Worth The Wait. Lori FosterЧитать онлайн книгу.
standing at the window.
NATHAN SAT ON his front porch early Monday morning, drinking coffee, thinking about the day and, admittedly, waiting for his neighbor to show herself.
He’d learned her pattern by observation.
Lights out at ten each night. Her porch light stayed on.
No visitors, but she ventured out to her porch early evening to read.
And each morning, between seven and seven thirty, she exited her front door, went down the walk putting in earbuds, her iPod attached to the waistband of yoga pants, and she jogged.
It was now seven fifteen.
When he heard her door open, he didn’t look her way. Just set aside his coffee cup and flexed his arms.
He was ready. More than ready.
Today she wore running shoes, black compression shorts, a yellow tank top, and if he was any judge of breasts—and he was—a sports bra. She had her thick dark blond hair in a fat braid down her back. Instead of sunglasses, she wore a visor that cast a shadow over her amazing eyes.
Without looking his way, she picked up her pace and fell into a light jog, her braid bouncing behind her.
Nathan watched her go, flexed again, then headed down the walk. His legs were longer, he was stronger and he’d catch up easily enough. But first he wanted to do more observing.
Why was she so aloof?
Trailing a good distance behind her, he watched the movement of her toned, shapely legs, the swing of her slim arms and the gentle sway of her round ass. She turned the corner.
Knowing she wouldn’t hear him, not over the rhythmic thwap-thwap-thwap of her sneakers, he picked up his pace.
Did his scar bother her? Sure as hell bothered him, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Well, he’d retired from his position in one of the largest SWAT teams in the country and taken a much less demanding position in southern Ohio. That was something, he supposed. Wouldn’t rid him of the scar, but maybe it’d keep him from getting more.
Thinking about that day and the changes he made always left him hyperaware of the memory, the people who had died—and the people who had lived.
He touched his face where the scar cut across his cheek from his temple to the corner of his mouth.
Stopping suddenly, she turned and looked right at him.
Nathan dropped his hand and continued jogging.
So did she, but not for long.
She paused at the stop sign to a cross street and turned to face him.
Anticipation crackling, Nathan slowed as he reached her.
The second he was close enough, she demanded, “Are you following me?”
A direct attack. He hadn’t expected that, not when she’d been so cagey previously. Lying, he said, “Just out for a jog.”
She eyed him like she didn’t believe him.
Smart lady. “Do you jog every day?”
“Yes.” She unbent enough to ask, “You?”
He lied again. “Sometimes.” These days he did most of his cardio in the gym in his basement. But he’d always enjoyed jogging, so why not? “What did you say your name is?”
Giving him “the look,” she shook her head. “I never said. And you don’t strike me as the obtuse type, so I’m guessing you already knew that.”
Of course he did, and the curiosity drove him nuts. Hell, he’d thought about her all night. “Is it a secret?”
“No, I just...” Hands on her hips, she looked across the street.
Was she thinking about running? Away from him? Nathan took a step back, ensuring he didn’t crowd her.
She surprised him by holding out a hand. “Brooklin Sweet.”
Warmth uncurled inside him. Trying not to rush her, he gently took her hand. “Nathan Hawley.”
“I remember.” She pulled away. “Your friend introduced you.”
“Hogan.”
“Yes.”
Clipped answers. Trying to get rid of him quickly? Too bad, because he wasn’t in a mood to accommodate her. Perversely, the more remote she acted, the more he dug in. “I’m pleased to meet you, Brooklin.”
Her beautiful eyes stared into his. “Did I have a choice in the matter?”
“I don’t know,” he said, pretending to think about it. “I was pretty determined.”
A smile cracked, but she controlled it. “Nathan.” She spoke gently, as if to a half-wit. “You’re a very handsome man. And clearly successful. Being sheriff, I imagine people fall into line pretty quickly for you.”
Not really. Not in Clearbrook. He could debate the successful part, but he stayed quiet, anxious to hear what else she’d say. He thought it would be just as surprising as the rest of this meeting had so far been.
“Please don’t take it personally. But I really value my privacy right now.”
He lifted a brow.
“I’m not interested in dating.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t recall asking you.”
She almost flinched. “No, you didn’t, did you? That’s good.” She rallied together a look of optimism. “Saves us both the awkwardness—”
“But now that you’ve mentioned it,” he said, cutting her off. He smiled over her groan. “How about a no-pressure, meet-your-neighbor visit? Screwy Louie’s would do. Lunch, or maybe dinner?”
“Has a woman ever told you no?”
“Often. It’s never as much fun as yes.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re dangerous.”
Hands up, he denied that. “Swear I’m not. I’m the sheriff, you know. I have to be on the up-and-up.” When she looked ready to bolt again, he said, “Odd. Your eyes look much darker with the sun behind you.” Almost like whiskey, instead of topaz. But that sounded absurdly poetic, so he kept the description to himself.
“How tall are you?” Staring up at him, she said, “I’m five-eight, not exactly petite, but you still tower over me. I’m thinking six-two?”
Wondering at that observation, he shrugged. “About that.” In case she wanted all his stats, he added, “I’m thirty-four, a hundred and eighty pounds.”
“What? No credit report? Marital status? Financial statement?”
Nathan laughed. “Never been married, no kids, and I’m financially comfortable. Not rich, so don’t get greedy. But I don’t struggle.”
Brooklin blew out a breath. “I never asked for any of that. My point, if I can remember it now, was that I don’t like men towering over me.”
“You’re into shorter guys, huh?” Maybe he should stoop down a little.
“I’m not into guys at all.”
That brought both his brows up. “Gay?”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “No. Just very uninterested in...” She waved a hand between them. “This.”
“Me?”
“Anyone. For crying out loud, pay attention.”
“Yes, teacher.”