The Cottage Next Door

by Natasha Moore

  “No one ever accused me of being civilized,” he growled.

  There was that shivery feeling again. The electricity was back in the air, buzzing between them. “Now that you mention it, civilized might be overrated.”

  The surf pounded. The breeze died. Her heart raced and her body came alive.

  “Sylvie…”

  “Don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m going in,” he said, but she didn’t hear him move.

  “You feel it,” she whispered, almost afraid to say it out loud. Afraid to admit it. Afraid of rejection. But she was ready, so ready, to feel again. “This uncivilized pull between us.” She swallowed. “I’m aching, Hunter. You want it too. You feel it too. I know you do.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything.” Now she heard him get to his feet.

  “That’s why it’s okay,” she replied. She left the chair and went over to the railing. “Is it so wrong to want to find a little comfort together? To give each other some pleasure, knowing it doesn’t mean a thing?”

  “It’s only been six months since your husband died. How could you even think about it?” But he’d moved to the railing as well. They were only a breath away from each other.

  Her fingers grasped the railing, not daring to take that final step and reach out to him. “It’s been almost two years since your wife died. Would she want you to be so lonely you have to drown your grief in order to get through the day?”

  He didn’t speak. She could hear his ragged breathing over the sound of the surf.

  “One thing I learned from Matt was to live out loud. Live for today. Life is too short for regrets, Hunter.”

  “How can you want to fuck a stranger only six months after his death? How can you betray his memory like that?”

  Betray? Matt was dead. He wasn’t coming back. She’d been grieving her loss since the day of the fall. She’d had a long time to say good-bye. “Now you don’t know what you’re talking about. The best way to honor him is to live a full and happy life. Not curl up in a ball and drink myself to death.”

  She turned away then when she wanted nothing more than to reach out those few inches and take his hand. Touch his face. Beg him to take her and tell him it was okay to close his eyes and pretend she was Jenny if that would make him feel better.

  She knew it was pathetic. But she was so damn lonely.

  Sylvie climbed back into bed and wished Matt’s arms were around her. They’d traveled all over the world, but she’d been able to sleep anywhere as long as she had been cradled in his arms. The tears came then, and it was a long time before she cried herself to sleep.

  The cottages were too damn close together.

  Hunter stretched out in the wide bed and tried not to listen to Sylvie’s sobs through the thin walls. He’d promised himself that he’d try to be more civil to Sylvie. After all, she’d fed him steak and played with his dog. And, yeah, he’d been attracted to her from the beginning. Something about her drew him, something strong, something powerful that he didn’t understand. Or rather, he understood. He just wasn’t comfortable with it.

  He’d thought they’d been getting along for a while. One moment they’d been having an actual conversation in the dark, the next moment there had been something besides words in the air between them. The atmosphere had seemed charged with energy. They hadn’t been able to see each other, they hadn’t even been talking about anything remotely sexy. Dead spouses. How had things changed so quickly?

  Sylvie’s crying finally died down, so he closed his eyes to see if he could get some sleep before the sun came up. He called up an image in his mind of Jenny in this same bed, this same cottage, on their honeymoon. A week at the beach had been Fletcher’s wedding gift to them. A few months before, Hunter’s second book had leapt to the top of all the bestseller charts, shocking the hell out of Hunter, but Fletcher, in his unflappable style, had said he wasn’t at all surprised.

  Hunter smiled at the memory, but when he closed his eyes, instead of blond curls and blue eyes, he saw brown hair shot with gold and freckles dusting a turned-up nose. He couldn’t remember Jenny’s soft scent anymore, but he knew Sylvie’s already, a heady mix of spice and musk.

  He was afraid there was no going back to the way things had been before she’d come here and interrupted his long-winded pity party. Part of him was annoyed, but the other part, the bigger part, knew he should be thanking her.

  Chapter Three

  “Coffee?”

  Sylvie squinted as she stepped out onto the deck into the sunshine the next morning. Hunter stood on his deck, cradling a large mug in his long-fingered hands. He wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt that for once didn’t look as if it had been slept in.

  “Morning,” she said cautiously. Her shirt, on the other hand, had been slept in. She hadn’t done more than pull on a pair of white shorts before she stepped outside. She’d had to get some fresh air. The walls had quickly closed in on her after she woke from tangled dreams of Matt. And Hunter.

  He held up his mug. “I made a pot of coffee. Probably not as good as yours would be, but it’s hot and full of caffeine.”

  “Perfect. Thanks.” She crossed the deck, the surface already warm beneath her bare feet. Hunter was back out in a moment with another mug and handed it to her over the railings. “Smells great.”

  “Taste it before you say too many good things.”

  The small smile on his face was a bit disconcerting. Sylvie took a sip. Stronger than she usually drank it but not bitter at all. “It’s good. Thanks.”

  “No problem. You can come sit over here if you want.”

  She noticed for the first time that there was a second chair, a chaise, on his deck. He’d surprised her so much that she didn’t move. Didn’t know what to say.

  “I was going to cook up some eggs. To pay you back for dinner.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to…”

  “And to apologize for being such an ass.”

  “Oh, well…”

  He chuckled. This time Sylvie was able to see his face when he did it, and the way his face lit up made her breath catch. If she’d been attracted to him when he’d been surly, he was ten times more attractive now.

  Hunter set down his mug and reached out his hand. “Help you over?”

  She laughed, a quick, surprised bark. “Thanks. No. I’ll use the stairs.” She turned toward the steps, then realized that she still wore her nightshirt and hadn’t even looked in a mirror this morning. “Um…I’m going to change into some real clothes. And untangle this hair.” She set the mug down on the railing and slapped her hand over her mouth. “And brush my teeth.”

  He laughed. “Okay. I’ll be here. And, Sylvie…”

  She stopped her retreat and turned back. “Yes?”

  His hazel eyes flashed. “Your tangled hair is very sexy.”

  She rolled her eyes and ducked into the cottage. What had happened to the beer-chugging asshole her neighbor had been up until now? Did something happen last night when they’d been talking about the ocean and spouses and…oh yeah, they’d talked about sex. Her face burned as she remembered how she’d practically thrown herself at him.

  Lonely and horny was a bad combination.

  Sylvie ran into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, then took a good look in the mirror. The sight of her hair standing on end didn’t horrify her as much as the clear glimpse of her nipples and areolas through the thin white nightshirt.

  Nothing she could do about it now. She stripped off the nightshirt, put on a bra, then pulled on a V-neck T-shirt that didn’t hang halfway down her thighs. An odd sense of anticipation fluttered in her stomach. He’d called her sexy. Okay, he’d called her hair sexy, but still, that meant he was thinking of her in that way. Sexy.

  It had been forever since Sylvie had felt desirable. Sexy? Matt had never been big
on words, at least not with her. Strange, since he was a writer. It was as if he spent all his passion, all his words, on his beloved extreme sports. Sylvie had never doubted he loved her, but she knew she took second place in his life. At the time she’d thought it was worth it. To take care of all his needs, to be there when he needed her. As she’d needed him.

  But Matt had never really needed her. Not to be happy. His work had done that.

  She grabbed a brush and ran it ruthlessly through her hair. Her thoughts were turning as bitter as Hunter had seemed this past week. Matt had loved her, at least as much as he was able. He was always glad to see her when he got back from a climb or a motocross race or a marathon. Always made sure she got off during sex. Held her in his arms while she fell asleep.

  What more had she wanted? Why had she thought there should be something else? Something more?

  Her coffee was getting cold out there. Hunter, who thought her hair was sexy and told her so, was waiting for her with an offer of breakfast. She spared herself one more glance in the mirror and decided this was as good as it was going to get first thing in the morning after a night of little sleep. Maybe if Hunter thought messy hair was sexy, he’d go crazy over freckles and short, thin eyelashes.

  He was on the beach with Riley when she came back outside. She grabbed her mug and took the steps down to the beach. The sand was warm and always felt incredible, so soft beneath her bare feet. She curled her toes into the sand and watched Hunter tossing the Frisbee to the exuberant golden.

  Hunter turned and saw her. “Is that smile for me?”

  She froze with the mug halfway to her mouth. “Um. I hadn’t realized I was smiling.”

  “I guess it must have been for my outstanding coffee then?”

  Sylvie still wasn’t sure how to take this lighthearted Hunter. “Maybe it’s for Riley.”

  He approached her slowly and sighed dramatically. “Beat out by a dog.”

  Riley dashed up with the plastic disc in his mouth, his tail wagging a mile a minute. She reached down and patted his head. “Well, he is very handsome.”

  “Ouch. That means I’m not handsome?”

  Sylvie shook her head and realized she was definitely grinning like a fool. “Shame on you, fishing for compliments.” Riley dropped the Frisbee at her feet and she picked it up and sent it flying. Riley shot after it. “I always wanted a dog but could never have one.”

  “All that traveling.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You could get one now. After you buy your house in South Carolina.”

  “I guess. But it still wouldn’t be fair for the dog, would it? I’ll have to be out at a job all day, leaving him alone. At least you can work from home. You can keep the dog company.”

  This time Hunter’s laugh was darker. “When Jenny begged for a dog, she said she wanted a pet to keep her company.”

  “Oh.”

  “Guess it was tougher than she thought to have me in the house and not be able to drop into my office and talk whenever she got bored.”

  Sylvie didn’t admit she could understand feeling all alone sitting next to the one she loved. “She didn’t work outside the home?”

  “She did graphic design, websites, stuff like that from home. But it didn’t take the time that my books did.”

  Riley was back with the Frisbee looking back and forth between the two of them. “You said she had to beg? You didn’t want a dog?”

  He shook his head even as he reached down and scratched Riley’s head. “Don’t like dogs.”

  “Really?”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t get rid of him after Jenny died. It wouldn’t be right.”

  Sylvie took a quick sip of coffee. “And he kept you company.”

  Hunter opened his mouth as if to deny it, but then smiled instead. “Guess so.”

  That smile was going to destroy her. “You said something about eggs?”

  “Hungry?”

  “Getting there.”

  “Sure. Come on in. You can give me tips.”

  She followed him up the stairs to his deck. His place. It felt like a major step. As if they’d crossed an invisible line.

  The cottage was identical to hers. One floor, two bedrooms, one bath and an eat-in kitchen. They’d been built years ago. Long before “beach cottage” became synonymous with a multi-storied mansion that rose up to block the ocean views.

  Sylvie sat down at the small, round table in the corner of the bright white-and-blue kitchen.

  Hunter opened the refrigerator, peeked inside and then looked over his shoulder at her. “I suppose you have half-a-dozen kick-ass recipes for scrambled eggs.”

  “A few, I guess.”

  He stepped back and gestured to the fridge, a hopeful grin on his face. “I don’t suppose you’d like to…”

  “Oh no,” she said with a laugh. “You invited me over. It’s your turn to do the cooking this time.”

  He sighed good-naturedly and pulled out the egg carton. “Scrambled eggs. Coming up.”

  Hunter’s conversation skills were rusty, but Sylvie made it easy to talk about the weather and the beach and the dog curled up under the table hoping for crumbs to drop. Early-morning sunlight didn’t lend itself to talking about loss and need, and that was okay with him. Last night he’d talked more than he should have about those things.

  “When do you write?” Sylvie asked when they’d finished their eggs and were nursing their coffee.

  “What?” The only time he thought about writing now was when he refused to think about it.

  “I never see you with a laptop. Or a notebook. Are you one of those authors who works in the middle of the night?”

  “No.” Maybe this being-nice-to-the-neighbor thing was a mistake. He didn’t need to justify to her—to anyone—why he didn’t write anymore.

  “Matt did it all the time. If he wasn’t climbing or diving or whatever, he’d be scribbling notes or typing chapters. Some days I felt like your Jenny, wishing I had someone to talk to.” She pushed her mug away, grabbed her empty plate and began to rise. “I’m interrupting your writing time now, aren’t I?”

  “No.” He reached out and took her wrist. “Don’t go.”

  She let go of the plate and sat back down. “Aren’t you working on the next Angus Quinn mystery?”

  He didn’t want to see her leave, and if that meant he had to talk about it, he’d talk about it. “There aren’t going to be any more Angus Quinn books.”

  “No. You can’t be serious. How can you say that?”

  Hunter stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb. He couldn’t take his eyes off hers. They sparked with her indignation, and he couldn’t help but smile. “It’s the truth.”

  “But you haven’t wrapped up anything. What about his mother? Is he going to stop the search? And Olivia’s fiancé? She’s not really going to marry that jerk, is she? Those sparks between Angus and Olivia are there for a reason. How could you stop writing?”

  He couldn’t resist. Hunter leaned forward and silenced her with a quick kiss. He felt, more than heard, her sweet gasp, and he smiled against her lips. After another longer, deeper kiss, he pressed his forehead against hers. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you.”

  Sylvie leaned back to shoot him an incredulous look. “That first moment when you glared at me?”

  “I still wanted to kiss you. That doesn’t mean I liked the fact that I was attracted to you.”

  “Oh.” Her face lit up. “What about now? Do you like it?”

  “I liked the kiss. Still not sure about the rest.”

  She ran her tongue over her lips, leaving them shiny and even more tempting. “It’s not easy. Taking that next step. Is it?”

  He shook his head. He found it hard to believe he was considering it now.

  “So…in the
past two years…you never…”

  “I haven’t been exactly sociable.”

  “Right.” She swallowed. Looked down at her wrist, where Hunter was still stroking her soft skin. “I know Matt’s only been gone six months…”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything about it.” He’d been such a jerk. Would he ever stop lashing out? Sylvie didn’t deserve it.

  “No. I want to explain. After the fall, Matt was a quadriplegic. He had massive head trauma and a lot of internal injuries too. They didn’t think he was going to make it. He was in a coma for months and when he finally came out of it, he…well, he wasn’t the Matt I knew anymore. He was so angry.” She picked up her cup. “Is there more coffee?”

  “Sure.” Hunter refilled her mug and set it in front of her.

  Her hands trembled as she raised the mug to her lips and took a sip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get into all that. But you see, I thought he was dead when he fell. Then I never thought he’d come out of the coma. I mean, I prayed he would, but every day they told me to be prepared.” She pushed her chair away and got up. “I just want you to understand that I had a long time to say good-bye to Matt. I must have said good-bye to him a thousand times.”

  “I understand.” Hunter rose and met her in the middle of the floor. “I wanted to make you feel guilty because I still feel guilty. I’m not proud of the fact. I’m sorry.”

  Riley, who’d been dozing in the corner, jumped to his feet and nudged his way in between them. “He hasn’t had his run today.” Hunter took a deep breath. “Want to come with us?”

  “I’m not much of a runner,” she said.

  He took her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We can walk.”

  The route he usually ran with Riley took at least four times as long. The slower speed of walking versus running had very little to do with it. Sylvie must have said hello to almost every person on the beach. She stopped to admire every sand castle. She stooped to pick up shells and shove them in the pockets of her cargo shorts. She ran, laughing, into the surf with Riley.

  The rest of the time she strolled beside Hunter, her hand tucked into his.