The Spring at Moss Hill by Carla Neggers

Author:Carla Neggers
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 2015-02-14T16:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

Russ got into LAX in the middle of the afternoon and was tired enough to think he’d misread the text he received on the Jetway.

I’m here. I’ll pick you up at baggage claim. I’m in your Rover.

It was Daphne Stewart’s number. Russ adjusted his duffel bag on his shoulder. Why the hell was Daphne in his Rover, meeting him at the busy Los Angeles airport?

He got out of the Jetway and texted her. On my way.

Ten minutes later, he pulled open the passenger door of his Land Rover and spoke to Daphne across the seat. “I’ll drive,” he said, tossing his bag in back.

“You’ve been on a plane all day.”

“Exactly. I’m frayed. I can’t handle sitting while you drive.” He jerked a thumb at her. “Out, Daphne.”

She rolled her eyes. “All right, all right.” She shifted into Neutral and pulled on the emergency brake. “Marty didn’t tell me it was a standard transmission. I’d have worn driving gloves. I’ve ruined my manicure.” She got out and came around to the passenger seat. “This thing hurts my back. Marty said it would.”

Russ ignored her and took her place behind the wheel. A day on a plane after losing his mind and kissing Kylie Shaw/Morwenna Mills, and now Daphne Stewart driving his Rover. No wonder he was tense.

“Marty had to work,” she said, buckling up. “I was going to hire you a car, but I bullied your brother into letting me drive the Rover. So kill me, not him.”

“Okay.”

She settled back. She wore flowered leggings with a long, dark red top, flat sandals and a ton of jewelry. “It’s a great vehicle. Very masculine. Reminds me of a Jeep my boyfriend had when I was a teenager. We’d go mud-bogging. That’s when you drive through mud off road.”

Russ knew what mud-bogging was. “You were a teenager, and you weren’t in the city. Did you drive straight here from the bar?”

“I didn’t go joy-riding, if that’s what you’re asking. I did stop at Sawyer & Sawyer, but it’s practically on the way.”

“Why did you stop there?”

“I had to sign something.” She waved a hand, dismissive. “The receptionist offered me tea. What’s her name?”

“Julie.”

“Julie, right. Tea. I don’t think she believed I had legitimate business. She was humoring me. Offering me tea means I’m a valued client but also a pest.”

Russ grinned at her. “I’ll be damned, Daphne. You are more perceptive than I gave you credit for.”

“You know I’m in my prime as a costume designer, don’t you? I’m not some washed-up, lonely diva in late middle age. I didn’t agree to do this master class to prove anything—to you or to anyone else.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

“No one. I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. I don’t need confirmation that I still matter. I have more work than I can possibly handle.”

“Did you have tea?”

“No. Bastard.”

She loved being teased, Russ thought, softening. The attention, the banter—the chance not to take herself, or be taken, too seriously. “Julie will be running Sawyer & Sawyer in five years.

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