Carrie Alexander - Nobody's Hero

Connie knew why he intrigued her—no mystery in that at all. In the fourteen years since she’d hooked up with Philip when they were both sophomores in college, she may have forgotten how strong the first sweet rush of attraction could be. But she was recognizing it now.

Sean’s gaze took in her face, her hair. “Do you have a lot of wrath?” he asked, bemused.

Heat flooded her cheeks. Her scalp tingled. “My temper has been known to flare.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. I remember now.”

She snorted. “Hey, wait a minute. I wasn’t completely off the mark about that.” She tilted her head toward the ceiling as the sound of drumming water ceased. “A mother’s got to be diligent, nowadays.”

Sean retreated. “You’re right, of course.”

Connie poured the hot chocolate into a mug. “Want some? You got wet, too.” She stared at his clinging jeans. “Shoot. I should have offered you a change of clothing, and instead I’m entertaining you with plot summaries of old Disney movies.”

He waved her off. “Thanks, but I’m not fitting into any of your gardening togs. I’ll go home to change.” He dropped the towels on the back of the chair and moved to the front door, which still stood wide-open.

She followed. “I want you to know that I realize how lucky we were that you were there to rescue Pippa. If you hadn’t seen her…If you hadn’t acted quickly…Well, that’s too horrible to consider. Words of gratitude aren’t enough.” She grasped the edge of the door. Swallowed the lump in her throat. “Pippa and I are indebted.”

“A thank-you is enough.” Sean stooped and picked something up off her doorstep, using his left hand. The knuckles of his right pressed hard into his thigh.

With a wince, he straightened and extended his hand. “You and Mr. Bradford owe me no more than that.”

He thought there was a Mr. Bradford? Connie didn’t wear a wedding ring, although that was because of her job rather than her marital status. She might have immediately explained that her “we” was a family of only two, but she was distracted by what Sean had handed her.

Pippa’s sodden notebook. The answer, perhaps, to all of Connie’s questions, even if she couldn’t possibly read it without her daughter’s permission.

“Thank you.” She clutched the tablet to her midriff, even though it was cold and smelled of seaweed. She needed to hold on…to something.

Sean gave a short wave and strode down the path to the main road. Even with the pronounced hitch in his step and his damp, wrinkled clothing, he cut an admirable figure in the dappled sunshine—proud, angular and so very capable of the heroics that he denied.

Connie took a deep breath and pushed down the damnably persistent tide of attraction. She’d explain about Phil later, when and if Sean returned at six to take her up on the dinner invitation.

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