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She wasn’t tall—average height, maybe, with ample curves, maybe a little extra in the hips that he found...comforting. Her hair was the color of roasted pecans, short and shoved behind her ears and messy on top. Side bangs fell across her forehead. She looked good sleep-mussed, her classic pajamas in an almost see-through shade of pink cupcakes.
And her feet were pretty.
He must be asleep and dreaming because he didn’t have a foot fetish. Never noticed women’s feet unless they were in shoes sky-high and strappy at the end of very long legs. But Carrie’s bare feet were perfectly shaped, feminine and smooth, and her toes polished a shiny pearl. Around her left ankle was a delicate silver chain he found particularly intriguing.
She turned her head and looked over one shoulder at him. “Which kind?”
He snapped his eyes to hers. “You choose.”
She handed down the sandies and then reached back for the Oreos, grinning. “Who says we can’t have both?”
Plastic crinkled as she ripped open the packages and offered him first dibs. He took his mind off the interesting little ankle bracelet to help himself to an Oreo.
“Julia prefers to bake from scratch. This is her emergency stash.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“In a storm of this proportion? You bet it is.” She crunched down on a sugary sandie, scattering crumbs.
He saluted her with the Oreo and thought how pleasant and comfortable this unexpected late-night encounter had become. She had no idea she’d saved him from a bout of melancholy after the conversation with his mother.
He was about to pry into her life, a natural result of his writer’s curiosity, when a sound from outside caught his ear.
He tilted his head. “Did you hear something?”
Carrie’s espresso eyes got bigger. “No. Did you?”
“A clatter. On the porch. As if a chair fell over.”
Thunder rolled, and rain gushed against the house as loud as Niagara Falls. “How can you hear anything over the storm?”
He shrugged. “Probably nothing.”
“It’s your murderous writer’s brain.”
She wasn’t wrong about that, but he walked to the window anyway and peered out.
“Black as the heart of a coal mine.” He started to turn back to his bold coffee and chocolate cookie when a shadowy bulk caught his eye.
“What is—?” He tensed, leaned in, squinted. “Turn the light off.”
“What? What do you see?”
“Turn the light off so I can be certain.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“It’s probably some poor animal trying to get out of the storm.”
“A mountain lion. Or a bear.”
He smirked at her. “You have a vivid imagination.”
“From the mouth of Hayden Winters.” She clicked off the light. “Don’t do something juvenile and try to startle me. I’ll scream and wake the whole house.”
But Hayden’s attention was focused on the dark lump against the wall of the porch. “There’s someone on the veranda.”
“No way.” She flipped the light back on. “No one would be out in this.”
“No one should be.” He strode to the entry leading out onto the veranda, flipped on the porch light and jerked the door open.
Rain and wind battered the flowers along the railing and sprayed mist against the entry. Hayden felt Carrie’s warmth close behind him, felt her shiver.
Her sharp intake of breath matched his.
“Oh, my gravy,” she whispered.
Storm or no storm, Hayden strode outside. A wind gust sprayed him with fat drops of rain, and cold prickled the skin on his arms.
A boy, drenched to the bone and shivering, huddled against the wall, a soggy bundle of plastered hair and pale skin.
“What are you doing out here?” Hayden demanded.
The kid’s teeth chattered. “I—I got lost.”
“On a night like this?”
Miserably, the boy nodded but glanced away, either lying or too chilled to hold eye contact. No kid would be out alone in a storm without good reason.
Hayden grabbed him by the arm and said, “Come inside.”
The boy came willingly, eagerly, and stood in the entry dripping water everywhere. He shivered like a wet Chihuahua.
Hayden pulled the door closed and blocked out the chilly wet air.
“We’ll need towels.” Carrie rushed away.
While she was gone, Hayden quietly assessed the young boy. He was slender built, close to skinny, with a heart-shaped face kissed by a sprinkle of brownish freckles. A Huckleberry Finn kind of kid who was trying to look anywhere except in Hayden’s eyes. There was something frighteningly familiar about the kid, so much so that Hayden softened.
In a patient voice, he said, “I’m Hayden. Who are you?”
“Brody.” He rubbed a soggy hand across his wet eyes. His rain-darkened eyelashes stuck straight out above cheeks pale as sand.
“So you got lost?”
The boy stared down at the ever-widening puddle on the floor. “Um...yeah.”
Lost didn’t feel right to Hayden. He was reasonably sure the boy was hiding something. The question was, why?
“What were you doing out in this kind of weather?” A beeping sound came from the kitchen. Hayden kept his focus on the child.
“Camping out.” Brody’s voice was soft and uncertain. “I wasn’t expecting the storm.”
Camping out. Okay, that made sense. Country boys did that kind of thing. He’d done it plenty of times.
“By yourself?”
“Yeah.”
Carrie appeared with two snow-white towels and draped one around the boy’s shoulders. “I warmed them for you in the microwave.”
That explained the beep.
“Smart.” Hayden glanced at her in appreciation.
“Thank you.” Brody shivered and huddled beneath the fluffy towel while Carrie patted at his face and soggy hair with the other. Kind. Tender. Her actions stirred something in Hayden’s chest. He couldn’t remember anyone ever drying him off.
“What’s your phone number, Brody? I’ll give your folks a call.”
“Uh, they’re, uh—” The boy fidgeted. “They’re not home.”
“No?” Suspicion, like a hairy spider, crawled over Hayden’s scalp.
Brody flashed pale blue eyes at Hayden before letting them slide away. But in that instant, Hayden saw the truth. The kid didn’t want to go home. He preferred a stormy, cold, wet night alone.
An icy feeling of déjà vu lodged in Hayden’s chest.
He’d camped out in the woods dozens of times to avoid going home.
Carrie disappeared again to make noises in the kitchen. Lightning flickered against the windows, less intense than earlier.
“You camp by yourself often?”
“I like the woods.” Brody’s quiet words were almost imperceptible.
If the kid knew the woods well enough to camp, he likely had not been lost at all.
“How old are you, Brody?”
“Eleven.”
“You live close by?” The lopsided conversation felt more like an interrogation, which Hayden supposed it was.
“In town.”
Hayden had stopped in the picturesque town of Honey Ridge, a couple of miles down the road, when he’d come through on his way to the inn. “Pretty long walk.”
“I don’t mind it.” A glint of humor showed in the blue eyes Brody flashed his way. “Except when it storms.”
“Can’t say I don’t feel the same.”
Carrie returned, carrying a steaming white cup and the bag of Oreos. “Here you go, Brody. A mug of hot cocoa should warm you up.”
Shaky hands took the offered treats. “Thanks.”
The kid gobbled a cookie in two bites. Hungry, Hayden thought, when he dispatched a second one every bit as quickly. Pondering, Hayden munched on his Oreo while the boy ate and drank.
“You’re welcome to all the cookies you want.” Carrie urged the package toward Brody.
“I should...go.” But he made no move to shed the now-damp towels or move toward the door.
Carrie put another cookie in his hand. “Drink your cocoa, and we’ll figure something out.”
The kid had nowhere to go. Hayden had already figured that out even if Carrie hadn’t. A thought danced through his head, and he latched on.
“I have a perfectly good room upstairs that I won’t be using tonight,” Hayden offered. “Why don’t you bunk there until morning?”
Brody shook his head. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not? I paid for the bed, but I won’t be in it. Someone might as well sleep there.”
“But—”
“He works at night, Brody.” Carrie flashed Hayden a look of gratitude. “It’ll be okay. Julia won’t mind.”
Hayden didn’t know if the innkeeper would mind or not, and he didn’t much care. The kid was cold, hungry and too exhausted to be any trouble. He was staying. If Julia wanted to charge extra on Hayden’s tab, fine.
“I’ll take my laptop into the front parlor close to the coffeemaker. The bed’s all yours.”
The boy looked relieved, hopeful. “You sure? I wouldn’t bother nothing.”
“Drink up, and let’s get you upstairs.”
Brody took a long swig and drained the cup, handed it off to Carrie. “Thank you. You make delicious cocoa.”
Carrie touched his wet hair. She was, Hayden noticed, a toucher. “You’re welcome.”
“Ready?”
The boy nodded, and Hayden led the way up the stairs, whispering, “Watch the third step. It creaks.”
With a solemn nod, Brody imitated Hayden’s path and nothing squeaked.
Inside the bright and pretty Mulberry Room, Brody stood awkward and silent while Hayden dug out a pair of drawstring sweats and a T-shirt. The air was thick and humid from the damp night and a wet boy who smelled of river and woods.
“They’ll be too big, but they’re dry.” He motioned toward the bathroom. “In there. You can grab a hot shower if you want to.”
“I’m pretty tired.”
