Page 4 of Fighting Words

It’s obvious Summer doesn’t belong here. Like a flower peeking through snow, this wintery landscape is all wrong for her. She should be in Los Angeles, driving a turquoise convertible to the beach. Her skin is freckled and flushed. Her hair is blonde with tinges of red; strawberry blonde is what they call that particular color. It’s damp now, wet with melting snow, just like her shirt and her jeans and her flimsy shoes I can’t help but sneer at. Where did she think she was going? Miami in May?

Now finally, she looks proportionately worried, as if the severity of her situation has finally sunk in for her. “So I can’t leave even if I want to?”

I sigh, narrowing my gaze. “I wouldn’t recommend it, no.”

The color drains from her face. “Oh my god.”

“This storm isn’t so bad. In a few weeks, the snow will really kick in.” I hold my hand at my hip to show her how high it got last year.

Her eyes widen. She releases a heavy exhale and looks down at the mess at her feet.

“So I can’t go into town and I can’t stay here…” she muses to herself, trying to work out a solution. She peers up at me from beneath her eyebrows. “Do you have any other buildings on the property? A barn or something?”

I almost smile at the question.

“No barn.”

I don’t ask her what she would have done if I’d said yes. Take her chances sleeping on hay? Unfortunately for the both of us, my cottage is all she has for the night.

“You can stay here and we’ll figure out a way to get you home in the morning.”

“Get me home?” Suddenly she has a backbone again. She sets her shoulders back and lifts her chin. “I’m not going home. I have a job to do.”

“Not with me you don’t. You can sleep up here.” I head for the stairs, assuming she’ll follow me.

She does, but she still has a little fight left in her. “I can’t just stay here with you. You’re a stranger.”

“Doesn’t look like you have a choice,” I call back as I stop on the second floor. “You came to me, remember? You could have stayed in the States where you belong.”

She starts to tentatively walk up the stairs. “I have a job to do.”

“Hada job.”

“I’m not leaving England.”

I groan under my breath and push open the door to my guest room. Well…room. It’s currently not fit for any guest except the tabby cat splayed out on the daybed against the far wall.

“You have a cat?” Summer asks from behind me.

Her tone implies shock. Why couldn’t I have a cat?

Apparently, she understands my question from the look I give her.

“You don’t seem like the type,” she notes, giving me a once-over like I’m the living embodiment of the devil.

“The cat isn’t mine.”

She frowns in confusion. Up close like this I can see her eyes are greenish brown, the color of moss and earth in a dense forest. A bit mysterious.

“Did you—did youstealit?” She looks horrified.

Good lord. I rub my forehead and ease the tension headache building there.

“There are always animals here,” I tell her. “That tabby cat.” I point to Cat and then throw my hand up. “A chicken. Every now and then, an old English sheepdog who’s not much use anymore will wander over from a nearby farm and sleep in front of my fireplace before he heads home.”

She frowns. “Don’t the owners come for them?”

“Surprisingly no. I once kept a sheep for two months before it wandered back home.”

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