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He didn’t move or speak.
Rain fell into the front foyer, and Callie’s presence appeared behind my shoulder. She peeked over it, pulling her robe around her protectively.
Lightning shot across the sky, lighting up the face at the entranceway. "You." I gasped, surprise filling me, though it was quickly replaced by indignation.
It was the man from the funeral—and the—the garden.
The man didn't wait to be invited in, or seem to care about the rifle pointed at him. He strode into the front foyer, soaked from head to toe. Stopping right in front of the gun, he crooked an eyebrow at me. “You’ve got dirt on your face.”
I sputtered at his lack of concern over the gun, but his voice was a low rumble that seemed to move straight through the barrel of the rifle and into my chest. It was so distracting, it took a second to realize his meaning—or the irony of the fact that he was much more dirty than I was.
He reached forward and brushed it from my cheek—I’d been pulling weeds from mom’s garden and had somehow missed a spot in the shower.
His touch sent a sizzle of heat through my thighs.
But then the echo from our last encounter rippled through me. I’m your worst nightmare, little girl. It had been a horrible day, and the one man I thought would comfort me—after he’d done so willingly to Callie—instead, had dared command me to leave my own house.
The spark of my anger turned into a flame, and I dug the gun deeper into his chest. “You here to try and scare me away?” I seethed. “Coming in the middle of the night and banging on my doorway, like the boogeyman. You think it makes you scarier?”
“I don’t need the dark to frighten people.”
I inhaled a breath, suddenly knowing it was true.
I felt with every bone inside me that he was the kind of man who got anything he wanted.
I grit my teeth, not answering because I didn’t want him to hear the certain wavering of my voice.
We stared each other down, the largeness of his presence making my chest clench.
After a long, tense moment, his dark gaze penetrating mine, he finally spoke. "It would be polite to offer me something warm to drink."
"And it would be polite to knock on someone's door during daylight hours," Callie sassed from over my shoulder.
Her voice broke the tension between us, reminding me how he'd jumped into my father's grave after her with zero hesitation, while I'd just stood there, staring dumbly after her. He'd comforted her, and me, helping her gently upwards, then stared down the crowd, daring them to make a big deal about it.
"You know this guy, Summer?" she scoffed.
Trying to let go of my anger, for the moment, I put away the gun. “I recognize him, yes.” She probably didn't remember, she'd been so distraught.
I sighed. “Follow me.” I made my way towards the kitchen with the silent, broody, imposing presence following behind me. “Callie, close the front door will you?"
“Milk?" The man stated drolly, staring into my fridge like he owned the place and wasn't an unknown stranger.
“Hot chocolate,” I explained, ignoring the fact that he was still staring into my fridge. I lit the stove, catching his look of disapproval as he finally closed the fridge door. “You said you wanted something warm.”
"You don't have something stronger?"
I did, but it was in Dad's office—I wasn't about to offer this stranger the last of dad’s alcohol.
"Sorry." I forced a smile, "do you still want something to drink?"
“Chocolate milk isn't healthy." He began to go through my cupboards.
Sighing again, I turned off the stove and leaned against the counter, watching him barrage his way through my kitchen. "Did you come here for any particular reason? Or do you just like wandering around at night, looking for doors to knock on?"
"Who are you anyway?" Callie stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jam with her arms folded across her chest. She studied him cautiously, eyes narrowed.
"My name is Mr. Craven.”
