Page 24 of Where the Heart Is

He mock-shuddered. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you round.’

‘Not if Mum gets her hands on you.’ Maggie waved. ‘Enjoy your stay, Sawyer.’

He intended to.

As long as Mila was amenable to the ideas he had buzzing through his head.

The sooner he solidified his plans for her, the better.

CHAPTER

15

Adelaide’s left hip gave its usual morning twang as she rolled over in bed. Hours on her feet at an easel or serving juices weren’t conducive to limber joints but she’d got used to her bung hip over the years. Her very own personal alarm clock that woke her when she’d spent too long in bed.

She sat up slowly, stretched, and opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented.

Sandstone wall.

White trimmed window.

Sunlight peeking around the frame.

And an odd scratching at the front door that sounded suspiciously like a key being inserted.

As the door creaked open, it all came flooding back. Her car breaking down, trudging to the cottage, discovering Jack lived here, him offering her a bed for the night.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks as the door swung open and the man in question tried to slink in, carefully balancing a tray in his hands.

When he caught sight of her, he stumbled, his eyes wide as his gaze raked over her, and for a horrifying second she thought she’d slept naked. Her cheeks flushed as she glanced down, grateful she wore her favourite cotton nightie covered in tiny paintbrushes slashing at rainbows.

‘Sorry, I thought you’d be asleep,’ he mumbled, placing the tray at a small dining table. ‘I didn’t want to wake you. Just wanted to leave this.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, standing and padding over to the table, unsure what shocked her more. Jack’s thoughtfulness or the cooked break-fast—scrambled eggs, bacon, fried tomato, and toast—with orange juice on the side.

When they’d been married, he’d barely set foot in the kitchen other than to grab a quick sandwich at lunch or a snack in the middle of the night. She’d done all the cooking, her resentment growing with every dinner dished, especially when he barely spoke as they ate and left the table as soon as he’d eaten the last morsel off his plate.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said, his voice gruff. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Surprisingly well, considering I rarely get more than six hours a night.’

When his expression tightened in anger because he wrongly assumed she wasn’t getting much sleep because of possible nocturnal activities, she rushed on, ‘I paint at night. I find it’s when I’m at my most creative, and I often lose track of time so often stumble into bed in the wee small hours.’

‘What do you paint these days?’

‘Beach scenes mostly. Boats. Wharves. Lighthouses.’

Anything that encapsulated her new life, symbols of her freedom.

‘I’m sensing a theme,’ he said, his voice devoid of judgement, and she made an impulsive decision.

‘Why don’t you join me for breakfast?’ She gestured at the tray. ‘This is a lot and I can make us coffee.’

He hesitated, glancing at the door like he couldn’t wait to escape, and she second-guessed her invitation. What did she expect, for his kindness in cooking her breakfast to extend to forgiveness for her abandoning him years earlier?

‘I won’t say no to a coffee,’ he said, after what seemed like an eternity. ‘I’ll make it while you get dressed.’

Heat scorched her cheeks for the second time in as many minutes as she realised she’d been so surprised by his presenting her with breakfast that she’d forgotten she wore nothing but thin cotton that ended at her knees.

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