He squinted toward the back wall. “You’d have to spend a lot of time looking at it to see what had changed.”
“Exactly.”
He shot her an admiring look. “Who’s the artist?”
“Me. So. Breakfast? Coffee? You can have it to go if you want. The coffee, that is.” She tried holding his gaze, but felt herself being pulled in again and broke the connection. So he had pretty eyes—a solid band of black circled his gold-flecked, hazel irises. She already had an acceptable boyfriend. She may have only seen Oliver twice in the past half year, but they hadn’t broken up...yet.
“Coffee to go would be great. Black, with a half teaspoon of sugar.”
She spun around, slid a paper cup off the stack and grabbed the fresh carafe of coffee.
“I actually came in to ask for directions,” the man said to her back.
A tourist after all.
“Two Briar Lane. Do you know where that is?”
Hot coffee spilled over her hand as surprise jolted through her.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Yes.” She thrust the coffeepot onto the hot plate and looked over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the new owner, would you?”
He did the stillness thing again, like he was holding his breath. “That’s right.”
They’d often joked about who’d bought the old run-down house next to her family’s house. One of the best things about returning home, other than watching her father grow stronger every day and the occasional romp with her brothers, was living on Briar Lane with no neighbors. Apparently life wasn’t going to stand still for her, not even in Collina. What a pity.
Sylvie forced a smile as she turned back to the man and held out her good hand. “I’m Sylvie Carson. We’re neighbors.”
* * *
ADAM HUNTER FELT calluses on the woman’s palm as they shook hands. Her hands belied her appearance. He’d never been good at describing things, but to him she looked like an angel. Almost. More like a tarnished angel, which was a helluva lot more appealing than a perfect one. It was her curly, white-gold hair that made him think of angels. And her sky-blue eyes. But that’s where it stopped. Her mouth was too pouty, too full and ripe, and her body... Adam pulled his hand away from hers and doused the heat that flickered through him. Tarnished or not, she was somebody else’s angel. He’d bet on it.
“Adam Hunter,” he said. She probably hadn’t lived beside his gram’s house all those years ago. He’d have remembered, wouldn’t he? Or maybe not. At eight years old, he’d been a lot more interested in snakes than girls.
“We’ve been wondering who bought the old Johnson place. Took you a while to get here.” She slid his coffee across the counter.
He’d have arrived a day earlier if he’d had the sense to stop and ask for directions. Instead, he’d spent the night in Lancaster, the closest city. But she probably meant the nine months that had lapsed since he’d inherited his gram’s summerhouse.
Adam’s stomach knotted when she avoided looking him in the eye. He knew the place was run-down. He’d visited only a handful of times when he was a kid, and the house had been old then. If it was beyond repair, he didn’t know what he would do. The promise of moving to the small fishing village, of restoring the old house and making a home, had kept his head above water for the past few months.
In a few minutes he’d see for himself what shape it was in, but it was just as important to get a feel for the village and the people living here. The café seemed like a good place to start. “Interesting place. Are you the owner?”
“My family owns it.”
People were eating breakfast in the first half of the room. Past the crowded tables and chairs, several comfortable armchairs and a couch were loosely arranged around a woodstove with a glass door on the front. Everywhere he looked there were stacks of books; in columns leaning against a support beam, on several small tables positioned around the room. Two laptops stood open and ready for use on a long table in another corner. Available Wi-Fi. Great. It would probably take a while before he could get his systems up and running. In a little nook near the back was a kid’s corner with a knee-high table holding paints and crayons and more books.
The morning sun spilled in through the large front windows that looked out on the street, and apart from the colorful mural, the walls had been painted a warm gold color. It was a room that tempted people to use it, and judging by its warm, lived-in look, people had accepted the invitation.
“How much for the coffee?” When his voice echoed through the suddenly hushed room, he kept his smile in place. He imagined small towns had their own set of rules, and one of those would be knowing your neighbor’s business.
“First one’s free.” The angel smiled.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“You have a family?” she asked.
Not one he planned to tell anyone about. “Just me and my dog. So, Briar Lane?”
“Go back to the main street, turn right. Turn right again at Seaman Street. Briar Lane’s at the end. We’re the only two houses on it.”
Adam felt a whoosh of air as the door opened behind him. “Hey, sis. I need a coffee to go.” A man close to his age stepped up to the counter. He was an inch or two shorter than Adam and solid through the chest and upper arms. He had the same blond curls as his sister, but his eyes were a darker blue, edged with creases, like he spent a lot of time squinting into the sun. Adam thought he might remember the guy from the few times he’d visited his grandmother as a child.
The man turned to him. “That your dog in the half-ton?”
“Yeah.”
“Beautiful animal. Oh, thanks, Syl.” He grabbed a cup of coffee from his sister. “I never saw a shepherd with that much white in it. Is it a mix?”
“Haven’t the faintest. I’m thinking part wolf.”
“Must make a great attack dog.”
“The only thing I’ve seen Romeo attack are bumblebees.”
“Romeo?” The guy laughed. “What kind of name is that for a dog?”
Adam cracked a grin. “He’s a lover, not a fighter. He’s got a deep bark, though.” He turned to Sylvie. “I’ll keep him in at night so he won’t wake you up.”
The brother’s smile dried up as he looked from his sister to him. “What’s going on?”
“Meet my nosy brother, Dusty Carson. This is the...guy who bought the old Johnson place. Adam Hunter.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her smother a smile. Not only tarnished, but sassy, as well. Nice. He didn’t like the way she’d hesitated, though, like there was a better way to describe him. Idiot? Rube? Take your pick. Adam stuck out his hand to shake Dusty’s.
“Actually, I inherited the house from my grandmother.”
After an eternity, the angel’s brother shook his hand. “I think I remember you. You came once or twice when your grandmother was up from the States. You’ve got Ontario license plates.”
“I’m from Toronto.”
Dusty studied him over the rim of his coffee cup. “You plan on holding on to the house or selling it?”
“I’m