Music? Liam opened his dry, scratchy eyes and sat up in bed, instantly on the alert. His mind thick from sleep, he tried to make sense of what he heard. Why was music—ABBA, he thought—blasting through his house? Strike that. Blasting was an inaccurate description, as the volume wasn’t quite that loud, but there shouldn’t be any music. He lived alone. Unless his dogs had figured out how to—oh. Goldi. “Meredith,” he mumbled, tossing off his blankets.
He threw on a T-shirt and looked outside the window. Snowing. Still. Though, not quite as violently as before he fell asleep. Or perhaps that was only wishful thinking. Next, he picked up his watch—which had once belonged to his father—and frowned.
Eight o’clock? Morning, based on the hazy light suffusing his room and the fact that he could see more than two feet outside of his window, so he’d slept...twelve hours? Twice his typical amount? Well, hell.
He hadn’t done that in almost ten years. In the days after the tragedy that had forever changed his life, that for too long had filled him with regret.
He’d fallen in love in a whirlwind romance, had proposed and within a year was married and expecting his first child. They’d only known each other three months before they tied the knot, six before she had gotten pregnant.
Sure, he’d had his concerns and she’d had hers, but they were in love and believed that was enough to buffer them through any storm. They were wrong.
Home base was in Denver then, since that was where Christy had been born and raised, where her family lived. Seemed only fair to keep her in familiar surroundings where she had support, since his job took him out of the country so often. They lived in a typical house in a typical neighborhood, with too many people for Liam’s comfort, but for Christy...well, he’d put up with just about anything. Even living in the middle of suburbia.
She’d been almost seven months pregnant when he’d gone to parts of the Amazon Basin to photograph birds for National Geographic.
It was a long assignment—six weeks—and Christy hadn’t wanted him to go. She’d almost pleaded with him to stay, but he’d convinced her that by accepting the job, he’d be able to pass on any other assignments for a good long while afterward. So that he’d be close at hand for their baby’s birth and through the first year.
That had been the plan. Privately, he’d hated the idea of turning down the opportunity, because he figured it would be the last extended assignment he’d take for...well, years.
After some discussion, Christy had agreed. Of course she had. She was a sweetheart and tended to look after his needs more often than her own, and she’d seen the logic in his argument.
The morning he left, he’d kissed her and her baby belly, promised to touch base as regularly as he could, reminded her of how very much he loved her and he...walked out of their house. When he’d returned four weeks later, rather than six, it was to bury his wife and unborn child.
Carbon-monoxide poisoning had stolen them away while she slept, while he was thousands of miles away taking photographs of birds.
Didn’t matter what he knew—that it wasn’t his fault, and if he’d been at home, he would’ve been sleeping right beside her. The guilt had nearly consumed him, the loss had nearly destroyed him.
It had taken far too much time to locate stable ground once again. To find any peace within himself and, eventually, forgiveness. This house, the mountains, his career, his solitary existence—save for his sister and niece and his dogs—had, bit by bit, returned him to a state of near normalcy. He was better now, for the most part. Scarred, sure. How could he not be? But time did have a way with healing whatever wounds it could, and those that couldn’t be healed...well, they hardened and quit hurting so damn much. So a man could breathe, accept and carry on.
Liam forcibly shook himself out of his memories, shoved the entirety of that particular past into the recesses of his mind and took the stairs two at a time.
Where were Max and Maggie? Not with him, as they normally were. They would need to go out. They needed to be fed. And he’d have to deal with this woman who, for whatever reason, thought it was appropriate to listen to “Mamma Mia” at a higher-than-reasonable volume in a stranger’s house, while that stranger slept, at eight in the freaking morning.
A stranger who’d saved her butt, no less.
Nope, his inner Jiminy Cricket proclaimed, your dogs saved her butt, you just...ah, warmed it up some, along with the rest of her body. True story there, but these facts did not alter Liam’s annoyance one iota. His house. His part of the mountain.
He should be able to sleep all damn day if he chose, without worry that some woman and her love of a Swedish pop group would wake him from a near-dead sleep. It was, at the very least, inconsiderate. Bordering on rude. And something that required discussion, now, so that it did not happen again for however long he was stuck in these walls with Miss Goldilocks.
Moving through the living room, he noted that she’d folded the blankets on the sofa into a nice, neat pile, and that she’d fed the fire at some point, so that it still burned warmly, gently. That was decent of her, thoughtful.
This realization, however, did not cool his frustration. Here, the music was louder, more annoying and the last damn thing he wanted to hear. He wanted quiet. Silence. He wanted the normalcy of returning home from assignment and not having to deal with another human being until he was good and ready.
At the entrance to the kitchen, he stopped. Bubbling annoyance melted into a pool of nothingness as he stared.
The small oak table, which his grandfather had made with his own hands, was set for two. The dishes from last night were washed and drying in the stainless steel counter rack. And Goldi was standing in front of the stove, whipping up what looked to be a breakfast for a king. Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes.
And as she cooked, her hips swayed to the beat of the music, and her mane of curly blond hair all but bounced on her shoulders.
His dogs...his traitorous dogs...were sitting on their haunches near the door to the mudroom, watching Goldi with that adoring gaze. Of course, she was frying a panful of bacon. That could account for the love pouring from their eyes.
But he didn’t think so. Based on the quickening of his pulse and the tightening in his gut just at the very sight of this woman, he couldn’t really blame them, either. She had a way. A way that tended to appeal just as much, if not more, than frustrate. And they’d barely spent any time awake together. Didn’t seem to bode well for him.
“Morning,” he said, his tone sounding rough to his own ears. “You seem to be feeling...ah, let’s go with spirited. Slept well, did you?”
“Yes, Yoda, I slept quite well, and before you ask...I am feeling much better today,” she said, turning on her heel to face him. A quirky, almost mischievous grin lifted her lips. She reached over and picked up her phone, which she’d plugged into an outlet, slid her finger across the screen and the music stopped. Blissful silence filled the room. “Hungry? I hope so, because I seem to have gone a bit overboard here.”
With those simply stated words, his inner grouch quit fighting to resurface and disappeared into the nether, smothered by another person’s—this specific person’s—kindness.
Nope, he wasn’t hungry. Liam rarely ate breakfast, but no way and no how was he prepared to dim the glow in Meredith’s beautiful blue eyes. Today, he didn’t see any of the fear or loneliness he’d witnessed last night.
“Starving,” he said, rubbing his stomach for emphasis. “And preparing breakfast was unnecessary, but thank you. I’m unaccustomed to people cooking my meals. Unless I am at my sister’s place for dinner or I have to eat at a restaurant. It’s very thoughtful of you, and...well, very much appreciated.”
“I like to cook,” she said simply. “Can’t do a lot else for you at the moment, so...”
Her words trailed off, she shrugged and returned her focus to the stove. The silence went from blissful to a heavy type of awkwardness. Why?
Frowning, unable to think of anything else to say but needing to say something, he went with, “Looks as if breakfast is about ready. I’ll let the dogs out. If there’s anything I can do to help when I get back, I’ll—”
“Oh! No need,” she said over her shoulder. “I let them out earlier. We had to go through the front door. The snowdrifts in the back are piled ridiculously high. They did their thing and came right back in without any trouble. It’s nasty out there.”
“Okay, then. Thank you.” There went that idea. And he doubted that he’d ever expressed his thanks so often in so short of a time in his entire life. “I’ll just get them fed, so they’re not begging at the table while we eat. After breakfast, I’ll clear some of that snow in the back before it gets any higher. It looks as if we might be nearing the tail end of the storm.”
Thank God.
“Tail end, huh?”
“Think so. Hope so.” He stepped fully into the kitchen and whistled to the dogs. Both snapped their gazes to his for all of half a second. “Bet you two are hungry, huh?”
“I actually fed them, too.” Goldi tossed him an apologetic look before flipping two pancakes onto a plate and pouring another large spoonful of batter into the pan. “I wasn’t sure if that would be okay, since I don’t know their schedule, but they were adamant.”
Straightened the living room, added logs to the fire, took care of his dogs and was in the process of making him breakfast. Twenty-four hours ago, this woman lay unconscious on his couch and here she stood, apparently with every last thing under control. “Thank you,” he repeated, instantly wincing. “I’m all yours, then. Anything you need help with?”
“Coffee, I guess? I meant to start that earlier.”
Coffee! Hell yes. Caffeine was his ambrosia. Caffeine should jumpstart his brain, so he could think and regain control. Because right now, his world was spinning off its axis and he didn’t know how to stop the spinning. “I can do that. Not a problem.”
He grabbed the bag of coffee from the freezer and tried—oh, how he tried—to pretend that his entire being wasn’t centered on the tiny blonde in front of his stove. Or how adorable she looked wearing his navy plaid pajama bottoms—far too large for her small frame and rolled up at the ankles so she wouldn’t trip—and his forest green sweatshirt that just about hung to her knees.
Her curves were well hidden by the oversize clothing, and frankly there shouldn’t be one damn thing about her current appearance that could account for the tight ball of heat in the pit of his stomach. But she appealed to him, nonetheless. Made him want what he hadn’t wanted in...forever. Caused sweat to form on the back of his neck.
Sweat! How could she do that?
All of this was uncomfortable. Jarring. And a state of affairs he needed to get under control. Fast. But Lord, she made it difficult. Not only due to his nonsensical attraction, but...well, damn it all, she fit somehow.
In the way she jockeyed around him while he filled the pot with water, reached in front of him for a plate she’d left on the counter, tossed him a grin when they went for the dishtowel at the same time. It—this—felt familiar. It resonated. Her being here seemed easy, comfortable and...like the normal way of things.
Except, of course, none of this was normal. Distance was called for. Walls required building. Rules needed to be set. Because whatever was happening here couldn’t be allowed to continue. He’d traveled the yellow-brick road of following his heart instead of his common sense before, and that had not turned out well by anyone’s standards. He would not err again.
He was a man meant to be on his own. He did not need to be taught that lesson again.
“Once we’re done with breakfast, I’ll spend a couple hours outside, clearing the snow around the back door and shoveling a path to the shed. I need to check the generator, make sure we’re good still. And then, well, then I need to get some work done.” He said all of this lightning fast, in a no-room-for-argument tone, just as the coffee started to brew. “You’re welcome to make yourself at home. Feel free to poke around and do whatever you want to pass the time, but I will be busy. All day. Sorry about that, but a storm doesn’t negate my responsibilities.”
“Oh. I see. Okay. And of course it doesn’t.” Disappointment rang in her words, which made him feel like a heel, but he didn’t backtrack.
She transferred the bacon—what appeared to be an entire pound, perfectly cooked—to a plate. Then, with the skillet of scrambled eggs in hand, she dished them each a serving at the table and asked, “You work at home, I take it?”
His mule-headed nature kicked in, fierce. A normal question to ask, but he refused to be dragged into a conversation he did not want to have. General conversation? No problem. But anything deeper seemed a very bad idea, considering the current set of circumstances. He couldn’t outright ignore her question, either. That would be rude. He went with, “Partially.”
“Let me guess,” she said, her teasing humor returning. “Donning your wizard hat and casting spells? What is on today’s agenda, creating havoc or harmony or something in between?”
He liked her. Damn it. He liked her. “Perhaps a little of both.”
“Hmm. Well, if you could use your sorcery to get the phones working, even for a few minutes, that would be very much appreciated. I keep thinking about Rachel and how worried she must be. And if she contacted my family, they’ll also be worried.” She flinched and her chin lifted. “I mean, I think they’d be worried. They’ll probably be worried.”
Think? What kind of family did she have that she couldn’t state with unequivocal certainty that they would be worried? There was a story there, and yup, he was curious.
But he kept his questions to himself. Even so, her statement bothered him. That it did managed to bother him more. The fact she had the power to bounce his thoughts around like a basketball bothered him the most. He did not know her. She meant nothing to him. Yet, here they were.
“Wish I could do that for you,” he said about the phones. “But as we surmised last night, I’m not a wizard. The most I can do is get you out of here the second the weather and the roads allow. Besides which, chances are high that your friend doesn’t have phone service, either. Or power.”
“Right. Of course. I was just teasing. And I figured I’d call her mobile, but who knows. I should quit worrying. I’ll contact her when I can, as soon as I can.”
“I know you were teasing, and somehow I doubt you’ll stop worrying. But,” he said, “give it a shot. Worrying won’t solve a damn thing.”
Neither spoke for a few seconds, but then, as she set the plate of pancakes and the syrup bottle on the table, she asked, “So you’re not a wizard. What are you then? A butcher, baker or candlestick maker? King of some country I’ve never heard of?”
He grinned. He couldn’t help himself, and the answer slipped out. “Photographer.”
“What type? Wedding, babies, families...that sort of thing?”
Flinching at the idea of being around so many people so often, especially crying babies, he asked, “Since when did we start playing a game of twenty questions?” He retrieved two extra-large coffee mugs from the cupboard. “How do you take your coffee?”
“No sugar. Cream if you have it, but if you don’t, milk is good. And we might as well get to know each other a little since we’re cooped up together. Don’t you think?”
“Ah.” No, he did not think. Yet, he couldn’t say so without hurting her feelings. A thought he despised. “I guess that makes sense.”
“So...what type of photographer?”
“The type that uses cameras.” She was a persistent one, he’d give her that. Well, he could be more so. “I have the powdered version of cream...want that or prefer the milk?”
“Powdered is fine.” She tapped her sock-covered foot in mock impatience. Or he thought so, anyway. “I’m waiting. Who do you photograph? Babies, families, brides and grooms, or...?”
“Wildlife, mostly.” He filled the mugs with coffee, preparing hers as she’d asked. And that, too, felt familiar. Normal and comfortable, even if the questions weren’t. More so than he often felt when Fiona and Cassie were visiting, and they were his family. Now that was something that didn’t make a lick of sense. He hated when he couldn’t logic out a solution. “What about you? Butcher, baker or candlestick maker?”
Once breakfast was done, he’d make darn sure he stayed far away from Goldi until she was, hopefully, conked out on the sofa tonight. With his dogs, since they now seemed to prefer her over him. He couldn’t fault them for their good taste.
“At the moment, I am in between jobs. But I worked as a stager for several years.” She sat down at the table in the same chair she used the night before. “I liked it. Quite a bit, actually, but your job sounds so much more interesting. What type of wildlife?”
“Any type. All types.” He wasn’t quite sure what a stager was, but didn’t much feel like asking, so he didn’t.
Sitting down at the table, he took a large gulp of his coffee. He had to admit that the spread on the table was impressive, in sight and smell. His stomach rumbled in response, which shocked him. Typically, he didn’t get hungry until lunch. “Everything looks amazing.”
“Well, enjoy.” She served herself a pancake and a few strips of bacon. “I’m a master in the kitchen at breakfast, but that’s the extent of my culinary knowledge. Other than sandwiches.”
“Nothing wrong with a good sandwich,” he managed to say.
“No, I guess there isn’t.” Darting her gaze downward, she concentrated on her food, on slowly and methodically taking one bite at a time.
Following her lead, he filled his plate and tried to ignore the guilt gnawing his gut to shreds.
It was not his job to entertain this woman. She was his guest, but only by...well, force seemed too harsh a word, but it wasn’t far off. And worse, much worse, he didn’t feel himself around her, which further complicated the situation. What he wanted was for them to exist in their separate corners until she could leave, in order to preserve his sanity.
There were a few problems there. His place wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t built for two people to stay out of each other’s way. It seemed selfish. Mostly, though, he didn’t want her to feel bad.
He’d go for some honesty, see where that took them. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can see you’re trying here, and I appreciate your intent. I really do. I’m just not much of a socializer.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice quiet. She looked at him and smiled. “Really. I get it. You wish I wasn’t here. You’re used to being by yourself, and in from the storm, here I am, and now you’re stuck with me. I’m sorry about that, and I’ll try to be less...sociable.”
Lie through his teeth or go for more honesty? Liam pushed his eggs around on his plate before choosing the careful answer of, “It isn’t that I wish you were gone. Don’t think that. I’m glad you’re here, relieved my dogs found you and brought you to safety. But you’re not wrong in everything else you said. I am not a people person, by anyone’s definition.”
“So you’re the guy at parties who hides in the corner, sipping his drink, hoping no one talks to you and watching the clock, waiting for the polite time to leave.”
“Nope. I’m the guy who doesn’t go to parties. Or barbecues or picnics or family reunions, unless I have absolutely no other choice. If I could figure out how, I wouldn’t even go to the grocery store,” he said. “Unfortunately, I’ve yet to train the dogs to shop for me.”
“I bet they could learn,” she said with a laugh. “And this might surprise you, but I’m not a people person, either. I can force it, though. Most people who meet me think I’m an extrovert, when the complete opposite is the truth. I tend to need lots of time after expending that type of energy to regroup, to find my bearings again, so I really do get it.”
“You have one up on me. I barely get by in any social situation. Usually, when I’m forced to attend one,” he said, surprised at his willingness to share even this, “I stand there, trying to find the right thing to say and counting the seconds until I can make my escape. I’ve always been that way.”
Well, in most circumstances. He didn’t feel that way with his sister or a few of his longtime friends or when the topic of conversation surrounded an area of interest. He could talk about photography and some of his favorite locales around the world forever.
Tipping her chin, so their eyes met, she nodded. “I hate that feeling. You wish the floor would open up and suck you away. My family attended a lot of social occasions when I was growing up, and I used to hate them. But my dad taught me a trick that made it easier.”
“Oh, yeah?” He might just be able to stare into this woman’s eyes for hours on end. They called to him, somehow. Soothed him. Made him feel...enough. “What would that be?”
“When you don’t know what to say to another person, ask them a question. Any question. Doesn’t much matter what it is because the attention is diverted back to them, and all you have to do is listen...and then ask another question based on whatever they said.” She shrugged. “You can even avoid answering their questions that way. Just keep asking your own.”
Was that why she’d been asking him so many questions? “That works for you, huh?”
She picked up a slice of bacon, broke it in half and gave a piece to each of his dogs, who were on their haunches right next to her chair. Maggie licked her palm. Lucky dog. “It really does. With most people.” She shot him a grin. “Try it...ask me a question. Anything at all.”
Giving in to her charm, her rather easygoing nature, her innate appeal, he nodded. “Oh, all right. What is a stager? I have the impression it does not involve an actual stage in a theater.”
“No, it doesn’t, but wouldn’t that be fun? And that is a great question.” Another piece of bacon, which she split in half and again fed to the dogs. He should tell her that was enough, as he didn’t give Max and Maggie table food all that often, but hey...bacon wasn’t going to hurt them. “I staged houses to look their best, keeping in mind the area and the targeted pool of buyers, to make them more appealing, so they’d sell fast and hopefully at top dollar.”
“Furniture, artwork, knickknacks, that sort of thing?”
“That’s it, exactly. If there were special architectural details or an interesting design element to a room, I’d play that up. The goal,” she said, popping a bite of bacon into her mouth, “was for a buyer to walk into the home and think, ‘I could live here. I want to live here.’”
“Were you good at it?”
“I think so. I enjoyed the creative elements of the job. I loved conceptualizing how a room should look and then putting all the pieces together to achieve that vision.”
He nodded. “I can see how that would be rewarding.”
Silence kicked into being once again, which he filled by eating a few forkfuls of his eggs. No longer feeling the consuming need to finish eating and make his escape, but disliking the quiet, Liam took Goldi’s advice and asked another question. “How did you meet Rachel if she lives here and you live in San Francisco?”
“Through some of those various social events I mentioned earlier. Rachel grew up in New York, but over the years, we were at the same place at the same time often enough, and we’re the same age.” Goldi shrugged. “I guess it was natural we became friends.”
She hadn’t said much, but Liam was struck with the image of two young girls stuck in places they didn’t want to be, had found each other and a bond formed. “Tell me about the first time you met. How old were you? What was the social event?”
Long lashes blinked. “You’re getting pretty good at this question thing.”
“I’m a fast learner. Or,” he said with a grin, “maybe you’re a great teacher.”
Cupping her coffee mug in her hands, she said, “Either or both. But to answer, we were twelve. Our fathers are both businessmen, so even though they don’t work directly with each other, they have numerous connections. I met Rachel in the lobby of a hotel.” A quick grin flitted across her face. “We were at a charity fund raiser. It involved dinner and endless speeches, and it was one of those things where our fathers wanted to show off their families. We both sneaked away out of sheer boredom, bumped into each other and...I don’t know, we just clicked.”
There were so many more questions he could ask, but eventually, she’d volley a few his way. Since she’d answered his, he’d have to answer hers, which would open another entire field of curiosity on both sides. They could be stuck at this table for hours.
Not an entirely distasteful thought. Perhaps even an enjoyable one, depending on where their conversation led. The danger existed in the possibility of exposing areas of himself he just did not talk about. With anyone. Even a charming blonde with beautiful blue eyes.
“I’m glad you two met,” he said, putting an end to the questions. “My guess is the rest of that night was much more enjoyable for the both of you.”
“Oh, it was. As were any of the functions we attended together after that. For a while, I even hoped she’d manage to fall in love with one of my brothers, so we could be sisters.”
“Brothers? How many? Older or younger?” Damn it. There he went, asking more questions. Giving into his curiosity when he should be outside, clearing a path and making sure everything was in order. “It’s okay, you don’t have to—”
“Two. Both older. Both married now, with kids.” She finished eating the last of her pancake before asking, “You mentioned a sister. Is she your only sibling?”
“Yup.” Standing before he asked something else, he started clearing off the table. “You cooked, so I’ll clean. Shower if you want, and there are a ton of books in the living room. A few decks of playing cards, too, if you like solitaire. Make yourself at home.”
“Sure,” she said. “I appreciate that! We’ll get done quicker in here if I help, though.”
“It isn’t necessary. I can take care of this.”
“I know. I’d like to help. Besides which,” she said, filling the sink with soapy water, “you’ve already stated you’ll be busy for the entire day. I have plenty of time to shower, look through your books and play solitaire. Or whatever else I can come up with.”
He didn’t argue further even though he wanted to. It would prove fruitless, and her point held validity. Together, they tidied the kitchen and again, the way they moved around each other seemed effortless. As if they were accustomed to doing so. Comfortable. Easy. Familiar.
A state of being that landed squarely in the irrational range.