Page 9 of Summer in Kentbury
I smack my lips and let out a laugh. “That’s impossible.”
“Believe me, they’re that curious,” he insists.
“No, I mean your brother Paul dating someone and keeping it low key,” I clarify. “If he was indeed seeing someone, the entire town would know. We’re experts at figuring out situationships and spreading rumors.” I give him a conspiratorial wink, feeling more comfortable with him now.
“Right, you’re part of the town,” he acknowledges with a nod. “But you still haven’t told us why you left—” His eyes wander over my figure, lingering a little too long on my curves. “Better yet, what brought you back? Are you a teacher who takes long breaks during the summer?”
I glance at his mug, eager to change the subject. “Where can I get one of those?” I gesture toward it.
“Coffee?” Sinclair asks.
“More like hot water to make myself some tea,” I clarify, feeling the hem of my shirt between my fingers. “I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”
He nods, pushing himself off the doorframe and taking a step closer. “They have an espresso machine, but for what you want . . . I think I saw an electric kettle in the kitchen. I can show you if you’d like.” His proximity sends a shiver down my spine and I nod eagerly, grateful for the distraction from our previous conversation.
My heart races and my palms grow clammy as I hesitate for a moment, considering the idea of beingalone with him in the kitchen. The thought is simultaneously thrilling and nerve-wracking. But the enticing aroma of warm tea is tempting enough for me to accept his offer.
“That would be great, thanks,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual as I offer him a small smile.
As we enter the kitchen, I can’t help but let my curiosity get the better of me. “So why are you here in Kentbury? You really don’t seem to fit the small-town mold at all. My guess is that you have a hedge fund company and suck souls for a living—while making yourself rich.” I lean against the counter, crossing my arms as I await his response. Maybe if he’s one of those slick suits, his attractiveness level will decrease from ‘scorch me with your body’ to ‘I’d rather eat cardboard than be near you’.
“Ouch. Way to hold back.”
I shake my head in apology. “Sorry, my mom raised us to be honest.”
“I live in Boston and my job is . . . well, let’s just say it partially involves what you just described,” he confesses with a smirk, causing a dimple to appear on his cheek. Ugh, he has a dimple . . . Couldn’t he have more flaws? I mean, he’s already rich and successful. But that dimple is undeniably adorable. I can’t help but feel a twinge of attraction to this version of him. He continues explaining adding a wink, “Without soul-sucking though.”
“Do you have someone else handle that for you?” I tease playfully, lowering my voice to a suggestive tone. “Someone to do your dirty work.” I bite my lipcoquettishly, locking eyes with him and feeling a spark of electricity pass between us.
“Sweetheart, if there’s any dirty work to be done, I can handle it myself,” he replies with equal flirtatiousness, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Thankfully, he turns away and busies himself with finding the electric kettle and setting it up. He rummages through the cabinets, searching for a mug and tea bags for me. The domesticity of the moment feels oddly intimate, making me wonder what it would be like to wake up to this every morning.
No mornings, not this guy—or any. Come on, Lavender, you just went through a breakup, and now you’re wondering if Mr. Blue-eyes-and-cute-dimple kisses as well as he looks.
“I see. So why are you here, Boston Boy?” I ask, my gaze lingering on his strong arms and broad shoulders as he works. “Somehow, I don’t believe that you’re doing it to save the children one summer camp at a time.”
“Nice slogan. Though you’re right, I came here because it seemed like a good weekend to avoid home.” He shrugs.
“How so?” I tilt my head, leaning closer to him, drawn in by the intensity of his gaze.
“My ex-wife is getting married,” he confesses, his voice a little strained, his eyes focused on the task at hand.
“Let me guess. She’s the love of your life, and you were hoping you’d patch things up with her.” My words tumble out before I can stop them. A sudden thought occurs to me—what if he’s going through thesame thing as I am? Is that why there’s this strange connection between us?
“Or . . . she cheated on you, and she’s marrying the affair partner.” I grimace, feeling a pang of empathy for this stranger who seems to share a similar pain as mine.
He frowns and shakes his head, a look of surprise crossing his face. “Not at all. We’ve been divorced for eight years or so. It’s just accepting that I failed at something.”
“I’m not following,” I state, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Certainly you realized it was over the moment the divorce decree landed in your inbox, right?”
Sinclair nods and grunts something unintelligible as the kettle whistles, breaking the awkward silence between us while he begins to prepare my drink.
We make our way back to the cozy living room, Sinclair balancing a tray with two steaming mugs. The scent of his freshly brewed coffee fills the air as we settle into our respective seats—me in the plush armchair and him on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The soft glow of the fireplace casts shadows on his face, making him look all the more intriguing.
“Are you here because your ex cheated on you?” he asks, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He cradles his mug in his hands, his undivided attention fixed on me.
I take a moment to collect myself before responding with a simple, “Yes and no.”
