Colin studied the trimmed boxwood hedges, the Cape Cod curtains draped at the windows and the polished brass door knocker. “I’d better put on my shoes and shirt.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re a waif of the storm. Grandma won’t insist on proprieties.”
He struggled to tie his shoes in the cramped confines of the truck’s cab. “If she’s anything like my grandmother was, she’ll expect the best possible attire under the circumstances.” He unrolled the shirt and grimaced as he shoved his arms into it. “Damn, that’s cold.” He forced the damp buttonholes around the buttons and unzipped his cotton pants.
“Colin!” Sydney glanced out the window, but not before he spotted a telltale flush suffusing her cheeks and neck.
“Can’t help it,” he grunted. “Tucking in a dry shirt without unzipping my pants is hard enough, but tucking in a wet one, in the cab of a truck, would be damned near impossible.” The zipper buzzed again. “Okay, you can look.”
“All that was really unnecessary,” she insisted, avoiding his eyes.
“We’ll see. I think this entire trip might have been unnecessary, but the day may prove me wrong.”
“You haven’t had any experience with seaboard storms,” she said, rising to the bait. “I don’t know why you can’t admit it and—”
“Sorry.” He laid his hand over hers, and the surge of warmth he felt in the chilled cab was incredible. “I started that, but let’s not take this discussion into your grandmother’s neat and tidy house, okay?”
“Um…okay. But you are wrong, you know.” She stared at their joined hands.
“Maybe I am and maybe I’m not, but this shirt will give me pneumonia unless we get inside that very warm-looking New England house in the next two minutes.” He squeezed her hand gently and released it. Then he followed her as they left the truck and scurried through the rain.
Phyllis Anderson didn’t match her house, Colin decided, and certainly not any stereotype he held of grandmothers in general. As she hurried them into the living room and over to the fire, he realized she was nearly his height. Well, maybe not, but the frizzy, outrageously red hair and her thin frame made her seem taller. Also the full-length purple caftan. The only grandmotherly thing about her was a slight hesitation about her movements, a stiffness.
Her living room, however, was pure New England—stereotypical wing-backed chairs, a skirted couch in a tiny floral print, braided rugs on waxed wooden floors. The room could have belonged to Betsy Ross or Abigail Adams, except for the television broadcasting a game show.
“God, Sydney, I was worried sick about you,” the tall woman said in a husky voice as she took the damp slicker from her granddaughter and disappeared into the hall to hang it up. “The weather reports are terrible.”
“I know.” Sydney cast a triumphant glance at him, and he responded with a small salute just before his hostess returned to the room. “Grandma, this is Colin Lassiter, one of our summer guests.”
“Sydney, what’s wrong with your voice? You never used to sound like me.”
“I guess I strained my throat yelling through the bullhorn. I’ll be okay.”
“Well, you’re both wetter than turkey goslings. I’d better get you some dry clothes.”
“Let me, Grandma,” Sydney rasped. “Colin will fit into one of Grandpa’s shirts, don’t you think?”
Phyllis gave him a head to toe inspection before giving a regal nod of her carrot-topped head. “Looks like it. And take one of my sweat suits for yourself.”
“Be right back.” Sydney whipped from the room and ran lightly up the stairs.
Colin told himself that watching her leave was a natural male reaction. Enjoying the way she bounded up the stairs with the wet denim stretching across her firm behind—who wouldn’t? He started guiltily at the sound of her grandmother’s voice.
“She always had a cute fanny,” the older woman commented proudly. “I’ll turn off the television so we can talk.”
I wonder what about, he thought. As if I don’t know. You caught me looking at your granddaughter with lustful eyes, and you intend to investigate the situation. “Do you live alone here, Mrs. Anderson?” he asked.
“I do now that Hank’s gone.” She sank into a Boston rocker by the brick fireplace. “Lost him ten years ago. My well-meaning relatives wanted me to get rid of all his stuff, but I hung on to his wool shirts, thank God. They’re the only thing that keeps me warm at night, now that I don’t have a man to do it.” She chuckled and raised bright eyes to him. “You single?”
He should have known she’d go right to the heart of the matter. “Yes.”
“Ever been married?”
He considered not answering. But she was the sort of person who required answers. And her granddaughter might have saved his life today. “Once.”
“Ah.” She sounded relieved. He felt sure his one trip to the altar removed him in her mind from the odious ranks of the never married—whom she probably considered the confirmed hedonists, the mama’s boys and the self-centered loners of the world. She wouldn’t want her granddaughter tangled up with one of those.
“I borrowed your yellow sweatpants, Grandma, and some socks,” Sydney called as she scampered back down the steps. “Had to roll the legs up, but the waist is okay. And is this shirt all right for Colin?” She held up a forest-green wool for inspection.
“That one’s fine, dear. Come on over by the fire and dry your hair, what there is of it. How do you feel about short hair, Colin?”
“On men or women?” He had to smile at her forthright attitude. Smile and be careful she didn’t have him signing a prenuptial agreement before he left today.
“Women, of course. I think Sydney’s hair is as short as yours!”
Sydney sighed. “Not again, Grandma. This is the most practical haircut I can have for the beach.”
“But you look like a boy. Doesn’t she?”
He leaned an elbow against the polished wooden mantel and scrutinized Sydney. He enjoyed how her thick lashes framed her dark eyes as she held his gaze. Her eyes were almost the same color as her hair, he noted.
“No, Mrs. Anderson, she doesn’t look like a boy.”
The flush he hoped to see again bloomed fully on her cheeks, but a ghost of a smile appeared as well. “Thank you.”
The sparkle in her eyes nearly knocked him over, and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “You’re welcome.” The knowledge that he was responsible for her blush, for that telltale sparkle, filled him with delight.
“Well, I’m glad you don’t think so,” Phyllis said into the silence. “Better put on your shirt before you catch your death.” She continued to watch him as he dressed. “By the way, what was that thing you brought in?”
The computer! He paused with one arm shoved into the warm green shirt. How could he have forgotten? Hastily putting his arm in the other sleeve, he crossed to the drop-lid desk in the corner of the room, where he’d laid the laptop. Lifting the lid, he inspected the keyboard, which seemed okay. Then he booted up the system as he pulled the backup drive from his pocket.
The computer came online and he inserted the backup drive. He frowned as he opened the main file and scrolled through the contents. Then he checked the file on his backup. “Oh, my God.”
“What’s the matter? Is the computer damaged?” Sydney left the warmth of the fire to peer over his shoulder. “It looks okay to me. I can see the—”
“These plans are fine.” His stomach clenched.
“Then what’s the—”
“I picked up the wrong backup drive. These are my first drafts, done before I came to the beach. The ones I intended to send to Pittsburgh are…” His breath caught in his throat as he remembered the battering waves.
Sydney’s eyes widened. “Back at the cottage,” she murmured.
Also available from
New York Times Bestselling Author
Vicki Lewis Thompson
Gone with the Nerd
Flynn Granger ma
y be a high-profile entertainment lawyer in L.A., but his premier client, box office bombshell Zoe Tarleton, thinks he’s the perfect guy to teach her to be a nerd. Flynn’s not sure if he should be insulted or excited by her proposition of a cabin-in-the-woods retreat for lessons on nerdiness, but he’s willing to help her land a coveted role as a genius-level chemist.
Flynn knows Zoe wants to be respected as a serious actress, and out in the woods, he discovers she’s not just a pretty face. Even more surprising are the sparks that fly between them. But when eerie noises and a series of dangerous mishaps indicate a potential stalker or even the appearance of the legendary Bigfoot, Flynn realizes he may have to set aside his nerd persona to become the hero Zoe needs.
“A funny and thrilling ride!”
-- Romance Reviews Today
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson has such a great time writing romance novels that she’s published more than a hundred of them and has no intention of throwing in the towel. That’s despite being awarded a Nora Roberts Lifetime Achievement Award by Romance Writers of America. If that was a signal to quit, she’s not paying attention.
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The Fix-It Man Page 19