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He flipped on the lights and glanced around his kitchen. The stainless steel gleamed, the granite shone, and he had to admit, the place looked pretty damn good. He got busy getting dinner prepared and told himself that the woman, Morgan, would find other work. Hell, he didn’t need her. He could keep up with things. Sure he used a service when he was in California or Florida, but out here, he liked being on his own.
Cooper cracked open a beer and gazed through the window at the now-darkened sky. He found himself thinking about her unusual eyes—odd, but at the moment, it was the only thing about her he could recall. She was hiding something—he felt it deep in his gut—and that made him curious.
“Leave it alone,” he muttered into the silence.
With a frown, Cooper collected his steak and headed out to the deck and his barbecue. He didn’t have time to worry about a woman he’d just met and her secrets. He needed to focus.
If he didn’t get his shit together, the reclusive, mysterious Lee Holloway might disappear from the minds of Americans forever. Considering Lee Holloway was pretty much the only real thing in Cooper Simon’s life, he wasn’t about to let that happen. It was an entirely different level of pathetic, but at the moment, it was all he had.
2
Morgan Campbell swept the last bits of crumbs from the counter and tossed them into the trash before pulling the blinds closed over the kitchen sink window. It was just after seven o’clock, and she shivered slightly, tugging her cardigan tighter as a gust of wind whistled against the windowpanes, shaking them. It was dark as sin outside, and winter was not letting go anytime soon.
It was one thing, on a list of many, that she hated about New England.
She folded the damp dishrag and laid it beside the sink before stepping away. Morgan and her father had just finished their evening meal. It had been a simple affair—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli. She’d be the first to admit she wasn’t much of a cook, so the meatloaf had been dry and the mashed potatoes runny, but hey, the broccoli had been done to perfection. Something her dad had remarked on several times—not because he liked broccoli or anything, but because they didn’t have much else to talk about.
The television blared from the front of the house. She knew her father was already settled into his worn brown La-Z-Boy, and that his butt would stay there until he went to bed around midnight. She shook her head slowly, remembering the brown paper bag in the trash.
He’d be stumbling to bed, more like.
With a sigh, she dimmed the lights and headed for the stairs, saying a quick good-night to her father as she passed the front room. Not that he heard, and if he did, there was no response.
Morgan had just entered her bedroom—her only intention to change into her pajamas and curl up with a good book—when she heard the front door open and then slam shut. The house vibrated from the force, and a few moments later, boots on the stairs told her that her book would have to wait.
It wasn’t a pal of her father’s or anyone Morgan called friend (the no-doorbell kind of gave that away). And of course there was no knock at her bedroom door before it flew open. Heck, Morgan barely had time to turn around before her sister Sara breezed inside, tossing a pea-green coat onto Morgan’s bed, before flopping down beside it. Sara’s long blonde hair was windblown, and she flashed a quick smile as she settled back onto the worn pink-and-blue comforter. She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head.
“So?” Her pouty lips glistened as she waited expectantly.
Morgan knew why she was here and, irritated, crossed to the large oak armoire and grabbed her favorite pajamas without saying a word.
“I hate when you do that.” Sara’s voice rose. “Don’t ignore me, Morgan. I’m not leaving until I get the scoop.”
“And miss out on eight-o’clock freebies at the bar?”
Sara laughed. “Sweetie, I can get free drinks all night long. I don’t need to punch a time clock.” A pause. “Come on. Did he at least ask about me?”
Morgan didn’t bother to turn around. “Nope.”
“But did you tell him I was your sister?”
Morgan grimaced. No way was Sara leaving until they had this conversation. With a longing look at the book on the old, well-used desk beside her armoire, Morgan turned around.
Sara leaned forward, forehead furrowed as she kicked out her booted feet, repeatedly scuffing the worn floorboards at the foot of the bed. “Well?”
“No, Sara. I did not.” Morgan leaned against the armoire, her pajamas held in her arms, and waited for it. She didn’t have to wait long.
“Are you kidding me?” Sara jumped to her feet, a blur of hair and the vibrant red silk blouse she wore. “I told you to tell him we were sisters. Told you to chat me up.”
“Well, shit, Sara. I guess I didn’t find time for a heart-to-heart with the guy while I was, you know, cleaning his toilets.”
“Ew.” Sara’s face crinkled up. “Like I needed to hear that. Toilets and Cooper Simon shouldn’t be mentioned in the same sentence.” She flung her hands in the air—all dramatic and fired up. “The guy is… He’s just… He’s like…”
Morgan couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh, for God’s sake, Sara. He’s human. His parents are human. They didn’t come down here on a spaceship. They didn’t hatch him out of a golden egg. He’s not a god, and from what I’ve read, he’s nothing close to angelic. He was born the same way all of us were.” She tossed her pajamas onto her bed, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “He just happens to eat his food with a silver spoon. That’s the only difference.”
“Obviously,” Sara replied dryly. “But I would like to be that damn spoon, is all I’m saying. Just looking at the man’s mouth gave me mini orgasms the other day.”
“Nice. I’m sure Pastor Richards would love to know that.”
