Page 2 of Meet Me on Blueberry Hill

Swiping water and hair off his face, he rang the doorbell. Barking sounded from inside the house. Georgie, Hetty’s Lhasa Apso, scratched the other side of the front door as the porch light flashed on.

Squinting against the glare, Asher gripped the doorframe and let out a breath.

She was fine.

The door yanked open.

But Hetty wasn’t standing in the doorway.

Asher took in the dark-haired woman a little younger than his thirty-three years and dressed in a gray tank top and navy running shorts that showed off long, shapely legs. Her long hair tangled around her face. She tried to push it out of her eyes as she scooped up the barking dog. “Georgie, that’s enough.” Then she squinted at him. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Is Hetty okay?”

“Who?”

“Henrietta Hudson. She lives here. Is she okay?”

The woman cradled the dog against her chest. “Why do you want to know?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I heard a tree come down, but it’s too dark to see anything. I just wanted to be sure Hetty’s okay.”

“My grandmother’s fine. She sleeps through anything. Doorbells too, apparently. I didn’t realize it was storming until now.”

“You’ve inherited that trait from your grandmother.” He tried to crack a smile, but her steely look showed she didn’t sharehis humor. He stepped back, hands up. “Sorry to disturb your sleep. Just wanted to make sure everyone was okay.”

“Yes, we are. Thanks for checking.” She shot him a sleepy smile, then started to close the door.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“What’s your name?”

“Sadie. Sadie Hudson.”

“The copywriter. Your grandma’s mentioned you.”

“And you are?”

“Asher Quinn.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I manage my aunt and uncle’s ranch next door.”

“Right, the reclusive neighbor. Gran mentioned you as well. Thanks for ensuring she was safe. That was kind of you, Asher.” This time she closed the door and secured the deadbolt in place.

A moment later, the overhead yellow glow from the porch light went out, shuttering him in darkness again.

Taking a deep breath, he exhaled loudly then launched into the rain.

Back at his aunt and uncle’s house, he padded up the stairs and to the large guest room that had become his over the past year. He flicked on the lights, then shivered against the fan in the window. He changed into dry clothes, then grabbed a towel out of the small bathroom and rubbed it over his head.

What he wouldn’t give for a cold beer.

But he’d given up drinking eighteen months ago. The same night his aunt and uncle rescued him from the depths of his self-sabotage.

Only the nightmares resurrected the desire to hold the cold beverage in his hand, to feel the icy liquid slide down his throat. As he pounded back bottle after bottle, his troubles disappeared.

But only for a while.

Instead, he reached for his water bottle on the side table, then chugged until his parched throat was quenched.

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