeed, she must change not what she’s doing, but why she’s doing it.

Writing about Sylvie forced me to view my life from a different angle, and I wonder if when you read this book, you’ll also look more closely at why you want to achieve something rather than concentrating on the end goal. The answers may surprise you!

I hope you enjoy reading Sylvie and Adam’s story. I had a lovely time creating the village they live in and the characters who populate it. As always, I look forward to hearing from my readers. You can contact me at this address: kate@kate-kelly.ca, or drop by my website for a visit : www.kate-kelly.ca.

Warm regards,

Kate Kelly

When Adam Came to Town

Kate Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kate Kelly has had a love affair with books her entire life. Writing came in fits and starts, and she didn’t take it seriously until her forties. Now she can’t get along without it. She finaled in the RWA Golden Heart and won the RWA Daphne du Maurier contest. She has the good fortune to live on the east coast of Canada with her husband (the children have flown away). She writes, grows herbs and perennials, and sails when the wind blows her way.

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To Teressa, Molly and Colleen.

The best sisters, one and all. Thanks for always being there.

To Romeo

RIP

And as always, to my guys, Adrian, Reed and Rei

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

SYLVIE CARSON PUSHED the door to the family café open and made a beeline for the washrooms located at the front of the restaurant. She locked herself in a stall and thrust her head down between her knees. Breathe. She counted to seven before letting out her breath, blood rushing to her head.

Second breath. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. And out. The door to the washroom burst open.

“They’re taking bets out there on how many months along you are, and who the father is. Oliver’s in the lead.” Sylvie heard the scrape of a match as Teressa, head cook and childhood friend, lit a cigarette.

“No smoking in here,” Sylvie croaked. She sat up and braced her hand against the side of the stall as she waited for her equilibrium to even out.

“Like you’re going to fire me. You have a better chance of finding an available man who can support himself in this village than a professional cook. Unless you want to do my job. You’d have to learn how to boil water first, though.” Teressa snickered.

Sylvie pushed the stall door open with her foot. “Very funny.”

“For someone who has the perfect life, you’re sure acting like you’re at death’s door a lot.” Teressa frowned at her in the mirror. “Please tell me you’re not pregnant. It would ruin my day. You’re the golden girl, and golden girls do not mess up. Although having to marry the scrumptious Oliver...” Her friend looked away from her reflection in the mirror long enough to take another drag off her cigarette. “Hard to feel sorry for you, Syl.”

Teressa had two small children to support, both from different fathers, which made her life a scheduling nightmare. So, yes, from Teressa’s point of view, Sylvie’s life probably looked pretty good. She was single, made enough money that she didn’t have to worry about it and had even achieved a small amount of fame.

And it had all come to a crashing halt six months ago.

The curvy redhead took one last look at herself in the mirror and turned to face Sylvie. “No offense, but I don’t get why you’re still here. If I had your life, I’d be out of Collina like a shot. Your dad’s getting stronger every day. He’s out in the kitchen right now, trying to tell us all how to run a restaurant. You should stop torturing yourself and go back to Toronto and your cushy life.”

Sylvie sighed. Cushy life. Why did people think being an artist was easy? “Wait ’til everyone finds out that I’m not pregnant...that I’m just...whatever.”

Every day, that first step inside the café, the oh-my-God-what’s-happened-to-my-life moment, stole the breath right out of her body. She’d tried blaming the whole fiasco on her father’s heart attack and having to move home six months ago. Six months! Normal, well-adjusted people did not let their lives become gridlocked because their father got sick.

The first signs that her life had derailed came the day after her father’s heart attack. She’d gone into her studio, picked up a brush and painted mud. Okay, not mud. She was a skilled craftswoman, after all. But the tingle of magic she’d always felt had been absent, and it showed.

She and Oliver, her agent boyfriend, had tried to keep her problem under wraps, but rumors were starting to circulate about her inactivity. Oliver insisted she needed to return to Toronto, but Sylvie didn’t know if she’d be able to paint, or—worse—if she even wanted to. Either way, she wasn’t leaving until her father felt a hundred percent better. Then maybe they could discuss the real problem—the secrets her family had kept from her all these years.

Teressa stuck her cigarette under a stream of water, chucked it in the garbage and started washing her hands. “Well, boss, I came to tell you the customers are packing in for breakfast, and sweet little Tyler is hiding God knows where. I think he’s been alley-catting all night again. If his mother wasn’t the only decent hairdresser in town, I’d beg you to fire him. And, lentil soup, Sylvie? Again? Your father had the heart attack, not the entire village. We’re going to have a revolution on our hands if you put too much healthy stuff on the menu.” She stopped on her way to the door. “If I knew how to fix things for you, sweetie, you know I would, but I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one. Oh, and there’s a big bruiser of a guy waiting at the cash register. Haven’t seen him around before. He’ll start growing roots if he stands there much longer.”

Sylvie rubbed her hands over her face and levered herself off the toilet. “I’m right behind you. I’m good now.” But Teressa was already gone, the door swishing shut behind her.

Sylvie stood at the sink and scrubbed her hands. The panic attacks may have started after her father’s heart attack, but having to move home for a while hadn’t helped her being blocked and not able to paint. She knew her family and friends had her best interests at heart but she wished to God they’d stop asking if she had started painting again. Nothing like having your failure thrown in your face every day.

If she went back to Toronto—when she went back to Toronto... Her lungs seized up. Would it all come back to her? Her talent? Her bright, shining future? She’d lived and breathed painting for seventeen years and without it, she was lost.

Hell, at the moment she could hardly talk herself into leaving the washroom. Returning to Toronto seemed as inconceivable to her as swimming across the frigid Bay of Fundy that sat outside her door. No, for once in her life she had to make a decision completely on her own. She needed to stay home in Collina and figure out who she would have been if painting hadn’t become the central focus of her life.

When she dragged herself back into the dining area, Tyler was leaning his forehead against the cool, stainless steel soda machine, ignoring the man waiting at the cash two feet behind him.

Sylvie hurried across the room. She felt sorry for Tyler, nineteen and nothing to look forward to but more of the same. It was enough to drive anyone to drink. But she couldn’t afford to sympathize too much. Tyler had to pull his weight, or Pops would insist on spending even more time here. The heart specialist had been explicit last week, Pops was to work no more than two hours a day, and that was pushing it.

She was already desperate to find a second cook. But even though good help was slim pickings in the village, that didn’t mean she could let Tyler get away with too much. And God forbid her family let her work in the kitchen or try her hand at bookkeeping—not the talented Sylvie Carson. They thought they were freeing her up to pursue her dreams, but every time they said no, she felt more and more limited as to what she could do. Instead she was expected to sit and stare at an empty canvas and pray for inspiration.

“Be with you in a second,” she said to the man standing at the cash register. She huddled with Tyler in the corner. The tall, wiry teenager looked like he’d fall over if she breathed on him. “We’re busy, Ty. I need your help.”

He shot her a sheepish look. “My stomach’s all jumped up this morning.”

“Right.” She sighed, checked out the guy at cash again. He looked like he was trying not to grin. Another tourist soaking up the local color. She lowered her voice. “Go tell Pops. He’ll fix you up with his secret concoction. It’ll probably burn your toenails off, but it’ll settle your stomach.”

Summoning a smile, she scooted over to the cash register. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”

As she looked up at the man, his tawny gaze caught hers and pulled her in. He was tall and lean, his jean jacket outlining broad shoulders and a narrow waist. With an artist’s eye, she automatically studied the way he held himself, as if taking care not to disturb the air around him. His nose had been broken at least once. She was guessing more than once. He didn’t have the bright-eyed, ain’t-life-grand look most visitors wore when they walked in the door. A stranger, but not a tourist.

“What’s the fifty-fifty draw for?” The man’s voice was soft and deep, and she caught herself wanting to lean closer to him.

“The what?”

He nodded at the glass gallon jar that sat beside the cash register. “The draw, what do you have to do to win?”

“Oh.” Her cheeks heated up. “You have to guess what’s been added to the mural.” She waved a hand toward the back wall, where she’d painted a scene of the village. Folk art was not her usual style, and after years of treating art as a discipline, she’d felt like a kid with a new box of paints when she’d tackled the mural.

The fifty-fifty draw had started when she realized she’d forgotten to include the Hacheys’ boat in the mural. Worried someone would interpret the omission as a sign of bad luck, she’d added the minor detail early one morning before the café opened. No one on earth was more superstitious than fishermen. Beanie, the local plumber, had noticed the change a few days later. It hadn’t taken long for people to start placing bets on who could spot the newest addition. Not that she’d planned or wanted to keep adding to the mural, but it had been so good for business, she’d have been stupid not to run with the idea. Yet every time she looked at the damned thing now it was like a slap in the face. The mural was the last half-decent thing she’d painted. And it was folk art.

He squinted toward the back wall. “You’d have to spend a lot of time looking at it to see what had changed.”

“Exactly.”

He shot her an admiring look. “Who’s the artist?”

“Me. So. Breakfast? Coffee? You can have it to go if you want. The coffee, that is.” She tried holding his gaze, but felt herself being pulled in again and broke the connection. So he had pretty eyes—a solid band of black circled his gold-flecked, hazel irises. She already had an acceptable boyfriend. She may have only seen Oliver twice in the past half year, but they hadn’t broken up...yet.

“Coffee to go would be great. Black, with a half teaspoon of sugar.”

She spun around, slid a paper cup off the stack and grabbed the fresh carafe of coffee.

“I actually came in to ask for directions,” the man said to her back.

A tourist after all.

“Two Briar Lane. Do you know where that is?”

Hot coffee spilled over her hand as surprise jolted through her.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Yes.” She thrust the coffeepot onto the hot plate and looked over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the new owner, would you?”

He did the stillness thing again, like he was holding his breath. “That’s right.”

They’d often joked about who’d bought the old run-down house next to her family’s house. One of the best things about returning home, other than watching her father grow stronger every day and the occasional romp with her brothers, was living on Briar Lane with no neighbors. Apparently life wasn’t going to stand still for her, not even in Collina. What a pity.

Sylvie forced a smile as she turned back to the man and held out her good hand. “I’m Sylvie Carson. We’re neighbors.”

* * *

ADAM HUNTER FELT calluses on the woman’s palm as they shook hands. Her hands belied her appearance. He’d never been good at describing things, but to him she looked like an angel. Almost. More like a tarnished angel, which was a helluva lot more appealing than a perfect one. It was her curly, white-gold hair that made him think of angels. And her sky-blue eyes. But that’s where it stopped. Her mouth was too pouty, too full and ripe, and her body... Adam pulled his hand away from hers and doused the heat that flickered through him. Tarnished or not, she was somebody else’s angel. He’d bet on it.

“Adam Hunter,” he said. She probably hadn’t lived beside his gram’s house all those years ago. He’d have remembered, wouldn’t he? Or maybe not. At eight years old, he’d been a lot more interested in snakes than girls.

“We’ve been wondering who bought the old Johnson place. Took you a while to get here.” She slid his coffee across the counter.

He’d have arrived a day earlier if he’d had the sense to stop and ask for directions. Instead, he’d spent the night in Lancaster, the closest city. But she probably meant the nine months that had lapsed since he’d inherited his gram’s summerhouse.

Adam’s stomach knotted when she avoided looking him in the eye. He knew the place was run-down. He’d visited only a handful of times when he was a kid, and the house had been old then. If it was beyond repair, he didn’t know what he would do. The promise of moving to the small fishing village, of restoring the old house and making a home, had kept his head above water for the past few months.

In a few minutes he’d see for himself what shape it was in, but it was just as important to get a feel for the village and the people living here. The café seemed like a good place to start. “Interesting place. Are you the owner?”

“My family owns it.”

People were eating breakfast in the first half of the room. Past the crowded tables and chairs, several comfortable armchairs and a couch were loosely arranged around a woodstove with a glass door on the front. Everywhere he looked there were stacks of books; in columns leaning against a support beam, on several small tables positioned around the room. Two laptops stood open and ready for use on a long table in another corner. Available Wi-Fi. Great. It would probably take a while before he could get his systems up and running. In a little nook near the back was a kid’s corner with a knee-high table holding paints and crayons and more books.

The morning sun spilled in through the large front windows that looked out on the street, and apart from the colorful mural, the walls had been painted a warm gold color. It was a room that tempted people to use it, and judging by its warm, lived-in look, people had accepted the invitation.

“How much for the coffee?” When his voice echoed through the suddenly hushed room, he kept his smile in place. He imagined small towns had their own set of rules, and one of those would be knowing your neighbor’s business.

“First one’s free.” The angel smiled.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“You have a family?” she asked.

Not one he planned to tell anyone about. “Just me and my dog. So, Briar Lane?”

“Go back to the main street, turn right. Turn right again at Seaman Street. Briar Lane’s at the end. We’re the only two houses on it.”

Adam felt a whoosh of air as the door opened behind him. “Hey, sis. I need a coffee to go.” A man close to his age stepped up to the counter. He was an inch or two shorter than Adam and solid through the chest and upper arms. He had the same blond curls as his sister, but his eyes were a darker blue, edged with creases, like he spent a lot of time squinting into the sun. Adam thought he might remember the guy from the few times he’d visited his grandmother as a child.

The man turned to him. “That your dog in the half-ton?”

“Yeah.”

“Beautiful animal. Oh, thanks, Syl.” He grabbed a cup of coffee from his sister. “I never saw a shepherd with that much white in it. Is it a mix?”

“Haven’t the faintest. I’m thinking part wolf.”

“Must make a great attack dog.”

“The only thing I’ve seen Romeo attack are bumblebees.”

“Romeo?” The guy laughed. “What kind of name is that for a dog?”

Adam cracked a grin. “He’s a lover, not a fighter. He’s got a deep bark, though.” He turned to Sylvie. “I’ll keep him in at night so he won’t wake you up.”

The brother’s smile dried up as he looked from his sister to him. “What’s going on?”

“Meet my nosy brother, Dusty Carson. This is the...guy who bought the old Johnson place. Adam Hunter.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her smother a smile. Not only tarnished, but sassy, as well. Nice. He didn’t like the way she’d hesitated, though, like there was a better way to describe him. Idiot? Rube? Take your pick. Adam stuck out his hand to shake Dusty’s.

“Actually, I inherited the house from my grandmother.”

After an eternity, the angel’s brother shook his hand. “I think I remember you. You came once or twice when your grandmother was up from the States. You’ve got Ontario license plates.”

“I’m from Toronto.”

Dusty studied him over the rim of his coffee cup. “You plan on holding on to the house or selling it?”

“I’m hoping to fix it up so I can spend the winter. Install some windows, probably put on a new roof.”

An older man barreled through the kitchen doors, wiping his hands on a towel. “Whose roof are we talking about?” He looked at Sylvie. “I thought you’d left already, Sylvie. Better get going. I don’t like you driving back from Lancaster in the dark.”

Sylvie’s father or grandfather, if his looks were anything to go by. He was as tall as Dusty but more solid, bulkier. Despite his age, he still had a full head of blond hair. He held himself with the casual authority of someone used to commanding respect.

“His roof.” Dusty jerked his thumb in his direction. “Adam Hunter. Mrs. Johnson was his grandmother, and he inherited her house. This is our dad, Pops Carson.”

Not big on authority figures, Adam tried not to flinch as he met the old man’s stare straight on. “You’ve got a beautiful town here,” he said to fill the heavy silence in the café.

Pops shook his hand. “Your grandmother was a lovely person. I was sorry to hear she died. You’re from Toronto, aren’t you?”

“That’s where I grew up.”

“Toronto’s a long way from here.”

“That it is. I’m looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet.” He’d told himself that so many times, it had become a mantra. Peace and quiet. His salvation.

Pops switched his attention to the red patch on the back of Sylvie’s hand. “What did you do to your hand?”

“It’s nothing.” She turned her hand so only the palm showed.

“That looks like a burn. It could blister and get infected if you don’t take proper care of it. Let me see.”

Sylvie rolled her eyes. “It’s okay, Pops. My hand is not going to fall off because I spilled a bit of coffee on it.” She put her hand up to stop her father’s retort. “I’ll go home before I head out for Lancaster and put some ointment on it. Okay? Your turn. Did you take your morning medication?”

A smile softened Pops’s weather-lined face. “Just going to do that now, missy. You phone when you leave the city to come home so I’ll know when to expect you.”

“No, I won’t,” she responded over her shoulder as she sashayed toward the door. “You’ll be too busy chasing all the women at the dance. Come on, Adam. I’ll show you where your house is. I have to run back home now, anyway. See you later, all.” She waved over her shoulder and led the way out of the café.

Adam bit back a smile, nodded to the two men and followed her. Sylvie’s father and brother might like to think they held the upper hand, but he had a feeling the sassy little angel was used to getting her own way. Something to keep in mind.

He climbed into his truck and gave Romeo a hard scrub behind his ears. “This is it, Rom. What we’ve been waiting for.” He started the motor, his leg jittering so much the truck almost stalled as he engaged the clutch. Cursing under his breath, he pulled out behind Sylvie’s fire engine–red SUV.

He’d envisioned this moment a thousand times. In his mind, it had been him, alone, standing in front of the house and taking his time to soak in each and every detail before going inside to explore. He hadn’t counted on having an audience. Still, he was grateful to Sylvie for rescuing him from her father’s interrogation. He was so jacked up about seeing his house, he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should have to what he said. He wanted this to work. He needed it to.

He followed Sylvie’s four-wheel drive down a short side street that was lined with wood frame houses, each one different from the other. The last one was a lumbering old beauty with a widow’s walk on its roof and fanciful trim. Driving into the village, he’d noticed a couple of other houses with the same kind of intricate detail. Once he got to know some people, he’d ask what the story was behind the elaborate carpentry.

It had been over seventeen years since he’d been here, and the end of the street came up quicker than he remembered. A long stretch of beach and the wide gray ocean opened up in front of him. When Sylvie turned sharply to the right, he cranked his steering wheel and strained forward to catch his first glimpse of his gram’s house. Sylvie drove past 2 Briar Lane and pulled into the gravel driveway of a cedar-shingled two-story. He pulled into the weedy, narrow driveway he barely remembered and turned his attention to the small box of a house that sat before him.

His gaze shot over to his neighbor’s house, which had dormers and a huge veranda along the front, then back to his. His had cedar shingles, too, but they looked mottled, the white paint peeling from them, partially exposing the gray beneath. The windows and front door looked like they’d rattle in a light breeze, and the way the stunted spruce between the houses leaned drastically to one side suggested they got their share of gales here. A huge crescent beach crept up to meet the small patch of grass that formed his front yard.

“Hey.” Sylvie rapped her knuckles against his fender.

He switched off the engine and climbed out of the truck. Romeo jumped out after him, his nose leading him straight to Sylvie.

“Gorgeous dog.” She bent down to run her hand over Romeo’s head.

“Thanks.” He couldn’t peel his eyes away from the house. His house.

Someone else might see crumbling and decay, but to him it was beautiful. Everything he’d hoped for.

Sylvie straightened up from patting Rom. “What do you think?”

He tore his gaze away from the house and looked at her. At her clear blue eyes and silken, blond curls. A woman like her, she’d have a husband or a boyfriend who kept her busy. He wasn’t interested in distractions, and Sylvie, if she were free, which she probably wasn’t, could become a major distraction if he let her. He was here to work on his house. Maybe make a couple of friends. That’s all.

Her forehead furrowed. “It’s pretty run-down. Probably too much work to fix up. Although my other brother, Cal, says the house has a solid foundation and framework.”

She’d said that last bit almost grudgingly. “I think I remember Dusty, but not you or another brother. How many siblings do you have?”

“Just the two brothers.”

“Do they live here with you?”

“Cal and Anita have a house on the hill, and Dusty bought his own house just a few weeks ago.”

“So, it’s you and your dad.” As anxious as he was to go inside and explore, he wanted to know who lived beside him. Where he’d grown up, being aware of his neighbors had saved his hide several times.

“Just me at the moment.” She folded her arms and tucked her chin into her chest, frown lines creasing her forehead.

Before he could wonder why that ticked her off, she gave him a sour smile. “I have to get going. Enjoy your...house.”

A vague feeling of distress settled around him as he watched her scoot over to her house and slam the door shut. Why did he get the feeling she was slamming the door on him?

Hell, he’d only been in town half an hour and already there could be complications. Fitting in and being accepted was going to be more difficult than he’d imagined. Maybe he’d made a mistake; Collina was too small. People would want to know where he came from, who his folks were.

But he’d been running from the day he’d been born, and it was time to stop.

One thing he knew for certain. He’d keep his distance from Sylvie Carson. He hoped to ease his way into the community, get to know a few folk before the questions started in earnest. After watching Sylvie’s dad fuss about the light burn on his daughter’s hand and her driving home in the dark, he had no intention of riling up papa bear. Not that Sylvie seemed the least bit interested in him. The exact opposite, as a matter of fact. But still, he’d be smart to stay on his side of the fence.

He dragged his attention back to where it belonged—his new home. His future. His hand shaking, he stuck the key into the keyhole and turned the lock.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO DAYS LATER, Sylvie dropped the phone into its cradle and wandered over to the dormer window of the attic room Pops had made into a studio for her years ago.

She’d woken depressed and tried to convince herself the low pressure system moving in from the ocean was the reason for her foul mood. The clouds looked saturated with rain, but none had fallen yet. There wasn’t a breath of wind outside. The ocean, for once, was a benign presence, still and crystalline. She should go for a brisk walk along the beach, get her heart pumping and clear her head of the debris left from her brief conversation with her now ex-boyfriend, Oliver, whom she’d left behind in Toronto.

Oliver was a sophisticated, cultured man, and everyone envied her relationship with him. Even her father and brothers, for Pete’s sake. No matter how many times she explained to them that Oliver had a doctorate degree in museum studies, not medicine, they referred to him as Dr. Templeton. When he’d visited her two months ago, nothing had been too good for the doctor. Lobster, scallops, boat rides out to watch the whales. Her family had fallen in love with him. Which, now she thought about it, wasn’t an unusual reaction to Oliver. She was the problem, not him. To make matters worse, he’d seemed genuinely interested in everything her father and brothers had talked about. But that was Oliver. He made everyone believe they were fascinating.

In fact, during the entire two years they’d been a couple, she had thought about breaking up with him on more than one occasion. But when she tried to talk about it with her girlfriends or her family, or even Oliver, they looked at her like she was crazy. Small wonder. Her sole reason was that her handsome, considerate boyfriend annoyed her to no end. She always felt she had to be on her best behavior around him. And if she ever did let her guard down, act snotty and throw a fit, he’d say it was her artistic temperament and would she like a back rub? She didn’t want a back rub, and she didn’t want him to be so damned nice. She wanted...well, that was the problem. She had no idea what it was she wanted, but it wasn’t Oliver.

This morning she’d taken the coward’s way out and ended the relationship over the phone. The gesture had been mostly a formality. She’d only seen him twice since she’d moved back home and had assumed he’d gotten on with his life.

To her surprise, he’d done his best to change her mind, just as he had every time she’d told him she needed a break from their relationship. Yet this time she’d sensed something different. He hadn’t sounded upset as much as annoyed—probably because he was far too self-contained to blow up. Too bad. She’d have welcomed a shouting match. Something that she could rip into. Something...real. The only thing she felt was relief.

Their lives had dovetailed together perfectly in the beginning. He owned a respected art gallery, and took a chance on her as an unknown artist—a chance that had paid off for both of them. Her career had taken off under his guidance and had been capped off when a corporation commissioned her to paint six seascapes. She’d managed to paint four before she returned home to help take care of Pops.

How could she have guessed that here, at the edge of the ocean, her muse would desert her, and she wouldn’t be able to complete the last two seascapes? This was where it had all begun. Where she’d won her first drawing contest. Where she’d spent endless hours learning and perfecting her craft.

And now Oliver was hinting that she’d run out of time. The buyers wanted their paintings, and if she couldn’t come up with them, the damage to her reputation, not to mention his reputation, would be irreparable. Bottom line, either she pulled it together and started painting again, or she’d better start shopping around for another career. Which was a slight exaggeration, and beside the point, because if she couldn’t paint, she couldn’t paint. But damn, she wished she could get it all back. Well, not Oliver necessarily. But she truly loved painting.

A burning sensation shot through her chest, a sure sign of an oncoming panic attack. She plopped into the chair by her desk, stuck her head between her legs and started counting. Life was difficult enough with her father still not completely recovered and her being blocked, she didn’t need this. The panic attacks had to stop. Maybe she should forget about her career for now. Forget about everything, except resolving her issues with her family.

Except she hadn’t even told them what she’d remembered about the night her mother died. She was waiting for Pops to get stronger. And then she’d ask her questions, and maybe somehow magically, she’d get her life back. Problem was, the longer she stayed in limbo, the more she wondered if she wanted to go back to her old life.

When her equilibrium returned and she could breathe again, she grabbed her sketch pad from the desk where she’d flung it the day before and ripped out the first page without looking at it, tore it in half again and again. She tore out another useless sketch, scrunched it into a ball and jammed it into the wastepaper basket. Sentimental drivel. The lines in the drawings weren’t bold enough, they left too much room for interpretation. She wanted to excite people, stir them up—not give them something to snivel over.

The miserable preliminary sketches she’d ripped to shreds were all she had to show for six months of anguish. She’d actually thought she was an artist...with a future. Hah! What she was—three more pages came loose in one pull—was a talentless nobody. A waitress in her family’s café.

She tossed the pad on the desk and stared sightlessly out the window until a movement next door caught her eye. Adam Hunter strode into his backyard and started his tai chi routine. Yesterday, watching him go through his routine for the first time, she’d sat riveted for an entire half hour. She’d seen people do tai chi in the city parks, but the difference was like looking at a reproduction of a masterpiece and looking at the original. Adam was the real thing.

Her fingers itched for a pencil as he slowly glided through a complicated set of movements, his body moving with the sinuous elegance of a dancer. Romeo sat only three feet away from him, but didn’t move. Interesting that a man, whose less-than-perfect nose suggested he’d been in a few fights, would choose to practice tai chi, not one of the more aggressive disciplines.

Not able to stop herself, she grabbed her book and started sketching. She’d thought she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him the past two days because of what she had remembered of her father’s relationship with his grandmother, but maybe it was because she needed to draw him. Heaven knows he had an interesting face, but drawing his body in motion, the combination of the brute strength of his huge, well-muscled body tempered with grace...

She chucked the book on the table and paced the large, open room. She needed to sculpt him in clay, a medium she’d been playing with before The Great Demise. She’d make a small sculpture, no bigger than twelve inches—any larger, and it would be overwhelming. And it would be best if she could get him to pose in the nude. She stopped, laughed out loud. Like that would happen. Her father and brothers would probably take him for a long boat ride and not bring him back.

Still. She took another turn around the attic room. She’d start slow, ask him if he’d sit for her. Then maybe work her way up to no shirt, get him down to his boxers or whatever he wore for underwear. Her breath hitched in her throat. She felt almost giddy, ramped up like...

What was she doing? Sylvie looked at the sketch where it lay on the desk. Hideous. A three-year-old could do a better job. Adam didn’t look graceful or sensual in the sketch. The proportions were all there, but the excitement he incited was missing. The magic. She’d lost her touch, and she didn’t need Adonis next door reminding her of that fact.

Sylvie ripped the sketch out of the book and crammed it into the wastebasket. Disgusted with herself, she pulled the window shade down and stalked out of the room. It was time to admit her life had completely crapped out. Sooner or later, she would have to tell her family that she wasn’t moving back to Toronto until...well, she didn’t know. Until her father was better, and they could finally talk about her mother. Until whatever had blocked her was dislodged. Until Sylvie Carson finally knew who she wanted to be when she grew up.

* * *

ADAM STOOD LOOSE, but alert, as he transitioned from his meditative state back to the world around him. He’d grown addicted to seeing the world in bright detail while feeling a deep sense of peace inside. Never in a million years would he have imagined he’d end up getting into meditation and tai chi. As always, he gave thanks to Jake McCoy, the man who’d given him the tools to manage his anger. He took a final deep breath and turned to track Sylvie over the four-foot cedar-slab fence that separated their yards.

He knew she’d watched him the past two mornings, and he was curious to hear what she thought about his morning practice. He’d have done his exercises inside if there was room, but his little house was divided into three small rooms downstairs and three upstairs. None were big enough for him to perform his daily exercise routine.

Not that he was ashamed of practicing tai chi, but he suspected the male stereotype still reigned supreme in a village like Collina, where most of the men made a hard living at sea. He wanted to fit in, not alienate people.

Wearing clingy, black pants that came to just below her knees, and a formfitting, long-sleeved T-shirt the color of a plum, Sylvie sauntered into the back corner of her yard. When she crouched down and cooed, a white cat materialized out of the shrubs. Adam put his hand down by his side and rotated it, signing Romeo to his side. Sylvie alone was trouble, but put her together with a cat, and he and Rom could both be in trouble.

Against his better judgment, he drifted closer to the fence. He knew he should leave well enough alone. On the other hand, people would start asking questions if he holed up in his house and didn’t talk to anyone.

He cleared his throat when she didn’t look in his direction. “It feels like rain,” he said. Brilliant, yet original. Hard to top that.

Sylvie obviously thought otherwise. He heard her sigh as she scooped the cat into her arms and turned to face him. The smile she offered looked like the leftovers that usually resided at the back of his refrigerator. Bland, wilted and dried up around the edges. Guess she wasn’t thrilled about acquiring a new neighbor. Or maybe it was having him as a neighbor. He was aware he looked like he belonged in a dark alley on the wrong side of town rather than in a quaint coastal village.

She glanced at the sky as if just noticing the day. “Probably. This is Moonbeam.” She held the cat up in front of her. The white puffball’s eyes were as blue as her mistress’s. “I kept her in yesterday so Romeo could get used to his surroundings, but she was getting twitchy, so I let her out earlier. She’s used to coming and going as she pleases. Is he okay with cats?” She nodded at Romeo, who was straining to sniff the cat through the slats of the fence.

Adam leaned against the fence, catching a whiff of peaches. “I don’t know. This is a first for us. What do you think, Rom? Are you going to be nice to Moonbeam?”

Romeo lay down on his belly, which, according to the books Adam had read, was a supplicant position. Yes, sir, that was his dog, ready to let a little kitty-cat walk all over him. The cat sprang out of Sylvie’s arms and onto the top of the fence. With a graceful leap, she landed on the ground in front of Romeo and swiped at his nose. Having delivered her message, she sat back, looking pleased with herself as she started to lick her paw.

“Moonbeam!” Sylvie glared at her cat. “I had no idea she was going to attack him. Sorry, Romeo.”

Romeo cringed away from them, whimpering, his nose buried under his paws. The old boy was going to have to toughen up if he was going to survive in this neighborhood. Adam patted the dog and stood. “I’m going to reinforce the fence so Rom can spend most of the day out here. I can’t keep him inside with all the dust from the renos. They’ll have to work things out for themselves, I guess.”

Adam studied Sylvie’s face as she stepped back from the fence. She had dark circles under her eyes and her beautiful mouth was turned down at the corners. When he’d first arrived she’d been so full of herself, she’d practically glowed. But this morning she looked preoccupied and kind of sad.

“For now, I’ll try to keep Moonbeam inside during the day as much as I can and let her out at night to roam. Will that work?” she asked.

“Sure, but sooner or later they’re going to have to make some kind of peace.” He wanted to ask Sylvie what was wrong, but clamped his mouth shut. Neighborly was one thing, getting involved in a person’s life, another. He didn’t like that she was sad, though. He wished he could think of something to make her smile—she had a great smile.

“How’s it going with the house?” She shifted from one foot to the other. Twitchy like her cat.

His house. He smiled. “I have a pretty clear idea of what I want to do. Matter of fact, I should get going. I have to drive to the city and buy some building materials today. Do you know anyone who would be interested in helping with the renos? I want to get started right away.”

“I suppose I could ask Cal. He was supposed to go away, but I think his plans have changed. But if he’s busy, he’ll know if anyone else is available.”

She made it sound like asking her brother was the last thing she wanted to do. Fine by him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to work with Sylvie’s brother, anyway. From the short exchange in the café, he could see her family watched out for her, and with him living right beside her, he didn’t want anyone on his case or looking too closely at him.

Sooner or later, someone was going to get wise to the fact that he had a criminal record. He didn’t want to make waves or draw attention to himself. He just wanted to fit in.

“Collina is small, in case you haven’t noticed. Tell one person you’re looking for a carpenter and everyone will know in the next half hour,” she continued.

Which meant it would be damn near impossible to keep a secret in this village. He’d known going in it was going to be hard. He wasn’t ready to give up on his dreams that easily.

He hesitated, wanting to say something to make them both feel better. “You...you look great.”

Her head shot up. “Excuse me?”

Adam backed away, a flush scorching the back of his neck. “Just...you know. You look nice. I gotta go.” He turned and sprinted inside his house. At the very least he’d given her something to laugh about. Mr. Smooth strikes again.

* * *

SEVEN HOURS LATER, Adam arrived home tired, but excited. He’d decided to put up with both his malfunctioning toilet and the rust-colored water, instead focusing his efforts on a new roof and windows before the cold weather arrived. Although it felt like it already had.

The hour drive from the city had taken twice as long thanks to the thick, syrupy fog that had rolled in after sunset. And yeah, he’d gotten lost again, but he’d realized pretty quickly and backtracked to the main road. Reducing his speed by half had made the long, twisty drive in the dark only marginally easier. No wonder Sylvie’s father had wanted her home before dark the other night.

He was thinking of Sylvie again.

He climbed out of the truck, and Romeo bounded out after him, immediately starting his circuit of their yard to mark his territory. Even though his mind had been occupied today with learning how to navigate the city and tackling all the decisions he had to make, Sylvie still slipped into his thoughts way too often.

There was no doubt about it—the less contact he had with her, the better.

He had a ton of other things demanding his attention, anyway. Like replacing the lightbulb over his front door. Unlike the city, the darkness here was complete, penetrating every corner of the night. Only the main street in the village had lights, and they hadn’t done much to dispel the fog on his way home.

There wasn’t much more to the village other than that one street, and a few side streets, like his, which led to or away from the ocean. He imagined the local fishing wharf and the café were the hot spots for socializing. Not that he planned to become a party boy. He’d partied so enthusiastically in his youth that if he never had another beer, he wouldn’t miss it. Okay, that was an exaggeration. He liked having a cold one once in a while, but he didn’t plan his life around drinking binges. Not like some of his family.

He felt his way cautiously through the fog to his front door, wishing he was as adept as Romeo at finding his way through the dark. Behind him, the restless surf raked over the round stones that made up the beach, the ocean sounding much closer at night.

When he first learned he’d inherited Gram’s summerhouse, he thought his mother was jerking his chain. Just a step from the beach in the picturesque fishing village, and filled with good memories of time spent with Gram, the house was exactly what he needed at this point in his life. Something he could put his heart and soul into. A place to call home.

It had taken him an entire day to summon the courage to call the lawyer’s number. If his mother was tripping on something and screwed up the message, he didn’t think he could face the disappointment. Hope was a brittle concept to him. But finally, he phoned, and two weeks later, he was the proud owner of an ancient, decrepit house far away from everything he knew.

Moonbeam appeared out of the mist and twined herself around his ankles as he shoved the door open with his shoulder. “It’s not all that nice out, so you can come in if you behave yourself. But give Rom a hard time, and you’re on your own. Understand?” The cat followed him into the house and padded into the kitchen. Adam laughed. At least she knew what she wanted. He’d get her some milk in a minute.

Juggling an armload of groceries, he flicked on the light and grinned as he deposited the food on the kitchen counter. He didn’t care if the rooms were so small you could barely sneeze in them, or that the whole house had to be gutted and just about everything replaced. It was all fixable. And it was all his.

A door slammed next door. When Moonbeam reappeared and stared at him, he ran his fingers along her spine before edging up to the window to look out. A man stood in Adam’s front yard, staring at his house. Adam had expected a few curious souls to come around, but not on such a gloomy night. When he heard the man talking outside the door, he wondered if there was more than one person, then remembered Romeo was still outside and swung the door open.

“Hey.” The man straightened up from petting the shepherd. “I’m Cal Carson. You met my brother and sister and dad the other day.”

Cal’s face was narrower than Sylvie’s and Dusty’s, and he had only a sprinkling of blond in his short, brown hair. He looked intelligent around his eyes, which were as bright blue as the rest of his family’s, but they held a hardness that hinted at disappointment.

“Adam Hunter. Come on in.” Adam shook Cal’s hand and stood back to let him through the door. Romeo brushed past him with hardly a wag, probably miffed to find Moonbeam hanging around.

“You babysitting Sylvie’s cat?” Cal nodded at Moonbeam, who sat on the old trunk that he was using as a coffee table. The old, battered furniture that had come with the house was what you’d expect to find in a neglected summer home. He planned to replace it at some point, but it served its purpose for now.

“Nah. Rom and Moonbeam haven’t worked things out between them yet. Sylvie keeps the cat in during the day so Romeo can stay outside, and she lets it out at night. It’s lousy out tonight. So...” He ran his hand over Moonbeam again.

Cal smirked. “That bit of fluff can come and go as she pleases. She’s got a cat door. She’s just taking advantage of you. Give them enough rope, they all do.”

Ouch. Sounded like the guy had been burned recently. “Want a beer?”

“Sure. Sylvie says you’re looking for help to do some renovations.” Cal followed him out to the kitchen, where Adam grabbed a couple of beers from the ancient green refrigerator.

He handed one to Cal. “That’s right. I’m in a race against the weather at this time of year, but I’d like to get a new roof on, replace some windows before it gets too bad. Ideally I’d like to replace all the windows and doors.”

Cal looked around the room while Adam took a saucer from the cupboard and poured some milk into it for the cat. He wouldn’t blame Cal if he turned and walked out the door. Wood flooring showed through the worn linoleum in front of the green stove and rust-stained, white enamel sink. The cupboards were made of plywood, painted a nonintrusive beige. It was the largest room in the house, but unfortunately one third of the country kitchen had been walled off for a mudroom.

“What kind of roofing are you thinking about?”

“Metal. I checked out a couple places today, got some costs.”

“I could probably get you a better price.”

“You’re free to do the renos?”

Cal’s mouth tightened at the corners. “I am now.” He drank deeply and set his bottle on the table with a thunk. “Let’s take a closer look at the rest of the house. Tell me what you have in mind. One thing, though.” He scowled at Adam. “I take the job, I’m the foreman. I don’t mind if you want to help. Matter of fact, that would be good ’cause it’s hard to scare up a crew at this time of year. Have you done much building?”

“Not much but I learn fast.”

Cal narrowed his eyes as if trying to bring him into focus. “Most people wouldn’t move to an isolated village like Collina and take on a project like this. Do you always jump in with both feet?”

Adam smiled as if Cal had made a joke. “Not always.” Only when it felt as if his life depended on it.

“You win the lottery or something?”

He relaxed his tight grip on the beer bottle. At least he got to tell the truth with this one. “I inherited both of my grandmother’s properties, but I’m not interested in living in the States, so I sold that house and decided to renovate this one.”

He still hadn’t forgiven himself that he’d been in jail and not free to attend her funeral last year. When he was a kid, he couldn’t wait to leave Toronto in the summer to visit his gram. He’d always felt safe with her. Both his parents had such mercurial moods, but Gram was always the same. Kind and loving, and when he was with her, he felt good about himself. He’d often daydreamed about what life would be like if he lived with her, but then who would have taken care of his mother? Their visits had always been too brief, and once he hit his teenage years...she wouldn’t have wanted him around, anyway. Thank God those years were behind him.

When he discovered she’d left both houses to him, he invested the money from the sale of her house in Maine before his mother could find a way to get her hands on the cash. She’d burn through it in a few months, which was probably why Gram had named him her heir. When, and if, his mom wanted to get clean, he’d made sure to put aside enough money to help her.

“You think I can take that wall out without the whole floor falling down on me?” he asked, shifting the conversation to safer ground. He outlined what he wanted to do with the kitchen, inquired how many walls he could knock out and what Cal’s rate was.

He couldn’t stop grinning when they’d gone over the entire house. His dream was coming together. It was finally happening. Cal was an okay guy, a bit grim, but Adam thought they’d work together just fine. He certainly sounded knowledgeable when it came to renovations.

“No reason not to start tomorrow,” Cal said. “I’ll order the steel for the roof. We can start stripping the old shingles off first thing in the morning. Shouldn’t take too long, it’s a small roof.” His eyes roamed over the living room. “You’ll never get back the amount of money you’re planning to invest in this house. We’re too far away from everything. Not a lot of people are interested in moving here. Hell, most of the young people move away first chance they get.”

Adam nodded. “It’s not an investment thing for me.” Not financially. “I appreciate you bringing it up, though. Thanks.”

“One more thing.” Cal pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “You know anything about this?”

Adam took the wrinkled paper. Holy! It was a pencil sketch of him doing tai chi in his backyard. Pretty hard to pretend it was of anyone else. The artist had gotten his broken nose exactly right. A thrill shot through him before the horror set in. Had Sylvie done this? “Where did you find it?”

“You didn’t know Sylvie was drawing you?”

“No.” He passed the sketch back to Cal. “She’s good enough to make a living from her drawings?” The drawing was good, not the best he’d ever seen, but what did he know about art? What he should be concentrating on was damage control. He didn’t want Cal to think he’d been coming on to Sylvie. Hell, he didn’t want him to think he’d even looked at his sister.

“She had quite the career going, but then Pops had his heart attack and things have been pretty rough for her the last few months. She stopped painting ’cause—I don’t know why. I don’t think she does, either. But this—” He fluttered the sketch in the air. “This is the only thing I’ve seen her draw in weeks.” He studied Adam. “So, what’s the deal?”

“Deal?” Adam choked out as he watched his plans sink out of sight. Finding a contractor with an open schedule at this time of year was a blessing. Finding one right in the village was a miracle. He knew Sylvie was trouble the minute he’d laid eyes on her.

The Carson men weren’t going to be happy about a stranger cozying up to their angel. Especially someone like him. He was the first to admit he’d done some stupid things in his life. He wasn’t perfect; he had issues. But he had to believe if he kept working at it, someday he would become a good man. Right now his dreams were about to go down the toilet if he couldn’t convince Cal he hadn’t a clue about the sketch.

“Has she said anything to you?” Cal placed the sketch on the old trunk.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. She usually paints landscapes, and she hasn’t done much except for that mural since she came home. Why you?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Adam tried to quell his desperation. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? So, she drew a picture of me. Big deal.”

Adam caught himself forming fists and forced his hands to relax and hang loosely at his side. He inhaled, held his breath and slowly released it. Only then did he allow himself to look Cal in the eye. Jake would be proud of him. “The only thing I’m interested in is fixing up my house.”

After a minute, Cal smiled. “It wasn’t a very good sketch, anyway. She used to be really good, but, like I said, she’s messed up now. Can’t paint. I was hoping that you inspired her or something. She’ll be going back to Toronto soon, anyway. Oliver—that’s her boyfriend, a doctor—is probably fed up with her staying away so long.”

The last of Adam’s tension slipped away. The only thing Cal had been concerned about was Sylvie’s career. It probably hadn’t even occurred to him that Sylvie would give someone like Adam a second look. Not with a doctor boyfriend. Which was good.

Adam forced his attention back to what Cal was saying about the renovations. His house was important; not Sylvie nor her boyfriend. Or the fact that she was returning to Toronto soon. The only thing he cared about was making a new life for himself here.

CHAPTER THREE

THE AIR HAD a bite to it the next day when Sylvie finally ventured outside midmorning. Not cold, but not summer warm, either. She shivered as she walked along the beach. She’d always hated the change from summer to fall. It signified having to leave and go back to school. Although she’d completed her master’s degree a couple of years ago, her family would still be expecting her to leave soon.

She was running out of reasons to stay. Since Pops had moved into a seniors apartment at the complex, he didn’t need her as much. And all she did at the café was order supplies and fill in for Tyler.

Her family and friends believed all her problems would go away once she returned to her life in Toronto. But even before she’d come home it had become a daily struggle to go to her studio and produce something other people might be interested in. Not that she considered her audience when she was painting. Nothing killed an original idea or approach faster than letting public perception intrude.

Weeks before Pops’s heart attack, the joy she’d once felt from creating had shriveled into a hard knot of anxiety. Her therapist hadn’t helped. Dr. Carmichael had managed to get her to admit she hated living in Toronto, and that Oliver was as much a prop in her life as her studio and her Yorkville apartment. Who wouldn’t be depressed by an admission like that?

She stopped walking and watched as the sun dappled gold on the ocean surface. Losing your mother was a turning point in anyone’s life. But to discover her father and brothers had lied about her mom’s death—or at the very least, not told the entire truth—was devastating. Sylvie couldn’t even decide what they’d done or not done, but she knew they would have made any decision with her best interests at heart—which was wonderful when you were nine years old. But at twenty-six years of age she needed the whole truth if she had a hope of dealing with this new view of their not-so-idyllic family life. They’d had more than a few years to come clean, and yet they hadn’t.

As recently as last week, she’d stopped by Dusty’s with a six-pack of beer, hoping to loosen his tongue. She’d wasted her money because he’d been on to her scheme before he’d finished one beer and made up a fantastic story about Pops joining a cult of mermaids. She laughed out loud. Maybe she hadn’t wasted her money after all. They’d had a great time, just the two of them, kicking back and trying to best the other with how silly they could be.

But to have Adam Hunter move in right next door... If her memories that had surfaced from the shock of almost losing her father were true, then his grandmother was responsible for wrecking her parents’ marriage, and thereby indirectly responsible for her mother’s death. That long-ago night, she’d overheard her parents fighting about Adam’s grandmother, and soon afterward her mother had stormed out of the house and died in a head-on collision with a truck not even two miles out of Collina. Sylvie shivered. Had it really been an accident or had her mother killed herself?

She wished Adam would go back to where he came from instead of hanging around her backyard.

Maybe she wasn’t being fair, but she hated the constant reminder of how things weren’t right with her family.

She turned when she heard a sound behind her and plowed into her father. “Pops!”

“There now.” He engulfed her in a hug, surrounding her with all things safe, the smell of Old Spice and the feel of rough wool against her cheek. “You were off in a world all your own.” He patted her affectionately on the back and released her. “How’s my little Em this morning?”

Sylvie forced a smile. Her father had given her the nickname when the critics noted her work was reminiscent of Emily Carr’s art. “What are you doing here, Pops?”

“I need to get in my two kilometers a day, so I thought I’d join you for your walk on the beach.” He slipped his arm through hers, and they started down the beach. “I wanted to check out the new neighbor, as well. Cal likes him.” Pops smiled. “That’s high praise coming from your brother.”

They strolled amicably along the beach for a few minutes before Pops tugged her closer to his side. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, honey. You see, I’m thinking of putting the café up for sale. I thought I should tell you first, even though you’ll be heading back to Toronto soon, anyway.”

“What?” She stumbled and almost fell. Not only was he expecting her to return to Toronto any day now, but he also wanted to sell the café.

“It doesn’t make sense to keep the old place. You’re living in Toronto, the boys are both settled in their careers, and I’m tired, hon. I don’t want the responsibility of taking care of the café. I never did, really. When Mrs. Marley ran it, I didn’t have to do much, but since she’s retired, it’s like I’ve got a whole new job. Plus, the money from the sale will make my life a lot easier.”

Tears rushed her. She’d never seen her father look embarrassed before.

“The last few months I’ve been dipping into the profit margin from the café because my pension doesn’t cover all my medical expenses. That works in the summer when we’re doing a good trade, but now the season’s over, I’ve got to find money somewhere. The boys think it’s a good idea.”

“But, Pops—”

“Now, honey, don’t cry. I know we’ve owned the old joint forever, but it’s either that or sell the house. I can’t hang on to both.”

Sylvie gulped for air. The café was called Plain Jane’s, named after her mother, the Jane part, anyway. Twenty years younger than Pops, her mother had been a stunning beauty. Sylvie sometimes wondered why her mother, so young and beautiful, had married such a gruff old fisherman. Pops had a heart of gold. But still.

The café was the last link she had to her mom, and in her mind, Plain Jane’s had always been her backup if life tipped out of control. Just as the house was her refuge. Between the two, she’d believed she had a safety net. If Pops sold the café that would mean...she supposed it would mean she’d have to finally grow up. No more I can always go home.

“I’m not going back to Toronto.” The words spilled out before she could censor herself. She’d rehearsed this conversation over and over and had been waiting for the perfect time to talk to her father about what was troubling her. Guess the perfect time had arrived.

“What?”

“I hate living there. It’s not working for me. I want to move home full-time.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re...you’re famous. You can’t walk away from everything you’ve worked so hard for.”

“I’m not famous, Pops.” But she loved him for believing she was.

“Well, you can’t move back here.”

“Why not? It’s my home.”

Pops ran a hand over his chest. “Of course it’s your home. But there’s nothing here, except your family. What would you do?”

“I’ll run the café.” She’d been playing with the idea off and on for the last few weeks, but it didn’t feel like play now. The idea fit. It felt inspired.

“You’re an artist, Sylvie. You don’t know the first thing about running a business.”

“Then teach me.” Her voice rose as the words tumbled out. “I’m no longer an artist. You know I’m stuck—I can’t paint anymore.... I’m twenty-six years old, and I’ve got nothing except my family, and even you don’t want me.”

“That’s not true. Of course I—” Pops’s face contorted with pain. “I don’t feel so good. Maybe we should head back to the house.”

“God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. Are you okay, Pops? We could sit down for a minute, or I can run home and get my car. I’m so sorry.” Sylvie beat back the burning sensation in her chest. No time for a panic attack now. If anything happened to Pops...

Pops smiled gently at her. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack if you don’t slow down. I’m fine. I get a little winded sometimes. The doc says I push too hard.”

“You always have.” Sylvie slipped her arm through his and guided them slowly toward the house. She hated seeing her father vulnerable and weak; his fragility was the first hint that things couldn’t continue as they were. But that didn’t mean he had to sell the café. If they’d only give her a chance, she knew she could make the business even more successful.

“I have some money saved,” she said after a few minutes of silence.

Pops patted her hand. “It’s not only the money but also the responsibility of running a business. It weighs on me.”

“I’ve been giving it some thought. It would be good for me to try something other than painting for a change. I could run the café business. I know I could. I’ve got lots of ideas.”

Pops laughed. “Of course you do. You’re our genius.”

“I’m not a genius, Pops. I’m just an ordinary person with a gift.”

He wasn’t listening. No one listened to her. The familiar pang of disappointment tightened inside as she followed her father’s gaze out to where a fishing boat was taking its time winding through the marked channel. By the bright blue hull, she could tell it was Ron Hachey’s boat. Lobster season was just around the corner, and the fishermen were anxious to get their traps in the water. Yesterday in the café, she’d heard Ron say he planned to try out his new motor today.

Pops turned his attention back to her. “There’s not an ordinary bone in your body, honey. That’s why you can’t stay. Collina is too small for you. I know you get homesick from time to time, and that you love us. But to live here full-time? I honestly can’t see you being happy.”

Hard to argue against such certainty. Maybe Pops was right, maybe living in Collina would drive her nuts. But she’d been here six months already, and despite the frustration of people thinking they knew what was best for her, she hadn’t been bored. Much. The fact was Toronto didn’t feel right to her anymore; the city didn’t fit. She was better off here for the time being.

As they approached the house, she noted her father’s normally robust complexion had turned gray, and his breathing was coming in short, harsh gasps. She’d phone the doctor later and ask if Pops’s fatigue was to be expected at this point of his recovery. Maybe they’d missed something in the last checkup. It didn’t feel right to her that he still struggled to do normal, everyday things. And she likely wasn’t helping his recovery; it must have weighed on his mind, knowing he had to tell her about putting the business up for sale.

He was right about one thing. Other than her family, there wasn’t much holding her here. If the café didn’t prove challenging enough, she’d have to leave and find something else to do.

An insidious pounding stabbed her left temple. It felt as if her skin had shrunk two sizes too small for her head. God. She squinted, trying to ease the pain. No wonder she had panic attacks. Twenty-six years old, and she didn’t have a clue what to do next. But she was getting ahead of herself. If the café was her sole responsibility, that would be enough to keep her busy, right?

And she wouldn’t stay just for the sake of staying—not after Pops was completely recovered, and they’d had their father-daughter talk and straightened things out between them. But that was one conversation that would have to wait. She’d upset him enough today.

She kissed his cheek. “Why don’t you come inside for a cup of tea, and I’ll drive you back to the apartment after?” She still couldn’t bring herself to call the seniors apartments his home.

“I’m going to see what the boys got done this morning on Adam’s house. Cal’ll drive me back.” He hugged her.

“Would you consider not putting the café up for sale right away? I’d like to stay a few more weeks, and...it would just be nice to hold on to it for a bit longer.”

He narrowed his eyes, reminding her of Cal when he was trying to suss out the truth. Her older brother had ridden herd on her and Dusty in their teen years when Pops was busy fishing. They never could get anything past him because Cal had learned from the master—Pops.

“I guess I could hold off for a bit. It’s not the best time of year to sell, anyway. But I’d like to get it on the market soon. Give folks some time to think about buying.”

“Thanks, Pops. I just need to get used to the idea.” And time to prove to her family she could run the business successfully. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”

He waved her off. “I want to ask Adam a couple of questions. Cal will drive me.”

Adam again. Surely Pops wasn’t going to ask Adam if he wanted to buy the café. Unless he was fabulously wealthy, and by the look of his older truck and the way he dressed, she didn’t think he was, Adam would probably have to look for work eventually. The lack of job opportunities in town was laughable. But wouldn’t that be rotten luck? Her father decides to sell the café, and Adam turns up on their doorstep with enough cash in hand to buy it.

She hurried to keep up to her father. If Pops started talking about selling the café, she’d steer the conversation in another direction. “I’ve got a few minutes before I have to go to work. I’ll come with you.”

Other than raising his eyebrows, Pops didn’t say anything. She never could get much past the old man. She loved her brothers and father, but her eyes often glazed over two minutes into one of their conversations about...whatever. Building, fishing, fixing engines. But this was one conversation she planned on paying attention to.

When they walked around the corner of Adam’s house, Romeo bounded over to greet them. Sylvie bent down to scratch behind his ears and Rom leaned against her leg like he’d been waiting all day just for her. What a beautiful dog. She looked around the yard. Moonbeam hadn’t been around this morning. Actually, since Adam had moved in, the shameless hussy had barely been home at all.

An armload of old roofing shingles slid off the roof and landed in a pile of debris ten feet in front of them. “Have you seen Moonbeam?” she shouted up at Adam and Cal.

They both stopped ripping at the shingles. “What do you want, Sylvie?” Cal looked impatient. “Oh, hey, Pops. What’s up?”

Nice. She got a snarl, while Pops rated a hello. She bit her tongue to hold back a snappy retort.

“It’s almost lunchtime. I thought you could drive me home, Cal.”

Cal shot a look in her direction.

“I offered,” she said, defending herself. She hated that she still craved her older brother’s approval.

Pops sat on a paint-stained wooden workhorse while he waited for the men to climb down. “What’s the use of living in the same village if I can’t spend any time with you? You work too hard,” he said to his son as Cal climbed down, followed by Adam.

“Have you seen Moonbeam?” When Sylvie turned to Adam, she faltered back a step. She’d been so focused on Cal, she hadn’t really looked at her neighbor.

He wore a sleeveless gray sweatshirt and his faded jeans, weighed down by his tool belt, hung low on his hips. When he raised his hand to wipe a trickle of sweat from his forehead, his biceps bunched into a solid mass of muscle.

Sylvie swallowed and tried to look away from the tuft of underarm hair that peeked out of his sweatshirt and the startling white skin on the underside of his arm. The stark contrast of masculinity and vulnerability, hard muscle covered with velvet skin, thrilled her. She wanted to trace her hand down the underside of his arm and follow the prominent blue vein down to his wrist. She wanted, no, she needed, to get it all down on paper. Everything about this man... The sweat-streaked dirt on his face, his muscles. God, his neck. He had a beautiful neck. Even the shape of his—

“Sylvie, child, are you in there?” Pops shook her shoulder and smiled quizzically into her face.

She blinked and tore her gaze away from Adam’s armpit. Oh, help. She was mesmerized by a man’s armpit. Maybe Pops was right. Maybe she was going stir-crazy and didn’t even know it.

“Sorry. I was just thinking...” She glanced at Adam and hoped like hell she wasn’t blushing.

Pops put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. “She does that sometimes, goes off into a cloud. Back to earth now, honey?”

She made herself smile. “I’m back.”

“Moonbeam’s inside,” Adam said.

He’d stepped back a pace, as if he knew exactly where she’d drifted off to and didn’t want to go there with her. “She kept hanging around, and I was afraid one of the shingles would hit her, so I put her in my house. I should have told you. Sorry.”

In case some of her rapture of studying his armpit still lingered, she kept her gaze trained over his right shoulder. Pathetic. If she was going to stay in Collina, she’d have to get a social life and start dating because lusting after Adam Hunter didn’t work for her. She needed someone else to drool over. “Thanks for looking out for her.”

“That cat spends more time over here than she does at home.” Cal grabbed an old towel draped over the workhorse and brushed the dirt off his arms as he squinted up at the roof. “We’re almost done this side. We should get a good start on the other side today.”

“Then you can spare a few minutes for your old man,” Pops said before turning to Adam. “I was thinking of your grandmother this morning.”

Sylvie stiffened and watched Adam from the corner of her eye as he hesitated before hanging his tool belt over the workhorse. Did Adam know anything about his grandmother and Pops’s friendship? Probably not. How could he? She hadn’t known and she’d lived right here at the time.

It wasn’t his fault what had happened, but still, the situation was uncomfortable. Except as far as she could tell, she was the only one who had a problem with it. She sighed. She was acting like a bitch, taking her resentment out on Adam. She could at least act neighborly toward him. Maybe even offer the use of her kitchen and bathroom while he was working on his house.

And maybe when she got everything straightened out, she could paint his portrait. It would be a sin not to try to capture something of Adam’s... What?

Well, body for one thing. But the appeal was more than that. He was a delicious mixture of contrasts that intrigued her. He was, in a word, a challenge. Maybe that was what her problem was. She’d been stuck doing seascapes for so long, she needed new, fertile ground to mine.

When she heard a note of longing in Pops’s voice, she forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying about Adam’s grandmother. Not exactly the confirmation she sought, but something had definitely happened between them.

“She was always excited when you came to visit. You were her only grandchild, weren’t you?” Pops said.

Adam smiled. “Yeah. I loved spending time with Gram.”

Pops stretched his legs out in front of him as he leaned back against the workhorse. “Your parents still live in Toronto?”

“My mom’s in Vancouver.” Adam shoved some of the discarded shingles to one side with his foot. “My dad’s dead.”

“Sorry to hear that, son. No doubt he’d be proud of you, coming here and making a home.”

Adam shot him a look from under his brow. “Maybe.”

Sylvie could see he didn’t like talking about his family from the way his shoulders had drawn together, and how his hands made a couple of spastic fists before he relaxed them.

“What kind of work was your dad in?” A question Pops had asked every one of their friends at some point.

But Adam had gone somewhere deep inside himself. He did his stillness thing, as though if he didn’t breathe or take up space, they wouldn’t notice him. Silly to feel that she should protect him. And from what? Her father?

“He was in security,” Adam said.

“Ah.” Pops smiled. “You mean like a security cop?”

“Something like that.”

Pops nodded, looked at the roof. “You boys are making good progress. I won’t hold you up. Ready to go, Cal?”

Cal slung his tool belt beside Adam’s. “I’ll be back in a bit. We’ll start on the other side after you eat.”

“Great.” Adam scratched his arm as both he and Sylvie watched Cal back his truck out of the driveway.

“I’ll get Moonbeam if you want.” Adam didn’t look at her as he brushed dirt off his jeans.

“If she’s happy where she is, leave her. I’ve got to go to work, anyway. I was just worried she’d get hit by a shingle. I see Romeo’s smart enough to stay out of the way. Just so you know, you don’t have to feed Moonbeam. She has lots of food at home.” Shut up. She had the urge to babble about anything but...armpits.

She looked at the debris on the ground, at the roof and finally at Adam. Why did the workingman thing look so fantastic on some men? Oliver would just look dirty. Adam looked manly. Scrumptious, if she was being honest.

Sylvie tore her gaze away. Oh, God, she wasn’t getting a thing for him, was she? Of course not. He was a healthy, vibrant male in his prime, and she...

She was an artist and couldn’t help noticing details about people. Like how Adam withdrew at times or how he did that thing with his hands. She had no intention of adding to her messy life by becoming attracted to another man. Going out on a few dates with a guy was fine. But an intense attraction? No way.

“Are you all right?” Adam frowned at her.

“Me?” Her smile faltered. “Of course. I was thinking...well, I haven’t actually thought it out, but if the inside of your house is going to look like this.” She pointed at the exposed roof. “You’re welcome to use my kitchen and bathroom for cooking and stuff. If you want.” That hadn’t been so hard. She could act neighborly.

Adam folded his arms. “I don’t know. It’s nice of you to offer, but um...your family. They might not think it’s such a great idea.”

She laughed. “I haven’t had to ask their permission to do anything for a long time. I don’t need their stamp of approval.”

“Thanks.” He nodded. “I’ll, ah...think about it. Appreciate the offer.”

“Right.” Was that a yes or a no? “I’ve gotta go.” She dipped her head toward the village and the café. “Have a good day.”

She sprinted over to her car and climbed in. Have a good day? How lame could she get? He probably thought she was a spastic dweeb. And if he didn’t yet, her brothers would make sure he did by the end of the week. Knowing them, they probably already had plans to introduce him to the available women in town.

Which was a good thing, because Collina needed more people living here. And she needed Collina. That was where she wanted to direct her time and energy, making a place for herself here. She already had several ideas of how to increase business at the café at this time of the year. If she could stage one successful event, maybe Pops and her brothers would take her more seriously and agree she was capable of running the café.

Feeling more optimistic than she had in months, she whistled on her way to work.

* * *

THE SUN PEEKED over the horizon as Adam knocked softly on Sylvie’s door, then slipped inside and deposited his two bags of food on the counter. Cal had told him no one locked their doors here. Details like that—unlocked doors, wide-open, deserted beaches, and people stopping on the street to talk to each other—reinforced his decision that this was where he wanted to live.

According to Cal, Sylvie wasn’t an early riser. He liked that Sylvie had suggested he use her home for cooking and washing up, but hadn’t seriously considered the offer until he mentioned the idea to Cal, who agreed, albeit a tad reluctantly.

Adam’s water was a rusty brown. He could buy water to drink and cook with, but he hadn’t figured out what he was going to do about having a shower. Collina was too small to have any public facilities like a community center with showers or a Y. Plus, this way he didn’t have to waste time putting stuff away every day before they continued ripping his house apart.

After giving it some thought, he’d realized that using the kitchen and bathroom next door sounded like the perfect solution. But now that he was in Sylvie’s kitchen, he realized he should have given the idea more thought.

With her working nights at the café, he figured he should be able to avoid her most of the time. But it felt weird tiptoeing around her kitchen while she was still in bed. Sylvie and bed—intriguing, but not an image he wanted stuck in his head.

He pulled out the coffee beans he’d thought to grind before leaving his house. He’d make enough coffee for both him and Sylvie. Same with the blueberry pancakes he had planned. If she didn’t want them, he’d leave a note for her to put the batter in the fridge, and he’d use it for tomorrow’s breakfast.

After whipping up the batter and covering it, he crept into the hallway to find the bathroom. He stopped, listened for sounds of Sylvie moving around upstairs and continued on to the bathroom when all remained silent.

Moonbeam sat square in the middle of the hallway when he came out of the bathroom after the fastest shower he’d ever taken. The shower shelves had been full of Sylvie’s stuff, and the room had smelled like peaches. He swore the girly smell still clung to him.

The cat’s tiny pink tongue slipped out once as she practiced her cat stare on him. “You’ve got my number, don’t you?” He scooped her up and laid her across his shoulder as he shoved the kitchen door open.

“Oh. Hey.” He halted in the doorway.

Sylvie leaned a hip against the counter, sipping coffee. She wore those tight black pants she seemed to favor and a faded, blue-and-white flannel shirt that had probably belonged to one of her brothers or her father.

The curious expression on her face closed down. “I thought you were Pops.”

“Sorry.” He stopped, tried to form his thoughts into a cohesive sentence.

She looked warm and sleep-tousled, and he was back to thinking about how great she’d look in bed. Not a direction he wanted his thoughts to go. What the hell had he been thinking—that he could ignore a woman like Sylvie?

He slipped Moonbeam off his shoulder and edged toward the coffee, planning to grab a cup and run. With his back safely to her, he continued, “It didn’t occur to me to tell you I decided to take you up on your offer to use the house until I walked in this morning. Sorry.”

“Make yourself at home.”

He stiffened. Was she being sarcastic? Had he crossed some invisible boundary? People questioning his integrity was a by-product of the life he’d lived, but somehow he’d gotten it into his head that life would be different here. He would be different. Resigned to the inevitable, he put a half teaspoon of sugar in his coffee and turned to face her.

“I’ll get out of your way. Sorry to wake you.”

“No, I’m sorry. That sounded rude. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t welcome. I’m not my best in the morning.” She smiled. “Where’s Romeo?”

“Outside.” He allowed himself to relax against the counter as he suppressed a laugh. Wow. It suddenly dawned on him that he was playing in a whole new ball game now. One where people didn’t automatically assume the worst of each other. That someone would apologize to him for indicating, not assuming, but only hinting he may be out of line, brought home how much he wanted to live here. “We went for a five-K run already, so he’s pretty pooped. That’s such a great beach. It’s amazing not many people use it.”

“One of the perks of living in a sparsely populated area, I guess. Romeo’s a great dog. Did you train him?”

“No. I got him from the animal shelter when I knew I was moving to the country. The previous owners loved shepherds, but having a large dog in the city is difficult for even the biggest dog lover.” He sipped his coffee. “Cal says you live in Toronto.”

“Yeah.” She let out a weary sigh.

He watched as she slipped into a chair at the table and leaned her head on her hand. Either she hadn’t completely woken up yet or living in T.O. wasn’t doing it for her.

“What part?”

“Yorkville.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a classy part of town.”

“It’s okay.” She stared into her coffee.

He moved to the stove and turned the heat on under the frying pan. He might as well cook the pancakes he’d started. Sylvie didn’t seem to mind him being there, and he could use a big breakfast to start his day. He poured a scoop of batter into the pan and watched it sizzle along the edges. “Any idea when you’re moving back?” None of his business.

“Haven’t a clue.” When she continued to stare into her coffee, he felt a wrench in his gut. The same feeling he’d had a couple of days ago in the backyard when she’d looked sad. He flipped the pancake over. She had a family to support her—hell, she probably had the whole village at her beck and call. It wasn’t his responsibility to cheer her up.

He slipped the pancake on a plate and placed it in front of her, then poured more batter into the pan. “You don’t want to move back to Toronto?”

Her head jerked up. “I didn’t say that.”

No, she didn’t, and if he were smart he’d stop talking right now. What Sylvie felt or didn’t feel was none of his business. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic at the prospect.”

“There’s nothing to go back to.”

“Cal said you have a boyfriend. A doctor?”

“You and Cal had quite the conversation.”

He turned his attention back to the stove. “Cal—” did not find a halfhearted sketch of him doing tai chi “—just mentioned you were a really good artist and lived in Toronto.”

She lathered butter and maple syrup on her pancake. “That’s all in the past. I’m going to have to figure out something else to do now. Mmm,” she said around a mouthful of pancake. “These are fantastic. I don’t suppose you want to work at the café? We’re desperate to hire a second cook.”

“Sorry. I’m too busy right now.” But once his house was finished, he’d consider it. The café was probably the hub of the village, and that was the kind of thing he’d like to get involved with.

He put another pancake on her plate, poured more batter into the pan and expertly cooked up a stack of pancakes as Sylvie ate hers. When he had what he hoped would be enough, he sat at the table, slipped a couple more to her and added syrup to his.

“Thanks.”

Adam forked up a mouthful and sat back to watch her eat. He was a good cook and he liked feeding people. He might not be able to help Sylvie with her problem, but at least he’d made sure she started the day with a good breakfast.

When she finished eating, Sylvie shoved her plate to one side and leaned toward him. “Would you teach me how to cook?”

Feeling as if he’d been dropped into the middle of a minefield, Adam placed his forkful of pancake back on his plate. “You don’t know how?”

“No, and I want to learn.”

“Um...” He looked everywhere but at the hint of sadness in her eyes. “Teressa. Ask her. She’s a cook.”

“Teressa hates me. She won’t teach me.”

“I met her yesterday. She seemed like a nice person. I doubt she hates you.” When Sylvie skewered him with a snarky look, Adam smothered a smile. He liked her sass.

“Okay, she doesn’t hate me. She thinks I’ve got it made, and her life stinks. She loves her kids, but having two different fathers for them is hard. Nothing’s ever come easy for her.”

“And it has for you?”

“No. I’ve worked my butt off. But no one sees that, or at least wants to see it. I’m the one who left and made it in that big, cold world out there.” The corners of her mouth crimped tight. “Sorry. I don’t usually indulge in self-pity.”

He had to admit that he didn’t understand what her problem was—she was young, beautiful and apparently successful. What he did know was he needed to come up with a reason why he couldn’t teach her how to cook.

No way could he spend time around this woman and not have rampant fantasies about her. She was just too damned hot. It wouldn’t take long for him to want to act on those fantasies, and then he’d be back to the Carson men wanting to know exactly who he was and where he’d come from. Assuming, of course, Sylvie was interested in him. “Your father and brothers don’t know how to cook?”

“They do, and they won’t teach me, either. Everyone either thinks I should be painting all the time, or they’re afraid I’m going to slice a finger or hurt myself if I work in the kitchen. But they don’t get it. I need to know I can do something other than paint.” As Sylvie paused, the pleading in her eyes damn near broke his heart. “We don’t have to tell anyone. It would be our little secret.”

No. He tore his gaze away from her angel-blue eyes and said the word inside his head again to make sure he got it right. No.

“Sylvie, I—”

“Please don’t say no.” She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “I’ll get up early, and I’ll clean up whatever mess we make. And I promise I’ll be really, really careful so I don’t hurt myself.”

Because if she did, the Carson men would fry him alive. “You don’t know how to cook anything?”

“I can make coffee. And scramble eggs. Sandwiches, of course.” She shot him a crooked smile. “And I excel at ordering takeout.”

Her smile hooked into him and his resolve softened. “You’d think your family would want you to know how to take care of yourself.”

“I was always good at drawing.” She dipped her finger into the pool of syrup on her plate. “I won an art contest when I was nine. That’s the year my mom died, and somehow my family saw that contest as my consolation prize for losing Mom. Or so my therapist tells me. After that, Pops and Dusty and Cal couldn’t do enough to...I don’t know, nurture my talent, I guess. I was the baby of the family and the only girl, so... They were all hurting, and maybe it was easier to concentrate on me rather than deal with their own pain.”

She stared at the pattern she’d drawn in the syrup. “It eased their grief every time I drew a picture, so I kept drawing and drawing and drawing. I thought—I don’t know—that if I kept it up everything would be okay, and we’d be happy again. I drew my way into a scholarship when I was sixteen, and I’ve been living away from home ever since.”

He’d left home at fifteen for entirely different reasons, and he was sure he’d been a lot tougher than her. Even with his false bravado, it had been a rough go sometimes. Sixteen was a tender age. Too young to leave home.

His unexpected anger at her family caught him by surprise, and he stood and picked up the plates to dispel the feeling. The world was full of nasty, dangerous people. What had her family been thinking to let Sylvie leave at such a tender age?

He let the dishes clatter into the sink and turned on the water as he did his deep breathing exercise. Okay. None of this was his business. Keep things on track and get out.

“They never had a chance to teach you how to cook,” he said as he started washing the dishes. “Doesn’t mean they won’t now. You should ask them.”

“I have.”

Adam closed his eyes and prayed he hadn’t heard her voice tremble. He grabbed the frying pan, scrubbed it with more gusto than necessary. “I gotta go. Cal’s going to be here soon.” He drained the sink and bolted for the door, keeping his back to the table where Sylvie sat.

Not sat, huddled.

Man, why did he look at her? He’d almost made it out the door. What was it about this woman that unhinged him? He liked women well enough, had even fallen victim to a few and had a couple of semiserious relationships. But he’d always felt a measure of reserve with them, because truthfully, he didn’t quite get women, and that usually resulted in him saying as little as possible. So far, that didn’t seem to be happening with Sylvie. If anything he had to work at keeping his mouth shut.

He walked back to the table. “I’m not saying I’ll be available every morning, but okay, maybe tomorrow. I’ll show you how to make an omelet. You’ll have to get up early, though.”

Her eyes twinkled as she beamed up at him. He sighed in resignation and tore his gaze away from the stunning picture she made, with the morning sun kissing her face. “And you’ll have to clear it with your father first,” he added.

Her twinkle dimmed at the same time the delicate line of her jaw hardened. “I’m twenty-six years old. I do not need my father’s permission.”

But he did. If he pissed off her family, he could lose Cal’s help, and work on his house would grind to a halt. Things were getting off track, and he’d just started working on his house. “We’ll try one morning, then.”

“And go from there.”

Adam backed up fast when Sylvie jumped up from her chair, looking grateful enough to give him a hug. Not going to happen.

“I’m not making any promises. Just so you know.” He rushed the door and escaped outside.

Teach her how to cook. He shook his head and headed toward his house. Most people when they met him kept their distance because of his size and because he looked like a scrapper. But for some reason Sylvie seemed to have locked right into the fact that he was a pushover. He didn’t want people to be afraid of him, but neither did he want it getting around that he was an easy mark. Saying no to anyone had never been his strong suit—another reason to stay away from Sylvie. Half an hour, and she’d convinced him to teach her how to cook. What next?

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