Heroes are My Weakness by Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page B

drum. Seeing him through those glowing red embers—that dramatic dark hair, those feral blue eyes and saber-sharp features—was like catching a glimpse of the devil’s lieutenant out for a winter romp.
    She curled her hands in her coat pockets and stepped inside the burning circle. “Jaycie says you’re going to fire her.”
    “Does she?” He picked up a chicken carcass that had fallen on the ground.
    “I told you last week that I’d help her, and I have. The house is decent, and you’re getting your meals.”
    “If you can call what the two of you send up ‘meals.’ ” He tossed the carcass into the fire. “The world’s a tough place for a bleeding heart like you.”
    “Better a bleeding heart than no heart at all. Even if you gave her a big severance check, how long would it last? It’s not like there are other jobs waiting for her. And she’s one of your oldest friends.”
    “This morning, I was the one who had to drive the recycling into town.” He gathered up a handful of withered orange peels.
    “I would have taken it in.”
    “Right.” He threw in the orange peels. “We saw how well yesterday’s trip worked out for you.”
    “An aberration.” She said the words with a straight face and some serious attitude.
    He gazed at her, taking in her undoubtedly flushed cheeks and the tangled mayhem poking out from beneath her red knit hat. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Not threatening, but more as if he were really seeing her. All of her. Bumps and bruises. Scars. Even—She tried to shake off the impression. Even . . . a few holy spots.
    Instead of the fear and disgust his scrutiny should have elicited, she had a disturbing desire to sit down on one of the tree stumps and tell him her troubles, as if she were fifteen all over again. Exactly how he’d roped her in the first time. Her hatred spewed over. “Why did you burn Regan’s poetry notebook?”
    The fire flared. “I don’t remember.”
    “She was always trying to protect you. No matter what horrible thing you did, she’d defend you.”
    “Twins are weird.” He almost sneered, reminding her so much of Leo that she shivered. “Tell you what,” he said. “Maybe we can work something out.”
    The calculation in his eyes made her suspect he’d set another one of his traps. “No way.”
    He shrugged. “All right.” He pitched a full trash bag into the fire. “I’ll go talk to Jaycie.”
    The trap snapped shut. “You haven’t changed a bit! What do you want?”
    He turned his devil’s eyes on her. “I want to use the cottage.”
    “I’m not leaving the island,” she said as the acrid smell of burning plastic filled the clearing.
    “Not a problem. I only need it during the day.” The waves of heat rising from the fire between them distorted his features. “You stay at Harp House in the daytime. Use the WiFi. Do whatever you want. When evening comes, we trade places.”
    He’d set a trap, and the jaws had snapped. Had he ever said that he was going to fire Jaycie, or had she and Jaycie merely assumed that was the case? As she considered the likelihood that this was a ploy designed to manipulate her into doing his bidding, she was struck by something else. “ You’re the one who was using the cottage before I got here. That coffee I found belonged to you. And the newspaper.”
    He threw the last of the trash into the fiery drum. “So what? Your mother never minded lending out the cottage.”
    “My mother’s gone,” Annie countered. She remembered the newspaper she’d found that had been dated a few days before her arrival. “You must have known when I was arriving—everybody on this island seemed to know. But when I got here, there was no water, no heat. That was deliberate.”
    “I didn’t want you to stay.”
    He exhibited not even a trace of shame, but under the circumstances, she wasn’t handing him a gold star for honesty. “What’s so special about the cottage?”
    He grabbed his