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MORGAN CLOSED THE JOURNAL she was reading, using a forefinger as a bookmark. “Did you get all your measurements?”
Cole seemed to snap back from a distant place. “Yes. We can go over them now, or tomorrow if you’d prefer.”
“Tomorrow would be better. Now, I’d like to go to the inn and read in more comfortable surroundings. There might be a clue in here. These journals seem very important to this kid—after all, he brought them all with him when they moved into this house. He even went to the trouble of hiding them.”
“We could get the names of the people who rented the house. Maybe find more details about who he was.”
“The property management company went out of business. Wouldn’t their records be lost?”
“You never know what you’ll find when you start looking,” Cole said.
“Like rats.” Morgan shuddered. “Speaking of which, I should go through more of the basement boxes tomorrow. Make room for deliveries.”
“I can help. Like I said, it’s my day off. I thought we might go to Salem to the big pet supply store, too. Get things to make Bailey feel at home.”
Morgan gazed at Cole. “You’d do that? On your day off?”
“Sure. You can tell me your plans for the house. I can help you get organized so when you’re ready to decide who you’re going to hire, you’ll have the information they’ll need to give you a fair bid.”
“You’re going to a lot of trouble for me.” What did he want?
“It’s what friends do. We did agree to being friends, right?”
Not everyone had selfish motives, something Morgan struggled to remember. “That we did.”
Thoughts of what this house could be—what she’d thought it was when she’d learned she’d inherited it—filled Morgan with a warm glow of excitement. “What about this room? Could it be turned into living space?”
“A bedroom would be easy enough. If you want to add a bath up here, you’re talking major work.”
Did he expect her to hire him?
“Yeah, I was afraid of that. I’ll think a while longer. I want to update the kitchen as soon as possible. Who in his right mind would think puke green was a good color for appliances?”
“Nobody I know,” Cole said.
Morgan gathered the journals. “You can take the one you were reading. I doubt I’ll stay awake long enough to read them all.”
Surprised Cole seemed eager to do so, Morgan reached for the lamp. “We’ll need your flashlight to get downstairs.”
Cole flipped it on, and Morgan switched off the light. She glanced toward the window. “I suppose I should get curtains.”
“Smart idea.”
She heaved a sigh as she thought of the multitude of little things she’d have to do just to get started. At least there were curtain rods over most of the windows. She could use sheets and towels she’d brought from Ohio until she was ready to do actual decorating. “Project New Life on Elm Street, right?”
Cole raised a fist, and she bumped it with hers. Maybe this friends thing could work.
As she drove Cole back to his apartment, she planned her response in case he invited her in. He hadn’t said anything earlier, when he’d gone for his toolbox, but they were on a mission then. When she pulled up to his building, he clutched the journal and got out.
“If you still want to go to the pet store, I’ll pick you up at eight so you can be back around ten to check on Bailey,” he said.
She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Thank you,” was all she could get out.
At the inn, still wondering why Cole was being so nice, she dashed toward the stairs, not sparing a glance in Mr. Death-Warmed-Over’s direction.
“Ms. Tate.” His nasal voice made her cringe.
With a sigh, she turned. “Yes?”
“There was a call for you. A detective with the police department. I hope there isn’t a problem. We can’t harbor fugitives here.”
Harbor fugitives? What television shows did the man watch?
She trudged to the counter.
~~~
COLE SPRAWLED ON HIS couch with the journal, thinking of the way Morgan had responded when he’d offered to take her to the pet store in Salem. He hadn’t expected tearful gratitude, and it had shaken him. It was a simple offer, a friendly offer, yet she’d acted like he’d handed her the moon on a necklace of stars.
A pang of guilt over the way he’d left his tools at the house as an excuse to go back hit him. For whatever reason, Morgan had allowed him inside her barrier, and he vowed he wouldn’t betray her trust.
That meant keeping things platonic.
He liked her on her terms, but his body insisted on hoping for more.
Cole opened the journal. If figuring out who this kid was, and if there was a connection to the graffiti didn’t take his mind off his thoughts of Morgan, he could always take a cold shower. Or have another night with himself for company.
Morgan said it seemed like the kid was a bookworm, and the articulate way he wrote made for easy reading. Cole had read some of the books the kid listed, mostly because they’d been required in school. This kid seemed to enjoy them, sharing his thoughts about the themes and characters. Explaining why he and his teacher disagreed on interpretation. Enjoying the way his teachers had accepted his opinions, talking about staying after school to discuss the symbolism in “The Old Man and the Sea.” Was it important that the old man’s eyes were blue, when most Cubans had brown eyes? What did it mean?
The words blurred. Cole was back in his English classroom, taking that damn test about that very book. The one he’d stayed up late so many nights studying. He’d never thought beyond what Miss Oberg had said in her lectures. Lectures, with no opportunity for discussion. Cole hadn’t cared. He just needed to echo what she’d said, get a B or better on the test, and he’d pass her class.
When she’d scheduled the exam, Miss Oberg knew darn well it was a senior skip day, a day when many seniors planned to have breakfast at a local coffee shop. She’d made it clear there would be no make up exams. Cole couldn’t afford a zero.
Jazz had begged him to join the gang for breakfast, but Cole had done the right thing and gone to school.
As the memory surfaced, tears welled, splashing onto the page like blood dripping from a reopened wound. Cole slammed the journal shut.
~
THE NEXT MORNING, COLE staggered out of the shower like a man with a hangover, although he’d had nothing to drink last night. He’d promised to go to the pet store with Morgan, and he’d have to haul ass. He threw on jeans and a long-sleeved Henley, shoved his feet into his slip-ons, and arrived at the Castle only five minutes late.
He jogged up the walkway to the lobby, casting his gaze across the people reading newspapers and having coffee. No sign of her. Good. She wouldn’t know he hadn’t arrived on time. He sent her a text letting her know he was waiting.
Be right down, she texted back.
He cast a sidelong glance at the woman at the counter, preoccupied with helping a guest, then helped himself to a cup of coffee from the station as if he belonged there. He’d skipped breakfast to be on time, and he needed that hit of caffeine to get his brain in gear.
He sensed Morgan’s arrival before he saw her, as if she followed behind an invisible pressure wave that declared Morgan is coming. Her scent? The way she walked? Was he tuned into her wavelength?
He hadn’t had these feelings since Jazz, and he’d spent enough time reliving the past last night. New day. New friend.
His smile as he caught her gaze was uncontrollable.
Her smile seemed pasted on. Not the enthusiasm he’d expected, considering they were on an errand for Bailey.
“Ready?” he asked.
Dumb. She wouldn’t have come downstairs unless she was. Dare he ask what was bothering her? Putting her on the spot to share something she didn’t think was any of his business would shove a wedge between them, and he wanted to move forward, not backward.
Why?
A question he couldn’t answer. He didn’t have trouble making friends. Until Morgan. She was nothing like Jazz. Curvy where Jazz was lean. Dark hair in tight curls unlike Jazz’s straight, blonde style. Latte-colored complexion where Jazz was peaches and cream.
Maybe that’s why you’re attracted to her.
Different in looks, yes. But the feelings inside, the quickening heartbeat, the spontaneous grins—things he hadn’t felt in years—those were all coming back.
In his car he flipped the radio to his heavy metal playlist and upped the volume.
At the pet shop, Morgan’s mood brightened. She seemed happier than a kid given free rein in a chocolate shop as she chose a bed, collar, leash, food, treats, toys, and every other imaginable accoutrement for Bailey. The dog had better pull through. Morgan said she’d checked with the vet first thing this morning, and Bailey’s condition was improving.
Things had a way of going south in a hurry. He hoped for her sake they didn’t.
He helped load everything into the back of his car, and they headed for the animal clinic. Cole lowered the radio’s volume to background level. “Did you find anything interesting in the journals you read last night?”
“No.” She stared out her window.
Cole abandoned his efforts, turned up the music, and lost himself in Iron Maiden’s “Run to the Hills”.
And Morgan’s scent.
At the clinic, Morgan raced from the car, not giving him a chance to play gentleman. He followed her inside, where she, fingers drumming on the counter, explained that the vet had given her permission to visit Bailey.
“Dr. Shannon is with a patient,” the receptionist said. “I’ll let her know you’re here. You can’t go back unaccompanied.”
Morgan’s shoulders bunched beneath her sweater. Cole moved in, guided her to a chair. “We can wait.”
Morgan lasted about ten seconds before she got up and paced the waiting area, looking at pictures, at the dog supplies, although he’d bet last month’s paycheck that she wasn’t seeing any of them. She came back, plopped into the chair.
“Cops are good at keeping secrets, right?” she said.