When she’d found out the truth about Emerson, Jennifer had felt the same way. She’d put that photograph aside for a while. But after some time had passed, she’d realized that she didn’t want to wipe out her memories.
Yes, Emerson had turned out to be a monster. But once he’d been their friend. She wanted to remember the good things about him, not the bad.
The kettle began to whistle and Jennifer turned from the mementoes of her former life to pour the water into the pot. “This needs to steep for five minutes. If you’d like, I could show you your room now.”
Nick’s eyes were on her, and the magic she’d felt earlier began to build again. Attraction. Interest. Sexual awareness.
Then his gaze drifted back to the corkboard. “I’m in no hurry. I’d like to hear more about your trip. And your friends. Do you have more photographs?”
She laughed. Did she have more? There was a whole box full in the attic. “I was always the one lugging the camera around. But you need to get settled after your long trip. I’m sorry things were so chaotic on your arrival. My family can be a little much at times.”
Nick smiled at her and she was suddenly experiencing that breathless thing again. He had to stop looking at her this way. It was…unnerving.
“Your suitcase?” she asked, breaking the moment.
Nick’s smile turned rueful. “In the back of the Rover. I’ll go get it.”
She led him back to the entrance then waited while he retrieved his luggage—one very large suitcase and a briefcase that looked as though it contained a laptop computer.
“Up these stairs… Are you okay with that suitcase?”
“Sure. Michele did tell you I was planning to stay for a month?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes as she replied, “That won’t be a problem.”
At the landing she turned left, away from the other two doors. “We have guests staying in both these rooms but they’re out exploring for the day.”
“Where’s your room?”
People often asked her this, and yet the question felt intimate coming from Nick. Again, she felt too self-conscious to look at him as she answered, “We have three bedrooms on the main level. One’s an office, then my father and I each have a room.”
She opened the door to the suite, which had been added a few years ago. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. It’s very private up here and you have your own bathroom.”
Nick stepped over the threshold, but instead of inspecting the solid wood furnishings or admiring the good-quality cotton bedding, he focused on her.
“Don’t apologize for your family. I like them. And I didn’t mind about the toilet. Really, I’m glad to help.”
He sounded sincere and kind. Considering his looks and his fantastic build, it seemed too good to be true.
There had to be a catch. He probably had a girlfriend—or several—waiting for him at home.
“Let me know if you need anything. And if you’d like some tea, you know where to find it.”
“I’ll be right down. But I do have one additional request.”
“Yes?”
“Would you show me around the island tomorrow?”
Was he serious? She caught her breath, then nodded. “Sure.”
She hoped she didn’t sound like this was a big deal, but to her it was. She had dated. She’d had boyfriends. One she’d almost married. But none of the guys from her past could measure up to this one. It seemed like her chance at adventure hadn’t been lost after all.
NICK HADN’T THOUGHT ABOUT the fact that Jennifer might have photographs. Pictures from Simone’s formative years on Summer Island would really complete the middle section of his book. Nick decided that priority number one would be getting her permission to use some of them. It shouldn’t be hard. She was clearly taken with him. And it wouldn’t be difficult for him to simulate an interest in her.
She was a pretty woman. Easy natured. Naturally kind. Once they’d had a chance to get to know one another, he’d let her know what he was writing about. The sort of person Jennifer was, she’d probably offer to help before he even needed to ask.
After a quick washup, Nick trooped back down for tea, as he’d promised. It didn’t take much to charm the aunt. All he had to do was listen to several of her midwife stories. He didn’t even need to fake his interest. The stories were actually fascinating.
Jennifer’s father was just as easy to connect with. Philip March was a history buff and he was impressed that Nick knew a bit about affairs north of the border.
“Dad owns every book Pierre Berton ever wrote,” Jennifer told Nick.
“I’ve read some of his myself,” Nick said. “My favorite was Flames Across the Border.”
Philip’s eyes gleamed as he leaned back and stretched out his legs. He looked like he was about to start a long-winded conversation, and apparently Jennifer thought so, too, because she patted Nick’s arm in a fortifying way, then crossed the room to pour more tea.
Nick’s eyes followed her as he listened to her father. She moved gracefully, light and fast on her feet like someone who squeezed a lot into a day. She’d been so reticent earlier, when he’d asked questions about Simone and the other forget-me-not friends. He wondered how long it would take to get her to relax around him.
To trust him.
As she lifted a dainty tea cup to her mouth, he felt a little stab of guilt. He had a feeling the woman was as innocent and naive as she appeared. Which must be why he suddenly felt like the big bad wolf.
Nick rehashed with Philip the political motivations behind the War of 1812—the only time in history that Canadians and Americans had taken up arms against each other.
Tea stretched out so long, it became dinner. Jennifer poured tea and refilled the jars of cream and jelly several times. Two sisters in their sixties, introduced to him as Ruth and Eileen Tisdale, returned exhausted and anxious for an early night after a day spent hiking in Arbutus Grove Provincial Park.
An hour later, a couple from Vancouver celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary, returned from their dinner at the Owl’s Nest. They were in their late forties, but they were so vibrant and fit they seemed much younger. They chatted only briefly, before disappearing up to their room.
Determined to get Jenn to himself for a bit, Nick kept talking until he’d exhausted even Philip March’s interest in history. When Annie announced it was her bedtime, Jennifer’s father reluctantly pulled himself out of his chair and said his good night, too.
At last Jennifer and Nick were alone.
The house was dark except for the dimmed light from over the table. The only sounds were the groans of old plumbing, the creaking of a house settling for the night.
Jennifer seemed a little uptight as she tapped her fingernails on the scarred wood table. He wondered what would relax her.
“Do you have any music?”
She looked relieved as she got up to turn on the stereo. “What do you like? Rock, country, classical, jazz? We have it all.”
“Do you have any of your friend’s CDs?” He cursed himself as her shoulders tightened. “But anything jazz would be good,” he amended.
She slipped on a disk from another Vancouver artist he recognized: Diana Krall.
“I picked up a case of wine after I crossed the border. How about we open a bottle?”
“That