He frowned.
That was nuts.
Other than the quick glimpse of fiery passion she’d given him while they sparred over capital punishment, his awkward visitor had come across as a timid introvert.
That kind of woman typically didn’t merit a second glance from him.
She was, however, one of the few young, eligible females he’d met in Hope Harbor—and their encounter was very recent.
That had to explain why she was lingering in his mind.
You sure about that, Roark?
At the prod from his subconscious, he put the car in gear and released the brake.
Yeah. He was sure. There was no other reason for her to be popping into his mind.
Except she managed to rev your engine, didn’t she?
“Oh, shut up.”
As he muttered that response and tuned out the annoying voice in his head, he lowered the heat and pointed the car toward the wharf.
Holly Miller may have stoked his libido for reasons that eluded him, but they were at opposite ends of the philosophical and ethical spectrum. Whatever appeal she held for him had to be some hormone aberration.
End of story.
In fact, even if they were compatible on every level, the chances anything would come of it were slim.
Fighting back a wave of melancholy, Steven flipped on his turn signal and scanned the rearview mirror, watching the house his brother shared with his wife and children recede.
Despite Patrick’s issues with alcohol and self-esteem, he had a family that loved him.
That was more than his older sibling with the alleged hero gene had.
More than he might ever have.
Because until—or unless—he came to terms with his past, he was doomed to a solo existence.
3
She had a new neighbor.
Tires crunching on the gravel, Holly swung her Civic into the driveway of her rental house on Sea Rose Lane and surveyed the small moving truck in front of the adjacent bungalow.
The white clapboard cottage next door with the miniscule front porch was the smallest dwelling on the dead-end street, but the unobstructed view of sea and sky from the patio on the double lot was to die for.
Too bad it hadn’t been available three months ago.
On the bright side, though, her house had been completely renovated, and it was charming despite the more restricted view. Plus, there was less yard work.
She parked and slid out of her car as two uniformed men exited the house next door, followed by a gray-haired man with a cane. After a brief exchange and handshakes, the movers continued to their truck and climbed aboard.
The older gent glanced over at her from his porch as the van pulled away from the curb, and she smiled and waved.
Without acknowledging her greeting, he turned his back and disappeared inside, closing the door after him.
Well.
She may not have gotten to know the previous occupants all that well given the long hours the couple had worked, but at least they’d been pleasant whenever they’d seen her.
This guy didn’t appear to have any interest in striking up an acquaintance—or even exchanging a civil greeting.
In fact, he was as off-putting as Steven Roark—without the saving grace of the fisherman’s inexplicable tingle-inducing charisma.
Holly retrieved her work satchel from the back seat, locked her car, and trudged toward the house.
What a day.
First, two upchucking six-year-olds that had not been part of her lesson plan, now a new neighbor who seemed about as sociable as the reclusive mole crabs that burrowed into the sand at the first hint of an interloper.
Not the best start to her week.
But she could veg for an hour before dinner and try to—
At the sudden vibration from inside her purse, she fumbled the key as she inserted it in the lock.
Good grief.
Ever since that unsettling encounter on Saturday with Steven Roark, her nerves had been—
She froze.
Roark.
Could this be him, calling to donate to the auction?
If so—and she let it roll—he could change his mind.
She pushed the door open, dropped her satchel to the floor, and scrambled to retrieve the cell before voicemail kicked in.
But it wasn’t the charter fisherman.
Quashing an irrational surge of disappointment, she pressed the talk button and put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. Everything okay?”
Same question her mother always asked.
“Fine.” No way was she going to share the news about the virus outbreak at school that was felling students and teachers alike. Her parents would only worry more than they already did. “The kids are wonderful, and every day is a joy.” Well . . . most days, anyway.
“You sound a little less perky than usual.” A thread of worry wove through her mother’s comment.
“It is Monday.” She injected a touch of humor into her inflection and changed the subject. “What’s new with you and Dad?”
As she listened to her mother recount a story about one of her cousins back East, she wandered into the kitchen and over to the back window that offered a view of the sea beyond the house next door.
The scene was calming, as always—until her new neighbor emerged onto his patio, a folding chair in one hand, his cane in the other.
She frowned.
At fifty-five degrees, with gray skies and a fine mist in the air, it wasn’t the best day to sit outside. Yet he opened the chair, faced it toward the sea, and eased into the seat.
“Don’t you think so, honey?”
Whoops.
She angled back toward the kitchen. “Sorry, Mom. I was distracted for a minute. I have a new neighbor, and I was watching him out the window. What did you ask me?”
“A new neighbor? What does he look like?” Her mother’s tone was half worried, half hopeful.
Better quash the worry and dash the hopes.
“I’d estimate he’s in his late seventies. He moved in today.”
“Oh.” Hard to tell if her mother was disappointed or relieved. “You’ll have to go over and introduce yourself. I always do that with newcomers on our street—and I bring along a plate of homemade cookies.”
“I remember.” She perused the man over her shoulder. “I don’t know about this guy, though. He ignored my wave as I pulled in from school.”
“He could be exhausted. Moving can be trying—and tiring. Worse if you’re doing it alone. Have you seen anyone else?”
“No.”
“All the more reason to make him feel welcome. He may be overwhelmed—and lonesome. It wouldn’t hurt to give him a second chance. Sometimes the least friendly people are the ones in greatest need of a friend.”
An image of Steven Roark popped into her mind.
Could that be true for him too? Hadn’t Charley suggested as much on Saturday?
Perhaps the fisherman’s usual disposition was agreeable and she’d just caught him at a bad time. His customers may have been demanding or irritable, and he could have been tired and frustrated after spending hours on the water.
If she paid him another visit, would he be more receptive to her—
“Holly?”
At her mother’s prompt, she blew out a breath.
Man, she was so not focused on this conversation.
“Sorry again. It was a busy day, and part of my mind is still on school.”