A Soldier's Promise. Cynthia Thomason
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But apparently common sense had just flown out that two inches of window space. “You’re not even supposed to be here,” she said. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He frowned. “That’s funny. Since I live here, I thought I had every right to be here.”
“What I meant was...” There was no way out of this. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
He nodded once. “That makes more sense. But seeing as you obviously are here, you might want to pull up a little. Right now my front bumper is close to riding the trunk of your dandy little foreign automobile. I’m thinking that’s not good—especially since you seem to have so much trouble with this car anyway.”
Well, that comment wasn’t at all necessary.
“I expect we ought to exchange insurance cards,” he added. “Though I doubt you need mine.”
She definitely wasn’t going to roll her window down more and invite blood suckers inside. She’d be a mass of swollen spots within minutes. “Can’t you reverse?” she suggested. “We can both back onto White Deer from here and discuss the situation away from these insect-infested woods.”
“I’m not going to let you back your vehicle up anywhere in the vicinity of mine,” he said. “Go forward to the house.”
To his house? She didn’t think so. She rubbed her hand over a bite, hoping to illicit his sympathy.
“I have a bug zapper on the porch,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” He leaned on the side of her car. Only a thin layer of glass separated her from those honey-brown eyes she could imagine staring at her through the dark shades.
His nose practically touched the window when he said, “And since your whole purpose for being on this drive had to be to snoop on my property, this invitation should make you very happy.”
She sensed his mind still churning, as if he weren’t finished proving to her he’d figured out her scheme. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d said, “And you’ll never be invited back so you’d better take advantage of this offer right now.”
For some reason, she decided if he did say that, she’d feel the loss, much more than she would have expected. Maybe it was the way he looked in those aviator sunglasses. He had a movie-star quality that she quite inappropriately noticed at this particular moment. Sort of a Gerard Butler cocky masculinity. She had a long way to go before forming a lasting impression of Mike Langston, but she really liked Gerard Butler.
Besides, what choice did she have? If he wouldn’t move his car, she couldn’t go anywhere. The only direction open to her was forward. She could pull in front of the house, wait until he pulled in as well and then maneuver quickly around and head down the drive. If Carrie was still wearing the earbuds, she might not even look out the window. And perhaps Mike wouldn’t tell his daughter about the spy mission.
Brenna spoke out the two inches open at the top of her window. “Fine. But don’t think for a minute that I’m interpreting this as a social invitation.”
He almost smiled. “I know you’re smarter than that. Actually, this is more an intimidation tactic. I’m much better in that arena than I am the social one.”
I’ll bet you are. She eased her car into Drive and gently pressed the accelerator. The Mazda made a mournful screech and cleared a foot or so between it and the truck. Brenna didn’t want to look at her trunk lid. She’d check it out when she was back in her own drive and could cry in private.
A moment later she pulled in front of Mike’s cabin. She waited for him to park and then shifted into Reverse. Her ploy to execute a quick escape was working. Until the front door opened and Carrie stepped out.
“Miss Sullivan, hi!”
Darn it. She stopped, rolled her window down all the way and looked for mosquitoes. The zapper appeared to be doing its job, so she stepped out of the car. Leaving now would look much more suspicious than following through with a good ol’ North Georgia howdy. “Hi, Carrie.”
“What are you doing here?”
She glanced at Mike, who had an elbow on the top of his truck and was watching her through those sunglasses. His full mouth quirked up in a smirk that made the teacher in her want to threaten him with a visit to the assistant principal. And made the woman in her want to—
Stop it, Brenna. Not helpful.
She had to answer Carrie, not let her thoughts careen in another inappropriate direction. “Well, I...I was...”
“Miss Sullivan got lost, Carrie,” Mike said. “I encountered her trying to back out of our driveway and suggested she come up to the house and turn around.”
Carrie gave Brenna an incredulous stare. “But you’ve lived in this stupid town for, like, forever. How could you get lost?”
Brenna shot a quick look at Mike. “I’ve only lived here four years,” she said. “And I...ah, I’ve never ventured beyond the gristmill.”
Mike threw his keys on a rough-hewn table next to the front door. “You must have been daydreaming today, then,” he said. “There aren’t any houses but this one past the mill.”
“We live in the booniest of the boondocks,” Carrie said. “No one ever comes out this far.”
“Why don’t you offer Miss Sullivan some iced tea?” Mike said.
“I r-really shouldn’t stay....” Brenna stammered.
Carrie clasped her hands together. “Oh, please. Other than repair guys, you’re our first visitor. Can’t you come inside and talk for a while?” As an added incentive, she said, “We have air-conditioning.” She swept her arm around the porch, indicating the objects her great-grandmother had probably left behind. “You wouldn’t think so because of all this old stuff, but I swear we do.”
Brenna recognized an old wooden butter churn, handmade baskets, a few primitive iron tools on the wall. “These things are interesting,” she said.
“If you like all these old things, you’ll love the inside.” A hopeful look on her face, Carrie held the door open.
“But your father...” Brenna said. “I’m sure he doesn’t want company after working all day.”
“I suggested the tea, didn’t I?” Mike said. “Besides, after you have a look around, this place will have left a permanent impression on you.” He lowered his voice. “And that should be well worth the trouble of the minor car damage you’re taking home as a souvenir.”
With no way to decline, Brenna preceded him inside and into one large room with a door and a hallway leading from it.
The inside of the cabin was basically Spartan, with a few well-used furnishings that Brenna decided must have been favorites of Mrs. Langston. An antique oak sideboard stood against one wall. A matching washstand and primitive chair occupied another. Facing a rugged stone fireplace was an early-twentieth-century sofa with wood arms and cushions that had been flattened by years of sitting. Only a floppy-eared coonhound lying on the braided rug in front of the hearth would have made the scene a perfect blend of countrified necessity and simplicity. But there was no dog, just the three of them.
Carrie called from the kitchen. “Dad, why are you home? Isn’t it early?”
He glanced at Brenna before answering. “I came to check on things here. I got a call from an unidentified female at the shop, and when I went to answer, no one was there.”
His glance mutated into a hard stare. Feeling her face flush, Brenna began concentrating on native animal prints on the walls.
“It wasn’t me,” Carrie said.
“I didn’t know that,” he answered. “I called here, but no one answered. I was worried.”
Brenna remembered the earbud cords dangling from Carrie’s head. No wonder she didn’t