she wanted to avoid any emotional entanglements? They’d known each other three days and their relationship was already a mess. Annie wasn’t even sure what they were arguing about.
“What question?” she repeated once he’d slipped behind the wheel.
“I was curious about how you really felt about me.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” Annie said. “You can’t possibly know how I feel because I’m not sure how I feel.”
“I think you know exactly how you feel. You just refuse to admit it. That way, you can pretend that you have everything under control.”
Annie crossed her arms over her chest and sank back into the seat. She had no clue what he wanted from her and she also had no clue what she wanted from him. Why was this suddenly so complicated?
* * *
T HE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and clear. All traces of the nor’easter had dissolved inland and it was a beautiful autumn day on Cape Breton. Rourke yawned as he steered the SUV toward town.
He’d decided not to consider Annie’s opinion when it came to insulating her attic and just do it. What was she going to do, forbid him to climb the attic stairs? Lock him out of the cottage? He’d already learned that it was sometimes better not to risk asking her opinion. Especially if he wanted to avoid any kind of drama.
He fought off another yawn. He hadn’t slept much the night before. After they’d returned from the restaurant, they took out their frustrations with each other in bed, enjoying a rollicking roll in the sack that left them both exhausted.
Annie had fallen asleep, but Rourke had been plagued with restlessness. So he’d grabbed the flashlight and gone exploring. He really hadn’t intended to violate her privacy, but he’d wanted another look at what was in the front parlor.
He’d barely noticed the chill in the air as he went through her art, piece by piece. He’d seen some of the big oil paintings, the beautiful seascapes and landscapes. But then he’d stumbled upon all sorts of smaller works. There were weavings and quilt squares. There were beautiful Celtic crosses pressed into copper and screen printed onto homemade paper. He’d found a whole series of pen-and-ink drawings of local wildlife and watercolors of wildflowers.
When he’d seen it all, he’d been left breathless at the depth and scope of her work. She’d even taken some of her poems and turned them into handmade greeting cards—cards that were more beautiful and touching than any he could find in a store.
All that talent and no one knew about it. Rourke was afraid to bring it up, afraid that she’d be angry at him for snooping. But if she was looking for a source of income, it was sitting in her front parlor. All of her art was salable. She could give it to a gallery or a gift shop on the island and make enough to pay for central heat in the cottage or indoor plumbing or electricity. He just had to convince her to take the chance.
Rourke pulled up in front of the hardware store and hopped out of the truck. When he walked inside, Betty Gillies was behind the counter to welcome him.
“Well, hello again. Are you ever leaving town or have you decided to take up residence in Pearson Bay?”
“Oh, I’ll be going soon enough,” Rourke replied. “I’ve got a few more things keeping me busy.”
He hadn’t mentioned that he was staying at Annie’s place, but he was sure that most of the townsfolk already knew. Nothing was truly private on the island. You couldn’t sneeze without someone on the other side of town calling it pneumonia.
“A few more things? Or is it Annie Macintosh who’s keeping you busy?” Betty chuckled. “What can I get ya? More of those shingles?”
“Nope, this time it’s insulation,” Rourke said. “Ten rolls ought to do it. The same stuff you sold me for Buddy’s place.”
“Speaking of Buddy’s place, I’ve had a few inquiries about it. Not to buy, but to rent for next week.”
“Why would someone want to rent it for a
“What question?” she repeated once he’d slipped behind the wheel.
“I was curious about how you really felt about me.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” Annie said. “You can’t possibly know how I feel because I’m not sure how I feel.”
“I think you know exactly how you feel. You just refuse to admit it. That way, you can pretend that you have everything under control.”
Annie crossed her arms over her chest and sank back into the seat. She had no clue what he wanted from her and she also had no clue what she wanted from him. Why was this suddenly so complicated?
* * *
T HE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and clear. All traces of the nor’easter had dissolved inland and it was a beautiful autumn day on Cape Breton. Rourke yawned as he steered the SUV toward town.
He’d decided not to consider Annie’s opinion when it came to insulating her attic and just do it. What was she going to do, forbid him to climb the attic stairs? Lock him out of the cottage? He’d already learned that it was sometimes better not to risk asking her opinion. Especially if he wanted to avoid any kind of drama.
He fought off another yawn. He hadn’t slept much the night before. After they’d returned from the restaurant, they took out their frustrations with each other in bed, enjoying a rollicking roll in the sack that left them both exhausted.
Annie had fallen asleep, but Rourke had been plagued with restlessness. So he’d grabbed the flashlight and gone exploring. He really hadn’t intended to violate her privacy, but he’d wanted another look at what was in the front parlor.
He’d barely noticed the chill in the air as he went through her art, piece by piece. He’d seen some of the big oil paintings, the beautiful seascapes and landscapes. But then he’d stumbled upon all sorts of smaller works. There were weavings and quilt squares. There were beautiful Celtic crosses pressed into copper and screen printed onto homemade paper. He’d found a whole series of pen-and-ink drawings of local wildlife and watercolors of wildflowers.
When he’d seen it all, he’d been left breathless at the depth and scope of her work. She’d even taken some of her poems and turned them into handmade greeting cards—cards that were more beautiful and touching than any he could find in a store.
All that talent and no one knew about it. Rourke was afraid to bring it up, afraid that she’d be angry at him for snooping. But if she was looking for a source of income, it was sitting in her front parlor. All of her art was salable. She could give it to a gallery or a gift shop on the island and make enough to pay for central heat in the cottage or indoor plumbing or electricity. He just had to convince her to take the chance.
Rourke pulled up in front of the hardware store and hopped out of the truck. When he walked inside, Betty Gillies was behind the counter to welcome him.
“Well, hello again. Are you ever leaving town or have you decided to take up residence in Pearson Bay?”
“Oh, I’ll be going soon enough,” Rourke replied. “I’ve got a few more things keeping me busy.”
He hadn’t mentioned that he was staying at Annie’s place, but he was sure that most of the townsfolk already knew. Nothing was truly private on the island. You couldn’t sneeze without someone on the other side of town calling it pneumonia.
“A few more things? Or is it Annie Macintosh who’s keeping you busy?” Betty chuckled. “What can I get ya? More of those shingles?”
“Nope, this time it’s insulation,” Rourke said. “Ten rolls ought to do it. The same stuff you sold me for Buddy’s place.”
“Speaking of Buddy’s place, I’ve had a few inquiries about it. Not to buy, but to rent for next week.”
“Why would someone want to rent it for a
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