and she kept to herself.
She had been living in the little cottage for nearly a month. Her lights were always out by eleven and he’d only bumped into her twice, not including the day she’d moved in with only one small van full of belongings and a check to cover the rent for an entire year. He’d requested only the first month’s amount, but she’d insisted on paying the remainder up front and signing a lease, which he’d hastily drawn up on his computer.
In truth, he hadn’t expected her to return at all. He’d figured her trip to the country had been a fluke and she would reconsider her decision to move here. For all he knew, she’d had a spat with her husband and once they’d kissed and made up she would regret her impulsiveness. He knew he was regretting his. But two days after shaking his hand while standing in the dusty cottage, she had come back with her spine straight, her gaze direct and determined.
She’d been all business that day, although he thought he’d detected exhaustion and maybe a little desperation behind her polite smile and firm handshake. Both had him wondering, but he’d managed to keep his curiosity in check. Not my business, he told himself.
On their two subsequent meetings, both of which had occurred at the mailbox out by the road, they’d exchanged greetings and the expected pleasantries, but they hadn’t lingered as they had that first day on his porch. Nor had they spoken at any length.
Gavin found that he wanted to.
He was only human, and the enigmatic Lauren Seville inspired a lot of questions. What was the real story? The bits and pieces he knew certainly didn’t add up.
For starters, women who looked and dressed like Lauren didn’t rent tiny cottages in the country. Gabriel’s Crossing was quaint and its four-star inn and three bed-and-breakfasts attracted their fair share of tourists year-round, but the town was hardly a mecca for New York’s wealthy. It had shops and restaurants, but it lacked the upscale boutiques, trendy eateries, day spas and high-end salons that a woman from Manhattan’s Upper East Side would not only expect but require.
And then there was the not-so-little matter of a wedding ring. The gold band and Rock of Gibraltar he’d noticed that first day had been on her finger when Lauren had handed Gavin her check for the rent.
Seeing it had prompted him to ask, “Will anyone be joining you in the cottage?”
She’d answered with a cryptic “Eventually.”
Gavin assumed that someone would be her husband. But a month later the man had yet to put in an appearance. Spat, he wondered again? Or something bigger and more permanent?
“Not my business,” he muttered again and got back to work.
He’d long finished with the crown molding in the living room and had trimmed out the tall windows that faced the road. Per Lauren’s suggestion, he’d opted to stain both them and the mantel a rich mahogany. The room was coming along nicely, needing only a few patches in the plaster, fresh paint and a refinished floor to complete its transformation. Those could wait. He still had plenty of other projects to keep him busy. Indeed, every room in the house except the master suite had something that still required his attention. If this were a company site, a bevy of contractors would be working off a master list with the various jobs prioritized and deadlines for completion penciled in. But this project was personal and, well, cathartic, so Gavin worked at his own pace and on whatever suited his mood.
Today, it was laying the floor in the secondary downstairs bathroom. He’d chosen a tumbled travertine marble imported from Mexico. The sandy color complemented the richer-hued tiles he’d used on the walls. He planned to grout that later in the day—assuming he hadn’t succumbed to heatstroke by then.
He reached for his water bottle and, after taking a swig, used the hem of his T-shirt to mop the perspiration from his brow. It was not quite noon but it was already pushing eighty degrees in the shade. The house didn’t have working air-conditioning yet. The guys from Howard’s Heating and Cooling had assured him a crew would be out later in the week. In the meantime, Gavin had to make do with a box fan and the meager breeze that could be coaxed through the home’s opened windows. He put in the earpieces of his MP3 player and got back to tile laying. He liked to listen to music while he worked. He preferred up-tempo rock, the heavier on the bass the better.
“Hello?” Lauren’s voice echoed down the hall, somehow managing to be heard over the music blaring in his ears.
He was on his hands and knees, having just laid another square, when he heard her. He tugged out the earpieces and levered backward so he could peer out the door.
“In here,” he called.
She’d pulled her hair back into a tidy ponytail and was dressed in a sleeveless white linen blouse that she’d left untucked over a pair of pink linen shorts. On another woman the outfit would not have been all that sexy, but on Lauren…Gavin swallowed, and the heat that blasted through his system had nothing to do with the temperature outside. He didn’t remember her being quite so curvy.
Tenant, he reminded himself. Married tenant.
Even so his mouth went dry. The woman had a classy set of legs. He’d caught a glimpse of them that first day when she’d been wearing a sundress, but this outfit did a much better job of showcasing them. They were as long as a model’s, and slim without being skinny. She had smooth knees, nicely turned calves and those ankles…He made a little humming noise as he reached for his water, not sure whether he wanted to drink the stuff or dump it over his head. God help him. He had a thing about ankles. He downed the last of the water and forced himself to look elsewhere.
“I can’t believe you’re working today,” she said.
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.” His gaze veered to her ankles again. “H-how are you holding up?”
The cottage had no air-conditioning, either, and unlike the house, where Gavin’s bedroom was on the main floor, the only sleeping quarters there were on the upper level.
“I’m fine.”
It wasn’t the answer he expected. He figured she had come to complain. If he were renting the cottage, he would.
“I’m having the air-conditioning here fixed and I’ll also have a unit installed in the cottage if you’d like.”
“Yes. I’ll gladly pay for it.”
“No need. Unfortunately, it won’t be today. It probably won’t be till the end of the week,” he said.
“That’s okay. I’m fine,” she said again.
“Do you always say that?”
Her brow wrinkled. “Sorry?”
“Fine. It seems to be your stock response.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“That’s another one.”
She frowned again, clearly not knowing what to say. For one bizarre moment, Gavin found himself wishing she’d lose her temper. He’d bet she’d look incredible angry.
“The tile looks terrific.” More politeness, but he let it pass. He wasn’t sure why he’d goaded her in the first place. Most landlords would kill for such an easy-going tenant.
“Thanks.”
“You’ve obviously done this before.”
“A time or two.” Although not recently.
For the past decade, Gavin had been in charge of the big picture. He and his brother paid other people to see to the details. Theirs was a rags-to-riches success story, or so the New York Times claimed in a feature story they’d done on him and Garrett a couple years back.
The article had made it seem as if Gavin O’Donnell, businessman and self-made millionaire, had it all. But even prior to his divorce, he’d felt something was missing, that some vital part of himself had been lost. Little by little he was getting it back.
Lauren’s