Page 7 of Noble Neighbor
Then she was before him, stabbing her finger to his chest. “Why’d you call law enforcement? Huh?”
Oliver grabbed her wrist. “Lady, my son thought you all dead.”
She yanked her arm free. “Dead? How stupid—”
“Quiet,” he growled, this time closing his hand firmly around her upper arm. He turned, pulling her after him.
“Get your hands off me, you … you … lout,” she spat.
Oliver stopped a short distance away, satisfied they were out of hearing, and released her arm. “My sonwitnessed his mother’s murder,” he whispered angrily,revealing something only a select few knew.
Annoyed at himself for disclosing that morsel, Oliverinjected extra force into his next words. “Don’t youdareridicule his assumptions.”
Color had drained from her face, leaving her skin pasty white. “I … I … That’s … dreadful.” The palm she pressed to his chest was gentle. Calming. “And I’m sorry for your loss,” she added softly.
Contrition swamped Oliver at her obvious remorse, and he rubbed a hand over his face. She dropped her arm. He immediately felt the loss of the contact.
What wasthatabout?
“Look,” he said, trying to cover his discomfort. “Not many people know about Clement … about him—”
She briefly touched a finger to his lips. “I won’t tell a soul. I promise.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” And missed her fingereven more than her hand.What the hell was happening to him?
“Poor kid. He must’ve gotten such a fright. I was going to belittle his reasoning, and that would’ve been unforgivable.”
They stared at each other for a few moments.She was actually rather striking, Oliver thought, now thather features had softened. Not a standard beauty by any means. Her nose was too large, her chin too square, but there was something … compelling about her.
Something in her that called to him. Fascinated him.
Maybe he’d be needing his bruised balls after all.
His lips quirked at the thought.
He extended his arm. “I’m Oliver. Oliver Armstrong.Your neighbor from across Chicory Lane. My son is Clement. And my dad Frank. The unruly four-legged streak is Nala.”
“I’m Sunny,” she replied, placing her hand in his, her grip smooth and firm.
A smile stretched across her face, transforming herfeatures from attractive to downright gorgeous. Oliver likened it the sun reaching across the horizon in its slow ascent each morning. He chuckled. “That you are.”
Comeon, Oliver. Seriously? That wassocorny.
But her answering laugh was throaty, warm. “Mynameis Sunny. Sunny Jones. My daughters are Kenzieand Molly.”
Blood flow returned to his groin in a mighty surge.
3
Chicory Lane
Steaming mug of coffee in hand, Sunny let herself out of the kitchen and walked to the edge of the porch. Facing east, the gentle slope of the land on this side of the property afforded her an unobstructed view of theapproaching dawn. She’d forgotten the simple pleasurefound in the early morning hour. As a child, up with the sun to do chores, she had often paused and lifted her head in enjoyment.
“My Sunny-girl,” her daddy had called her, an indulgentsmile breaking across his otherwise work-weary countenance as the busy man took some time to watch the sky light up with her. “Each morning is a new beginning, darlin’. One filled with hope and promise. It’s up to us to grab ahold and make the most of it.”
“I miss you, Daddy, so awfully much.” Her whisper-soft words mingled with the sounds of the chirping birds. “Maybe … maybe one day …”
No regrets, Sunny. Remember?“No regrets.” She lifted her mug, saluting the promiseof a new day — and her new beginning — starting its reliable ascent on the horizon. Striations of orange and pink mingled, spreading across the sky, the inky-dark fading as it gave way to light. “And today we start our new life. One filled with hope and promise.”
