“Only royally pissed off the person closest to Declan Everett.”
“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to spell this out for me. I’m not as sharp as I used to be.”
“That’s obvious. Stevie Johansson? You missed their engagement announcement.”
“Everett’s engaged to Stevie Johansson? The candy store mogul?”
“The very one.”
Fuck. She alluded to pissing off someone important, and I blew it off because I didn’t care. No wonder the Times fired her.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me. She doesn’t live in Cedar Hill anymore. She drove up from Portland and the paper she works for said they’d fire her if she couldn’t squeeze an interview out of me. I’m sending her packing the second the roads are clear. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I don’t like she happens to be there during a blizzard after being run out of Cedar Hill with torches and spikes for going after a woman who’s engaged to your business adversary. That spells more than a coincidence to me, Rick. Don’t trust her.”
“I don’t, but I think she learned her lesson. All she talks about now is moving and finding something that’s not reporting.”
“All right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I scoff. “Everett’s a pain in my ass, but he’s never done anything but talk a big game. I’ll send Devyn on her way, clean up the property. By this time next year, it’ll all be blown over.”
“Good. And get your pretty ass back to Cedar Hill. Quit hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Yes, you are, and I’m tired of covering for you. I want my friend back. Take care and stay safe.”
He hangs up before I can retort. He doesn’t get it. I’m not going back to Cedar Hill.
As the wind beats against the cottage walls, I try to go through more email, respond to the requests that Beau asked me to, sign contracts that need to be signed. It’s not that difficult to conduct business from Old Harbor, even if Beau acts like it’s the most inconvenient thing he’s ever had to put up with.
Maybe one day I’ll be comfortable enough to drive into Cedar Hill occasionally for a business meeting, but that’s a long way off. I hate that fucking city.
I put in a couple more hours’ work and call it a day.
What Beau told me about Devyn didn’t exactly worry me. I had reservations about her already, but he added to the list of reasons why I shouldn’t trust her. On the other hand, she helped me yesterday when she didn’t have to. She could have stood there and watched me writhe in pain, made a halfhearted attempt to call 911 knowing the poor chances of an ambulance being able to successfully drive up to the lighthouse from town in the snow. No, she’d jumped right in, literally.
That had to mean something, didn’t it?
Before I log off, I send a quick email to Beau apologizing for our phone call. He’s stuck with me, and I owe him more than a surly attitude.
The snow is up to my knees, and the wind knocks the breath from my lungs.
I slam into the foyer, choking, ice already accumulating in my beard. It isn’t far, but even a few feet in wind like this can slam you to the ground, and my skin stings from the snow pelting against my face as I tried to run from the cottage. Leaning against the wall, I pull air into my burning lungs. It was worth it to stare at a different set of walls, and I’ll do it again tomorrow. And every day after that until Devyn can leave because I can’t stop feeling her hands pressed against my back.
I kick off my boots and hang up my jacket next to Devyn’s. It’s been a long time since I’ve hung up my jacket next to someone else’s, and a longer time still to step into a kitchen with a woman waiting for me and something hot on the stove.
The kitchen smells like heaven, and I close the second door behind me, keeping the winter storm outside.
Devyn’s sitting at the table, her hair plaited into a braid, the shoulder of her sweater sliding down her arm revealing soft skin and the lacy strap of a tank top. Her foot is propped on the bench, and her chin is resting on her knee. She’s using a mouse to scroll a website, and when she looks at me, her eyes widen.
“Where have you been?”
“I have an office in the cottage next to the lighthouse. Maybe you didn’t notice it when you drove up. I was doing some work. The internet,” I nod in her direction as I assume she’s using it, “is still strong and I was able to get a little work done. What smells so good?” I shuffle to the stove and lift the lid to a large pot I don’t remember owning.
“Chicken soup. I was going to ask you if you had plans for the two chicken breasts in the fridge, but I took a chance when I couldn’t find you. I hope it’s okay.”
“This is a lot better than what I had planned for them. Thank you. You cook a lot?” I stir the soup with the wooden spoon resting near the stove. Chunks of chicken swirl around with egg noodles, onion, celery, carrots. If it tastes half as delicious as it smells, I’ll be a happy man. She made enough for a couple of days, and I won’t get tired of eating the leftovers.