Page 28 of The Guest Cottage
An invitation? “I’ll share if you share.”
“Deal.” She held out her hand.
After rising, he accepted her hand and tugged her up. Given his way, he wouldn’t have let go. Her small hand fit into his perfectly, her grip firm and sure, her skin soft and warm. Just as it had in his truck, her touch ignited a sexual spark, one he hadn’t felt in far too long. Not that he’d been celibate. No reason for that. But this much sensation?
Few things took him by surprise anymore, but her effect on him was a shocker.
Again, he didn’t want to rush her, so he let her go. “You got more mail yesterday. I knew you were working so I held it until today.” At the end of the dock, he picked up the knapsack he’d left with his tackle box and rod. Two letters were inside, and both looked important.
“Did you catch any fish?”
“Nothing big enough to keep.”
“Bummer.”
“Fishing isn’t about the catch, really.” She didn’t ask for the mail, so he carried the sack, mail, and thermos, and together they started up the slight incline. “Even if I fish all day and don’t catch anything, I enjoy it.”
“No way. What’s the point if you don’t succeed?”
“What’s the point of sitting on the dock at daybreak even when it’s drizzling and you can’t see the sun?”
“Fresh air? Welcoming a new day, whether it’s rain or shine.”
“Same with fishing.”
“So you like the sunrise, too?”
He could see the idea pleased her. “I do, but I also like the sound of the water, the breeze in the trees, frogs, and birds.”
Cort heard it all, but his awareness was tempered by Marlow’s nearness. When she was close, he felt her presence everywhere, like subtle static on his skin, sparking but not uncomfortable. “I like the smell of the fresh air. The sun.” He smiled at her. “Or the rain.”
They reached her enclosed porch, and she opened the door. “You make it sound really nice, but there’s still that part where a fish gets hooked.” She cringed. “And baiting the hook?”
He followed her in through the sitting room and to the kitchen. “It’s easy once you get the hang of it.”
She went to a cabinet and got down another mug, then uncovered a plate of cookies and set them both on the table with napkins. As she took her seat, she said, “Your turn. Pay up.”
He couldn’t recall ever finding a woman so amusing. He set out his thermos and her mail, then went to her sink to wash and dry his hands. Back at the table, he seated himself across from her and filled both mugs. “I make it strong.”
“Perfect.” She sipped, nodded, then added a spoonful of sugar from the sugar bowl. “Creamer?”
“I’m good.”
For a moment, she fidgeted, then her gaze met his. “I saw your photo on the tavern wall.”
Yeah, was bound to happen. The framed pic wasn’t so big that it drew attention, but he knew with her working there, she’d run across it sooner or later. “It was my mom’s, in her house. Private.” He picked up one of the chocolate chip cookies. “Mom told me her visitors always commented on it. The next time I came home, Herman had hung a copy.”
“He’s proud of it. Of you.”
So she’d talked to Herman about him? Interesting. “Mom thought it was hilarious to take me to the tavern and surprise me with it.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, remembering how everyone had cheered him. His mom had glowed, and it was so nice seeing her happy that he hadn’t complained. “Herman’s great. He looked out for Mom when I wasn’t around. They all did.”
“Funny,” she said softly. “Herman told me you looked out for all of them.”
“It’s what neighbors do.” Not that he’d known it before moving his mother here. As a kid, he’d experienced only survival. Avoiding his father, dying a little inside when his mother couldn’t do the same. Once they’d escaped, things had still been difficult. Lying low meant avoiding neighbors, dodging questions, and scraping to get by. His mom had worked long hours in housekeeping at a rundown hotel, and he’d gotten hired for odd jobs wherever he could. They’d lived week to week, sometimes day to day.
Too many times, after paying rent and gas for their old Buick, there hadn’t been enough money for food. He could still recall finishing the can of soup and half a sandwich his mom had made for him, and then realizing there was no more. She’d claimed not to be hungry, but he’d known that couldn’t be true. From that day forward, he vowed to himself to be more aware, not just of meals but of everything and everyone.
Idly, he turned the coffee cup, wondering how much he should share with Marlow. He imagined Herman had already given her an earful. Would it hurt to make sure she had the facts?
