A Weaver Beginning. Allison Leigh
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heads were only inches apart. Her heart raced around fiendishly inside her chest. “We lived in Braden, but working at the school here was too good an opportunity to pass up. I’ll have essentially the same hours as Dillon.” Her grandfather had planned well, but that didn’t mean Abby could afford to spend money on after-school care if she didn’t need to.
“And you want to stay close to Braden,” Sloan concluded. “For your grandmother.”
“You did overhear that.”
He nodded once. Took another sip of milk, watching her over the rim of the flute.
“What about you? What brings you to Weaver?”
“Maybe I come from here.”
If she recalled correctly, the news stories had said he’d hailed from Chicago. “Do you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He selected a chocolate. Studied it. “My sister lives here,” he finally said. Then he turned his back to her and stood.
Disappointment flooded her, but all he did was walk across to the fireplace and quietly place another piece of wood on the dying embers. Then he returned to his barstool. He held up his nearly empty glass. “Unless you’ve got more, we might need to open that champagne after all.”
“I have more,” she said quickly and retrieved the milk carton. She filled his glass, emptying the carton.
“You’re not going to have any left for Dillon in the morning.”
She curled her toes around the wooden ring near the base of her barstool. “He likes brown sugar and raisins on his oatmeal anyway.”
His lips twitched. “That’s the way my mother used to fix oatmeal for us. What else did you leave behind in Braden?”
Her mouth went dry all over again at the way he was looking at her, his eyes so dark and hooded. “I tried to bring everything that mattered.”
“Grandma’s crystal.” He held up his glass.
“And Grandpa’s shotgun.” She smiled. “Safely stowed away in a cabinet, well out of Dillon’s reach. Plus his video games. Dillon’s that is, not my grandfather’s.” She was babbling but couldn’t help herself. “Photographs. Clothes.”
“You’re not answering my real question. You have a boyfriend waiting for you in Braden? Some nice kid as fresh-faced and wet behind the ears as you?”
She didn’t know whether to be charmed or insulted. “I’m neither a kid nor wet behind the ears.”
He gave that slight half smile again. “How old are you?”
She moistened her lips. “Twenty-three.”
He made a face. “I’ve got ten years on you.”
She managed to hide her surprise. He was ungodly handsome, but his face held far more wear than any man in his early thirties should. She guessed that was the price for the kind of work he’d done. “In any case, no, there is no one waiting for me to come home to Braden.” She plucked a chocolate from the box and shoved it into her mouth with no regard for its fineness. “No boyfriend. No husband. No nothing,” she said around its melting sweetness. “Been too busy raising Dillon for the past two years. Even if there had been time, I’m still a package deal.”
His eyebrows rose. “Where are your parents?”
She lifted her shoulders. “Who knows? He’s my half brother. We share the same mother, but she was no more interested in raising him than she was me. Which is why—”
“The grandparents,” he concluded.
She nodded. “What about your parents?”
The devil laughed mockingly in Sloan’s ear. That was what he got for showing some curiosity about Abby. She naturally showed some curiosity in return. “They died when my sister and I were twenty,” he said abruptly. Tara had turned into a homebody after their childhood, and he had been the opposite. But he knew they shared the same distaste for talking about that childhood.
“That must have been hard.”
Not any harder than growing up without parents at all, which seemed to be the case for her. He folded his arms on the counter again, leaning closer. Close enough to smell the clean fragrance of her shining brown hair. “You start work when the holiday break is over?”
“In two days. At least it’ll be a short week.”
“Nervous?”
She shook her head. Made a face. “Guess it shows, huh?”
“You’ll be fine.”
She toyed with her glass for a moment. “What do you do?”
“Deputy sheriff. For the next few months, anyway.” He didn’t know what the hell had him offering that last bit. Maybe a thin attempt to lay some groundwork. Some temporary groundwork.
“What happens after that?”
He hesitated and wasn’t sure what he would have said if the electricity hadn’t kicked on just then. Light from the overhead fixture flooded the kitchen, and the television came to life.
“Look,” she whispered, leaning to the side to peer around him. “The ball in New York is nearly down.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the TV showed the famed crystal ball inching its way down while a mass of people around it cheered and screamed.
“Three.” He turned back to watch Abby, whose gray gaze was focused on the countdown.
“Two,” she whispered on a smile.
“One,” he finished.
Her pretty eyes lifted to his. “Happy New Year, Sloan.”
Maybe it was the devil. Maybe it was the angel.
Maybe it was just him.
“It is now,” he murmured. And he leaned the last few inches across the counter and slowly pressed his mouth against hers.
Chapter Three
Shocked, Abby inhaled sharply.
He tasted like dark chocolate. Cold milk.
And things that she’d never experienced and suddenly wanted to, so very badly.
But just when she was adjusting to the notion that Sloan McCray’s lips were brushing across hers, he was lifting his head. “Next time you talk to your friends, you can tell them that you lived up to your promise.”
He meant sharing the chocolate, of course. But she couldn’t do a single thing except sit there and mutely nod.
The lines arrowing out from the corners of his dark eyes crinkled a little. “You pour a helluva cocktail,” he murmured before turning away and walking silently to the door.
A moment later, he was gone.
And Abby was still sitting there as mute as a stump of wood.
“Izzit New Year’s?” Dillon’s sleepy voice startled her so much she jumped off her stool as if she’d been stung. She rounded the counter and went over to the couch where he was knuckling his eyes.
“It is. And time for you to go to bed, Mr. Marcum.”
He giggled a little, the way he always did when she called him that. “I stayed awake the whole time, didn’t I,” he boasted as he slid off the couch, dragging his blanket after him.
“Sure thing, honey.”
He padded barefoot into the first bedroom. “I think Mr. Sloan is a White Hat,” he said.
She folded back the comforter for Dillon to climb into bed. It was noticeably cooler in his room than in the living room, but the comforter would keep