Her Holiday Prince Charming. Christine Flynn
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he’d forgotten by now. Things certain relatives had said that had confused him at the time, hurt him and made her even more fiercely protective of him than she’d been even before he’d lost his dad.
Since no response came from the other side of the island, she told Tyler it was possible that Mr. Sullivan did have a boat, but that it was really none of their business. Right now, they needed to look at the rest of the house.
There were certain advantages to a five-year-old’s short attention span. Already thrilled by the “park,” Tyler promptly forgot his interest in the boat their guide did or did not have and, like her, poked his head into the pantry, the mudroom and downstairs closets.
There was no denying his attraction to the cubbyhole he found in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Her own interest, however, she held in check. A person couldn’t be disappointed if she didn’t get her expectations up to begin with.
The property was nothing she would have considered even a week ago. It had none of the little neighborhood atmosphere she’d looked for. None of the coziness she’d craved for herself and her son. It felt too remote. Too foreign. Too...unexpected.
Her option was an unknown apartment in an as yet undetermined area near a job she still had to find.
Her hopes rose anyway, her mind racing as Erik led her back down from the three bedrooms and two baths that would be more than adequate for her and her son.
Phil had said to keep an open mind about this place.
Despite its drawbacks, it was, indeed, full of possibilities. But it wasn’t just Tyler’s surprisingly positive reactions or the idyllic views from some of the windows that tempered her misgivings. What Phil hadn’t mentioned was that this wouldn’t just be a place to live. It would be her source of income.
She could have her own business. Be her own boss. That meant the means to support her son would be dependent on her, not on someone else with obligations or agendas of their own. It would be up to her if she succeeded or failed. And while the thought brought as much anxiety as anticipation, mostly it brought a surprising hint of reprieve.
She could start over here. She could finally, truly move on.
By the time they’d worked their way back downstairs, Tyler knew which room he wanted to be his. He wasn’t quite so sure what to make of their tour guide, though. Every time he’d looked over his shoulder to see if Erik was still with them, he’d moved closer to her or tightened his grip on her hand.
Considering the man’s easy self-assurance, it struck her as odd that he appeared equally undecided about Tyler. Because he’d yet to say a word to her son, she wasn’t sure if he simply didn’t know how to relate to small children or if he was one of those people, like her father-in-law, who felt a child was to be seen and not heard and otherwise ignored until they became of an age to engage in meaningful conversation.
Maternal instincts on alert, the moment they reached the foyer, she asked Tyler to see if he could spot deer in the woods from the living room window. He was barely out of earshot when she felt Erik Sullivan’s disconcerting presence beside her.
“Your son seems to like the place,” he pointed out, joining her by the mahogany newel post. “What about you? You haven’t said much.”
Erik would admit to not being particularly adept at deciphering women, even when they did speak. No often meant yes. Don’t often mean go ahead. Nothing always meant something, though finding out what that something was could be akin to pulling an anchor out of dried cement. But this woman hadn’t given him so much as a hint about any conclusion she might have drawn.
“Do you have any questions?” he prompted.
“When did you say the store usually opened for business?”
“April. The first or second week.”
She lifted her chin, her thoughts apparently coming in no particular order.
“Phil Granger said you know I can’t qualify for a mortgage just now.”
“We’re aware of that,” he assured her.
“Were your grandparents planning to carry the mortgage themselves?”
“A second party will carry it. So,” he prodded, “you’re interested, then?”
She wanted to smile. He could see the expression trying to light the flecks of bronze in her deep brown eyes. She just wouldn’t let it surface.
“That depends on what they want for it. And the terms. How much are they asking?”
He should have been relieved by her interest. Would have been had she been even remotely qualified to take on the store.
“That’s...negotiable.”
“But they must have a price in mind.”
“Do you have any business experience?”
It was as clear to Rory as the doubt carved in his handsome face that he had serious concerns about her ability to make a go of the store his grandparents were selling. Unflattering as his obvious skepticism was, she couldn’t fault him for it. They had run the business for decades. They’d probably poured their hearts and souls into the place that had defined them for years. This man hadn’t had to tell her for her to know how much the store and their home had meant to them. The shelving in the spare room upstairs—his grandma’s sewing room, he’d said—had been built by his dad. The beautiful, lacquered banister beside them had been lathed by his grandfather.
He’d casually mentioned those things in passing. With his big hand splayed over the grapefruit-size mahogany ball atop the newel post, his thumb absently rubbing its shiny finish, she realized this place mattered to him, too.
Her only concern now was that he trust her with it.
She took a step closer, lowering her voice so Tyler couldn’t overhear.
“It’s not that I’ve never had a job,” she informed him quietly. “I was a file clerk while I worked on an associate’s degree. After that, I spent four years as a legal secretary before Tyler came along. I went back to work transcribing documents at another law firm ten months ago. I’d still be doing that if they hadn’t let me go because the firm merged and they cut my job.”
Skipping over the five-year gap in her résumé, she aimed for the heart of his concern. “I’ve just never owned a business. Or sold anything other than whatever the PTA was selling to raise money for school projects.
“I’ll admit that when I got here,” she hurried on, hoping he’d overlook that last part, “the last thing I expected was a store. But you said it’s a good, solid business. If your grandparents didn’t usually open it until April, that would give me four months to figure out what needs to be done and how to do it.” All she had to do was get past the daunting little fact that she had no idea where to start.
“Look,” she murmured, too tired after too many sleepless nights to care how much of herself she exposed. “I’ll admit I don’t know a...a...”
“A bivy sack from a bobber?” he suggested.
“Exactly. And until now,” she said, muscling on, “I’d honestly never thought about owning anything like this. The only sports I know anything about are tennis and golf.” And that was only because her husband had wanted her to fit in at the club. She was so not the rugged, outdoors type. “But I’ll do whatever I have to do to provide for my son.
“This could be a good place to raise him. He could help me in the store. I think he’d love that. He’d even have his own park,” she pointed out, thinking of how badly she wanted them gone from the exclusive community that had come to feel like a prison. She’d hoped for a normal neighborhood, but breathing room would be a good thing, too.
“I’ll never be able to replace the security he had before his dad died, but it’s up to me to give him as much stability as I can.” Her voice fell with her final admission. “I