my way after you meet him. The man is gorgeous. Yum, that’s all I have to say. Yum!”
Just what she needed. A player who would probably be entertaining a long string of model types at all hours of the day and night. “As long as he pays his rent on time and only needs a two-month lease, I don’t care what he looks like.”
“That’s because you haven’t met him yet. How much longer will Julia Blair and her kids be renting the second floor? I might be interested when she moves out—I’d love to be beneath that man.”
Anna couldn’t help her groan, both at Tracy’s not so subtle sexual innuendo and at the idea of the real estate agent’s wild boys living in the second-floor apartment.
“Julia and Will aren’t getting married until June,” she answered. With any luck, Lieutenant Maxwell would be long gone by then, leaving behind only his nice fat rental check.
“When she moves out, let me know. That might be a good time for us to talk about a more long-term solution to Brambleberry House. You can’t keep taking in temporary renters to pay for the repairs on it. The place is a black hole that will suck away every penny you have.”
Didn’t she just know it? Anna let herself in the front door, noting that the paint on the porch was starting to crack and peel.
Replacing the furnace the month before had taken just about her last dime of discretionary income—not that she had much of that, as she tried to shore up her faltering business amid scandal and chicanery. The house needed a new roof, which was going to cost more than buying a brand-new car.
“Now listen,” Tracy went on in her ear as Anna opened the door to her apartment to set down her laptop, Conan on her heels. “I told you I’ve got several fabulous potential buyers on the hook with both the cash and the interest in a great old Victorian on the coast. You need to think about it, Anna. I mean it.”
“I guess I didn’t realize there was such a market for big black holes these day.”
Tracy laughed. “When you have enough money, no hole is too big or too black.”
And when you had none, even a pothole could feel like an insurmountable obstacle. Anna swallowed another sigh. “I appreciate the offer and your help finding a tenant for the attic apartment.”
“But you’re not interested in selling.” Tracy’s voice was resigned.
“Not right now.”
“You’re as stubborn as Abigail was. I’m telling you, Anna, you’re sitting on a gold mine.”
“I know.” She sat down in Abigail’s favorite armchair. “But for now it’s my gold mine. Mine and Sage’s.”
“All right, but when you change your mind, you know where to find me. And I want you to call me after you meet our Lieutenant Maxwell.”
As far as Anna was concerned, the man wasn’t our anything. Tracy was welcome to him. “Thanks again for dealing with the details of the rental agreement,” she answered. “I’ll let you know how things are going in a week or two.’ Bye, Tracy.”
She ended the call and set down her phone, then leaned her head back against the floral upholstery. Conan sat beside her and, like the master manipulator he was, nudged one of her hands off the armrest and onto his head.
She scratched him between the ears for a moment, trying to let the peace she usually found at Brambleberry House seep through her. After a few moments—just when her eyelids were drifting closed—Conan slid away from her and moved to the door. He planted his haunches there and watched her expectantly.
“Yeah, I know, already,” she grumbled. “I plan to go upstairs and say hello. I don’t need you nagging me about it. I just need a minute to work up to it.”
Still, she climbed out of the chair. After a check in the mirror above the hall tree, she did a quick repair of her French twist, grabbed Conan’s leash off the hook by the door and put it on him, then headed up the stairs to meet her new neighbor.
As she trailed her fingers on the railing worn smooth by a hundred years of Dandridge hands, she reviewed what she knew about the man. Though Tracy had handled the details, Anna knew Lieutenant Maxwell had impeccable references.
He was an army helicopter pilot who had just served two tours of duty in the Middle East. He was currently on medical leave, recovering from injuries sustained in a hard landing in the midst of enemy fire.
He was single, thirty-five years old and willing to pay a great deal of money to rent her attic for only a few months.
When Tracy told her his background, Anna wanted to reduce the rent. She was squeamish about charging full price to an injured war veteran, but he refused to accept any concession.
Fine, she thought now as she paused on the third-floor landing. But she could still be gracious and welcoming to the man and hope that he would find the healing and peace at Brambleberry House that she usually did.
Outside his door, the scent of freesia curled around her and she closed her eyes for a moment, missing Abigail with a fierce ache. Conan didn’t let her wallow in it. He gave a sharp bark and started wagging his tail furiously.
With a sigh, Anna knocked on the door. A moment later, it swung open and she forgot all about being kind and welcoming.
Tracy had told the God’s-honest truth.
Yum.
Lieutenant Maxwell was tall—perhaps six-two—with hair the color of aged whiskey and chiseled, lean features. He wore a burgundy cotton shirt and faded jeans with a small, fraying hole below the knee.
He had a small scar on the outside of his right eye that only made him look vaguely piratelike and his right arm was encased in a dark blue sling.
The man was definitely gorgeous, but there was something more to it. If she had passed him on the street, she would have called him compelling, especially his eyes. She gazed into their hazel depths and felt an odd tug of recognition. For a brief, flickering moment, he seemed so familiar she wondered if they had met before.
The question registered for all of maybe two seconds before Conan suddenly began barking an enthusiastic welcome and lunged for Lieutenant Maxwell as if they were lifelong friends.
“Conan, sit,” she ordered, disconcerted by her dog’s reaction. He wasn’t one for jumping all over strangers. Despite his moods and his uncanny intelligence, Conan was usually well-mannered, but just now he strained against the leash as if he wanted to knock her new tenant to the ground and lick his face off.
“Sit!” she ordered, more sternly this time. Conan gave her a disgruntled look, then plopped his butt to the floor.
“Good dog. I’m sorry,” she said, feeling flustered. “Hi. You must be Harry Maxwell, right?”
Something flashed in his eyes, too quickly for her to identify it, but she thought he looked uncomfortable.
After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah.”
With that single syllable, he sounded as cold and remote as Tillamook Rock. She blinked, not quite sure how to respond. He obviously didn’t want to be best friends here, he was only renting her empty apartment, she reminded herself.
Despite Conan’s sudden ardor, it was probably better all the way around if they all maintained a careful distance during the duration of Harry Maxwell’s rental agreement. He was only here for a short time and then he would probably head back to active duty. No need for unnecessarily messy entanglements.
Taking her cue from his own reaction, she forced her voice to be brisk, professional. “I’m Anna Galvez, one of the owners of Brambleberry House. This is my dog, Conan. I don’t know what’s come over him. I’m sorry. He’s not usually so…ardent…with strangers. Every once in a while he greets somebody like an old friend. I can’t explain it but I’m very sorry if his exuberance makes you uncomfortable.”
He