Out of love, he had made a mistake.
That meant love was dangerous.
Birds flitted among the leaves above his head; a bright-red pair scolded him from the nest they were building. When the man went inside, Wolf would catch one of those birds and fill his shrinking belly. He made that promise to his growling stomach. Then he closed his eyes and brought his energy down low so the man wouldn’t sense him lying in wait for a chance to drink, and maybe also to eat.
Every evening, Wolf drank from the green pool and caught frogs to eat. The bitter taste of frog skin turned his saliva to foam, but the meat and bones and entrails tasted no different from that of a rabbit or rat or mouse. Wolf hardly remembered the taste of the crunchy kibble he had eaten at home.
The wind shifted, a warm breeze blowing along the ground. Wolf lifted his nose and caught the scent of rabbits behind the fence. He had searched for a way in, but failed. He could have snagged a small goat this morning while the fence was down. But the people would have seen him, and humans had strange attitudes about which animals were okay to eat and which were off-limits.
Safety lay in hunting only at night when people hid behind solid walls and dark windows. Light windows meant people might still venture outside. Dark windows meant they would stay inside until morning. Wolf’s hungry stomach made it hard to wait for safety, but he knew he must.
By the time the man went inside, the birds had flown into a tall tree. Wolf crawled low along the hedge, ran to the green pool to satisfy his thirst with a few quick laps, then streaked across the road to his hiding place in the cat’s-claw forest. In the cool, green shade, he sprawled on his side, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to silence his hunger. Tonight, when the sun slipped over the horizon, he would hunt.
Chapter 5
That evening, with chores done, Reva’s text responded to, and a pound cake baked, Abby assembled her peace offerings in an old wicker basket that she’d found stashed among others above her aunt’s kitchen cabinets. A bottle of sparkling cider paired with two cheap wineglasses from Dollar Tree; cheese, olives, and fancy crackers; the pound cake wrapped in a new dish towel and tied with twine; and as promised, a chocolate-chip granola bar.
Part of her hoped he wouldn’t be home and she’d be able to leave the basket outside his door. She had included a handwritten note on Bayside Barn stationery that she found in her aunt’s rolltop desk:
To Quinn,
Please accept my attempt at a more conventional welcome to the neighborhood than the one you received this morning.
Abby Curtis
P.S. Sorry about my ass biting yours.
The nagging, familiar voice of social anxiety whispered, reminding her of his cryptic comment about the view that made her suspect he’d seen more of her skin than he should have.
Instead of letting worry have its way, she went into the laundry room and tossed a scrap of twine into the crate for the new kitten to play with. This time, the kitten didn’t flee for cover. Maybe it was beginning to realize that Abby was trying to help. She had doctored the road rash with Betadine and a thin film of Neosporin, and already it was healing up nicely.
In the kitchen, she gave Max the tabby a cat treat. “Please stay off the kitchen counter while I’m gone.”
Sure thing, she imagined Max saying, though his slant-eyed smirk told her she shouldn’t believe him. So much for all the things Reva had tried to teach her about animal communication. If all males were liars, why bother?
Abby glanced at her reflection in the sliding glass doors. Dressed in a leaf-print dress that brought out the green flecks in her hazel eyes, she looked well enough. But she hoped she hadn’t overdone it by curling her hair and wearing mascara and clear lip gloss.
She wasn’t interested in Quinn—she knew better by now than to be lured in by a pretty face and a rock-hard body—but she didn’t want him to judge her unfavorably either. She didn’t want to look like a slob, but she also didn’t want to look as if she’d tried too hard. Abby wished she could absorb a little of her aunt’s complete disregard for what other people thought of her.
Abby had been that way herself once, but after trusting completely and then losing everything that mattered, she couldn’t find her way back. Her recent tendency to worry about everything insisted that she doubt herself.
Georgia barked.
“Okay.” Abby picked up the basket and a tiny wisp of courage. “I’m coming.”
The setting sun glowed orange over the bay when she and Georgia walked along the hedge and through the iron gates of Bayside Barn. Abby propped one side of the gate open, then she and Georgia crossed the easement to the neighbor’s property. The dilapidated house was dark, so they went around back, and Abby tapped on the sliding glass door of the pool house, where the glow of interior lighting indicated a human presence.
Charcoal-gray curtains had been pushed aside. The ceiling fan’s globe light revealed brand-new furnishings. A gray couch and rug and overstuffed armchair, a distressed barn-wood coffee table and end tables, a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall across from the couch. No throw pillows, no lamps, no pictures on the walls.
Georgia whined and looked back toward the farm.
“No. We’re doing this.”
The new neighbor walked into the room shirtless, wearing jeans slung low on his hips and headphones in his ears. The headphones’ yellow cord trailed down his toned chest and washboard abs, then twined around his waist and disappeared into his back pocket.
“Lord above, Georgia. Would you look at that?”
Unimpressed, Georgia whined and pawed Abby’s leg.
“No, I said. No.”
Realizing that he must not have heard the knock, Abby waved. But he kept going to the small kitchen and opened the fridge. She tapped on the glass door again. He took out a beer and turned, then saw her. His eyes opened wide. He set the beer aside, pulled out his headphones, and opened the sliding glass door. “Hey. Is there a goat in my pool or something?”
Georgia ran inside and leaped onto a chair.
“Georgia, no.” Abby felt a blush spread up her neck and into her cheeks. “You weren’t invited.”
“It’s fine.” He stepped away from the door. “Come on in.”
Abby handed over the basket. “This is a housewarming/apology basket.” She couldn’t help but notice the hoof-shaped bruises on his lower back. “I’m sorry Elijah hurt you. I’m sure he didn’t mean to, but he can’t resist sweet-tasting treats.” Out of breath with anxiety, she powered through her prepared greeting. “I hope we can pretend this morning never happened and start over again.”
He set the basket on the coffee table and held out a hand. “Quinn Lockhart.”
She put her hand in his. “Abby Curtis, house-sitting for my aunt Reva. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thank you, Abby.” His fingers wrapped around hers, his grip strong but gentle, his palm callused but warm. Up close, blue eyes the color of new denim smiled into hers. His touch and his smile melted the crusty outer layer of her anxiety.
He let go of her hand. “Have a seat while I put on a shirt.”
Abby perched on the couch, crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. She inhaled and blew out a deep breath to release another layer of anxiety. The room smelled of fresh paint, newly dyed fabric, and recently milled wood.
Georgia’s restless gaze tracked something outside the glass door. She whined, a worried furrow between her brows.
Abby leaned forward. “You see something out there?”
Quinn came into the room wearing a plain white T-shirt that wasn’t too tight but still somehow clung to every muscle. He sat beside her on the couch and slid the basket closer. “Hmm.” He held up the bottle of cider. “This looks interesting.”
Abby was more of a wine girl herself, but after twisting and turning over the decision of what to bring, she’d settled
on cider, in case the new neighbor didn’t drink anything containing alcohol. “I hope you like it.”
He set the two glasses on the coffee table and opened the bottle. “Anything I share with you will be better than a lonely beer by myself.”
Smooth talker. The sort she’d already fallen for once too often. “Please don’t feel obligated to share. I meant it as a gift, not an intrusion.” Her nervousness lifted her like an overfilled helium balloon. She half stood, then sat again.
Since she’d moved in with her aunt this spring, she had learned to handle hundreds of school kids along with their adult teachers and chaperones. But social situations requiring small talk still made her palms sweat. “I only came to welcome you to the neighborhood and apologize for Elijah’s rude behavior this morning. I’m very sorry about the whole thing.”
He poured cider into the two glasses and handed one to her. “Apology accepted, incident forgotten, starting over. Remember?”
Want more Babette de Jongh?
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About the Author
Carolyn Brown is a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, Publishers Weekly, and #1 Amazon and #1 Washington Post bestselling author, as well as a RITA finalist. She is the author of more than one hundred novels and several novellas. She’s a recipient of the Bookseller’s Best Award and the prestigious Montlake Diamond Award, as well as a three-time recipient of the National Reader’s Choice Award. Brown has been published for more than twenty years, and her books have been translated into nineteen foreign languages.
She’s been married for more than fifty years to Mr. B, and they have three smart, wonderful, amazing children, fifteen grandchildren, and too many great-grands to keep track of. When she’s not writing, she likes to plot new stories in her backyard with her tomcat, Boots Randolph Terminator Outlaw, who protects the yard from all kinds of wicked varmints like crickets, locusts, and spiders.
Carolyn can be found online at carolynlbrown.com, facebook.com/carolynbrownbooks, on Instagram @carolynbrownbooks, and on Twitter @thecarolynbrown.
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