Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

his lap. I was dressed all in black, with a truly pounding hangover and scrapes on my face that made it appear I’d been attacked by a temperamental rat. My long, black, curling hair resembled a dead pelt on my head.

      He had that gorgeous, roughed-up, been-around-the-block appearance. He was super tall, a human skyscraper with a lanky build and longish thick brown curls, and I knew that he was gonna be a problem, and not simply because my body about lost all its breath as I took him in. He was … all man. A manly man. A manly muscled man.

      “Hello. You must be Chalese.” He stood up, and Mrs. Zebra rolled off his lap and whined. She has no loyalty. If I was ever robbed, she would slobber on the robber. “I’m Aiden Bridger from the Washington Review.”

      I knew who he was. Oh boy, did I know who he was.

      With one look at him, I knew I was toast, too.

      Why? Not because he was cursedly, dangerously hot, but because that he-man reporter could blow my quiet, private life to Kingdom Come. Everyone would know who I was now, and who I was in my other life, and the scandal would be revived again, the shame, the humiliation, and I’d have to deal with all the other bubbling, sordid, sad memories and secrets.

      That, definitely, was the worst part of my week.

      And, somehow, the best.

      Chapter Two

      “I’ve told you I don’t want to talk to you.”

      I grimaced as I limped up the porch steps and tried to glare at him without salivating. Why did he have to be so yummy-rugged and full of such glorious testosterone? That wasn’t fair.

      “Yes, I know.” For a few long seconds Aiden stared right at me. His eyes were greenish, and he had long lusty eyelashes. The corners of his mouth tilted up, then back down again.

      “What happened? Were you in an accident?”

      “No.”

      “Did you fall?”

      Pause. “Not really.” I glanced away from those bright eyes and reminded myself that men are cagey, deceptive beasts and hairy vermin.

      “Did someone hurt you?”

      I did not miss the outrage in his tone, the beginning of incredulous fury. My heart didn’t miss it, either, but I told my heart to shut up.

      “No, no man would ever hit me, because they know I’d flatten them into a kidney-smeared mass of flesh. I don’t want to talk about it.”

      He exhaled, his hands on the waistband of his jeans. “Can I help you? Are you hurt in other places, too?”

      Can he help me? Geez. That one little question stopped me right up. How often had a man said “Can I help you?” to me and really meant it? Not often.

      “I don’t need help Mr. Bridger. I’m perfect. One hundred percent. Fine. Dandy. Do I seem weak? Some damsel in distress who needs an effeminate white guy with skinny thighs charging up on a white horse for a pathetic rescue?”

      “No, ma’am, you don’t.” He grinned. “And I did not bring my white horse anyhow or my skinny thighs.”

      I immediately stole a peek at his legs. Long, muscled, not skinny, powerful. Big mistake.

      My breath caught and I glanced longingly at my front door, wanting to escape from He-Man here. I had saved every penny and had this house built in a farmhouse style seven years ago. It was small, fifteen hundred square feet, but there were no walls in the downstairs, so it felt bigger. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and my studio, flooded with light from floor-to-ceiling windows and two skylights. I did not want to think about skylights.

      “You have a very nice home,” he said, quite serious.

      And you have very nice hips. And your shoulders aren’t so bad, either, under that beige, outdoorsy jacket you’re wearing. And sheesh. That jaw. Even the scar above your eyebrow turns me on. Oh, do shut up, Chalese. To distract myself from the prince’s thighs, I said, “Thank you.

      “Your view is incredible.”

      “It calms my nerves.” You, however, have set my nerves on fire.

      “I’ll bet.” He laughed, low and rumbly. “I think it would calm anyone’s nerves.”

      My yellow home sat on five bucolic acres on Whale Island off the coast of Washington, with a view of the ocean and two neighboring islands through towering pine trees. The pine trees acted as a natural frame for the moving, changing post-card. I watched sailboats and rowboats glide in and out of a small harbor as I worked.

      “I’m detecting a longing note in your voice,” I said. “Do your nerves need calming?”

      “Uh, yes. More than I can tell you at this time.”

      I nodded. We smiled at each other. Couldn’t help myself. My smile hurt my aching face.

      “The deer think they own the place,” I rattled out to fill the silence. “The raccoons have almost formed a union, there’s so many of them. The squirrels have raucous, argumentative family reunions on my back deck, and the birds are bossy and rule the sky.”

      He shrugged. “Deer are possessive, raccoons should be unionized, squirrels never get along, and birds always have to see what’s going on in everyone’s lives because they’re nosy. Didn’t you know that?”

      Oh no. A he-man with a sense of humor.

      He gazed around, his eyes stopping at my seriously dilapidated barn and then the building with the heated kennels for various abused/stray dogs I had taken in over the years until I could adopt them out to happy homes.

      My home, and this island, had been the perfect hiding place for me, my mother, and my sister.

      And now, after one award, Mr. Bridger here was going to ruin it. “Mr. Bridger …”

      “Aiden.”

      “Mr. Bridger,” I started again, trying to sound firm through my throbbing headache. “I have already told you I am not interested in doing an interview with you or your newspaper. Any questions from the media always go through my agent. I believe I forwarded you Terry Rudolph’s number already?”

      “Got that,” he said softly, still staring at me.

      “And?” I raised my eyebrows at him and pushed a stray curl off my face. At least I wasn’t wearing my black burglar cap that covered all my face except my eyes and mouth. I brushed my leather pants with my hands. Gall.

      “And what?” He smiled at me then, his intense gaze never leaving my face. I was doomed, doomed. He was even more yummy smiling.

      “Shurx …” I tried to speak, could not find words. “Anr … Bix …” I cleared my throat, studied my red Adirondack chairs, the hanging flowers, the wind chimes tinkling over my porch. “And you should leave. Good-bye, Mr. Gorgeous.” I turned away, my kneecaps feeling like they were cracking, then froze.

      Oh, please, I begged myself. Please tell yourself you did not say ‘Good-bye, Mr. Gorgeous.’ I hadn’t, had I? My body prickled with pure mortification.

      It was his laughter that confirmed it.

      “Damn,” I muttered. “By damn, damn. I did say it.”

      I did not turn around. “Mr. Bridger, please go. I don’t want an article written about me, not now, not ever. I’m a private person, have a private life, and I want to keep it that way.”

      “I understand that. Privacy is one cool thing.”

      I did not turn around to look at him, because my acute embarrassment was causing a hot flash. Hot flashes at thirty-five years old. Gimme a break. My mother had had them early, too. And her mother. My mother called them her “skin boilers.” Her mother called them “the devil’s heat spells.”

      I called