The Hero Next Door. Irene Hannon
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As if he were accustomed to assessing everyone he met.
When the silence lengthened, she arched an eyebrow. “May I help you?”
“I was hoping to get some lunch.” One corner of his mouth hitched up into an appealing half smile.
To Heather’s annoyance, her pulse accelerated. “I’m afraid we serve afternoon tea, not lunch.”
He surveyed the dining room, giving her an excellent view of the chiseled planes of his face and the strong line of his jaw. All the women watching him seemed to smile in unison, Heather noted.
“I suppose I’m not dressed for a fancy place like this. But I’m hungry, and this was the closest spot serving food.” Facing her again, his half smile edged up a notch. “I’m staying in Edith Shaw’s cottage for the summer, and I just arrived on the ferry. I’m Justin Clay, by the way. J.C. to my friends.” He held out his hand.
The police officer from Chicago, Heather realized as she moved forward. Edith had mentioned him.
At five foot six, she didn’t think of herself as short, but she had to tip her head back to return his greeting. “Heather Anderson.”
His warm, lean fingers closed over hers in a strong grip, and her breath got stuck in her throat. Talk about good-looking! Yet at close range, she couldn’t help noticing fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, as well as fatigue in their depths. Both projected a soul-deep weariness that went way beyond physical tiredness.
Her conscience pricking, Heather wavered. She couldn’t send him away hungry. Not when he was a neighbor—and she had an empty table. “You’re welcome to stay, if tea fare will be sufficient.”
The other side of his mouth hitched up to form a complete smile, and his fingers tightened for an instant before he released her hand. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
Telling her heart to behave, Heather led the way to table four. “In general, we’re fully booked. This was a rare no-show.”
“My lucky day, I guess.”
She turned to find him watching her. With some men, Heather might have interpreted that comment as a come-on. With this one, she wasn’t certain. His neutral expression told her nothing. Nor did his eyes reveal the motivation behind his remark. It was as if he’d had a lot of practice masking his emotions.
“What sort of tea would you like?” She plucked a printed list of offerings out of a small silver holder on the table and handed it to him.
After a cursory scan, he passed it back. “What are the chances I could get a cup of coffee?”
She gave him a bemused look. “In a tearoom? None, I’m afraid. Sorry.”
“Okay. Then I’ll take your strongest tea.”
Assam, she decided at once. It was full-bodied, robust and malty. They didn’t have many takers for that potent brew. But she figured he could handle it.
“I think we have one you’ll like. Your food will be out in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.”
Turning, Heather crossed the room toward the foyer. She was tempted to check and see if Justin Clay was still watching her, but she squelched that silly impulse. Why should she care?
Yet as she passed the front door, she couldn’t help recalling what she’d told Julie a couple of hours ago, about good guys being few and far between—and not likely to come calling at her door.
She didn’t know a thing about the man who’d just arrived, except that he seemed out of place in The Devon Rose. But intuition told her he might fall into the good-guy camp.
Of course, her intuition had failed her before, with her old boyfriend Mark. As had her mother’s, with Heather’s unfaithful father. As had her sister Susan’s, with her philandering husband. All of those examples reinforced the sad truth—the Anderson women had no luck when it came to men.
So while Justin Clay might, indeed, be a good guy, Heather didn’t intend to find out.
Because she didn’t trust her judgment when it came to the opposite sex.
And there was no way she’d risk putting her heart in jeopardy ever again. No matter how appealing the man.
Chapter Two
J.C. swirled his last French fry in the generous dollop of ketchup on his plate and popped it in his mouth. The fries and the burger had been the perfect chaser to his afternoon tea, which had done little more than take the edge off his hunger.
Not that he had any complaints about the food at the swanky tearoom. Those little puffy dough things filled with chicken salad had been tasty. The quiche had been okay. As for those little scones with jam and that cream stuff—he could have eaten a dozen of them. And every one of the five desserts had been amazing.
It was the amount, not the flavor, of the food that had sent him in hot pursuit of the nearest restaurant the instant he’d stepped out the door of The Devon Rose. None of the items on that three-tiered contraption had been bigger than a sausage patty.
And the bill had been a shocker. He calculated that his foray into the world of high tea had cost him close to two bucks a bite.
Wiping his mouth on a napkin, J.C. leaned back in his seat. In fairness, the prices were on the high side in this establishment, too. He wasn’t used to twelve-dollar hamburgers. At this rate, he’d eat up his first month’s salary in a week. A trip to the grocery store was high on his agenda for tomorrow, after he had breakfast with his new boss—and Chicago PD alumnus—Adam Burke.
As for the cost of the tea—he didn’t regret the budget-straining expense. It had been a unique experience, in an atmosphere he could only describe as elegant.
A word that fit the owner as well.
Taking a sip of coffee, he thought about Heather Anderson. Now there was a lady. From her every-hair-in-place wispy bangs, to her graceful, ringless fingers as she’d poured his tea, to her classy attire, she’d oozed culture and refinement.
In other words, she was way out of his league.
Not that it mattered. His priorities for his stay on Nantucket didn’t include a relationship. He had enough to deal with without adding romance to the mix.
Draining his mug, he pulled some bills from his wallet and tossed them on the table. Before the day ended, he had several more things to do—and thinking about the lovely tearoom owner wasn’t on his list.
Yet try as he might, he couldn’t stop images of her from floating through his mind as he strolled down the cobblestone street and veered off toward Lighthouse Lane.
“Knock, knock. Anyone home?”
Wiping her hands on a towel, Heather smiled at the stout older woman who stood on the other side of her screen door. Since Edith and Chester Shaw had retired to Nantucket eleven years ago, the couple had become like family to her.
“Come on in.” Heather reached for the two leftover scones, added a generous portion of clotted cream and strawberry jam to the plate, and edged it toward Edith. “Help yourself if you’re hungry.”
“Oh, my. I shouldn’t.” Her neighbor cast a longing glance at the offering. Then, with a shrug, she pulled a stool up to the stainless-steel prep table and slathered the scones with jam and cream. “But these are impossible to resist, as you well know.”
Chuckling, Heather continued measuring ingredients for the chocolate tarts that would grace tomorrow’s three-tiered servers. “What’s up?”
“Did you notice any activity at my place while Chester and I were away? The note’s gone from my front door, so I know my tenant arrived. I’d planned to invite him to dinner since he doesn’t know a soul here other than Burke, but I’m afraid he may already have gone out to get a bite.”