The Beach House by Mary Monroe

Author:Mary Monroe
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Mira
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Home sweet home,” Brett declared, leading the way up the crumbling cement walkway. “Come on in and I’ll cook you up some dinner.”

Cara just stared at the small 1960s stucco bungalow. “It’s pink!” she exclaimed.

“I call it the Pink Flamingo.” He pointed to a metal pink flamingo roosting in the ground near the front entrance. Catching her expression he chided, “Now, before you look at me like that, it’s important to remember that you’re back on the island. It might be a very different thing if I had a pink house up north. But here it’s very Bermuda.”

“I know that. It’s just that I have a hard time picturing you in a pink house—anywhere.” She looked at the compact, boxy structure with the gray sloping roof. Dominating the front lawn, shielding the little house from the busy street, was an ancient live oak tree that stretched its perfect-for-climbing branches across the front lawn and graced the house with shade. Her heart pinged, recalling her own favorite tree growing up.

“It’s a very sweet house,” she said.

“Sweet? Now that really hurts.” He unlocked the door. “Come on in before you say anything else.”

The interior was pure bachelor. The walls were dingy gray, the light fixtures strictly of the hardware store variety and what little furniture there was represented years of collecting whatever could be obtained free or on the cheap. A bicycle was parked by the front door and a wet suit and kayak lined the hallway. And his business office was little more than a bunch of mail, papers, books and manila folders cluttering the dining room table. Her eyes skimmed over the mayhem quickly, drawn instead to the glorious view outside the wall of sliding glass. The water of the Intracoastal was racing with the current of the changing tide. It was breathtaking and she instantly fell in love with the place.

She was standing at the glass patio doors looking out when he came up behind her. His strong arms encircled her, dwarfing her, and his big hands rested against her abdomen pressing her to him. She felt an electric jolt when he touched her and closed her eyes with a sigh. Was he making his move at last?

“Hungry?” he asked.

She told herself she wasn’t going to fall into that ridiculous banter about how she was hungry for his kisses. It was too clichéd, too utterly banal.

“I’m starving,” she replied, suddenly coy.

“I’m going to fix us some dinner,” he said, drawing his arms away.

She watched him walk away, stunned. “You do that,” she said, half smiling, half pouting. She told herself he was just throwing her off her mark. Other men would have slipped their hands up her blouse and made love to her on the spot. Dinner would have been an afterthought.

She turned her head in time to see Brett open the glass sliding door and walk off across the yard and down to the end of his dock. Curious, she moved closer to the door, resting her hands upon the cool glass.

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