Page 3 of By The Book
Tommy sat next to her in the seat, looking every bit as disgruntled and gloomy as ever. “Why don’t you pick out some good music for us?”
Her moody son rolled his eyes and pulled out his earphones to place on his head, shutting out the world and her with it.
Chapter 2
Almost six hours later, they crossed the Snow’s Cut Bridge and kept going to Carolina Cove.
During the long drive, she’d made a mental list of fun things to do that Tommy might like.
She thought they could take the top and doors off the Jeep and drive out on the beach to fish. Go visit theUSS North Carolinabattleship moored in downtown Wilmington. Rent Jet Skis. Maybe take the ferry to Bald Head Island and get a golf cart for the day to explore?
Anything that might possibly reverse the sour frown permanently marring her son’s face of late.
She made the turns leading to her parents’ home and pulled into the drive, ready for a long stretch and walk on the beach to clear her head and help her figure out a plan for the future now that she was jobless.
She had a small savings and a severance package, which would help cover expenses short-term, but finding a new job was paramount. “Hey,” she said to Tommy. “I’m sure Grandpa’sreallymissed you, so don’t be rolling your eyes or giving him attitude. Got it?”
“Whatever.”
She fought her urge to roll her own eyes at her son’s mood and got out of the Wrangler, noting the strange vehicle in the driveway. “Let’s take a load up to the apartment as we go,” she ordered, opening the rear door to hand off bags to her grumpy son.
She found the right key before loading up and making her way to the stairs beside the garage. “Tommy? Are you coming?”
“Get the door open first,” Tommy said with a grumble. “There’s nowhere to stand up there.”
The landing at the top of the stairswasnarrow, but she doubted that was his reasoning. Lately Tommy was dead set against anything he deemed she wanted. Blue was green, wrong was right, and nothing made him happy. But how much of it was typical teen hormones and how much of it mourning for his father?
Sweating, huffing, and straining beneath the weight of the multiple bags she carried, she dropped what was in her right hand and removed the key ring she’d held in her mouth for the trudge up the stairs.
She tried the key but it didn’t fit—maybe because the lock looked brand-new?
Salt air did a lot of damage to such things, so it was little surprise that it had needed to be changed since their last trip two years ago. Still—
The door opened with a yank, and she stepped back, unbalanced by the bags and the surprise of the half-naked man on the other side. A man who quickly reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her from tumbling backward over the railing, weighted down by luggage.
She blinked, eyes flaring when she took in his wet skin, the damp towel around his slim and tightly honed waist, and a muscle-ripped chest that would’ve looked like something out ofGQif not for the bruises and scars.
Was that agunshotwound?
Scott had had one from his first tour, and the two looked the same.
“Can I help you?”
“Uh…”
The man raised an eyebrow and released his grip on her shoulders, a pained expression flashing over his features as he lowered his injured arm.
“You hurt yourself grabbing me,” she said, her gazing shifting to his shoulder to keep from looking into brown eyes that seemed to bore into her soul.
“It’s fine.”
“Mom, come on. What’s the deal?” Tommy called from below.
The man crossed his arms over his chest, but she noted it was probably more to cradle and relieve the pain of his injured arm. “Uh, I’m not sure,” she said, shifting her gaze to the man once again. Considering he stood there in nothing but a towel, it was hard to focus. “I’m Claire Simmons. My father owns the house and… Who are you?”
“Marcus Denz,” he said. “I’m his renter.”
“Claire?” her father called from the bottom of the stairs. “What are you doing here?”
