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He was undeniably attractive, although years of pain or unhappiness or disillusionment or a combination thereof had etched lines into his face, making him appear older than he probably was. His rare smiles were tainted by bitterness. His brown hair was thick and threaded with gray. Grooming it would probably be an afterthought. He was wearing two days’ worth of stubble.
His eyes weren’t a definitive color like blue or green or brown. They were best described as hazel and would have been unremarkable except for the occasional amber spots that flecked the irises. That unique feature, coupled with his amazing ability to remain focused on something for an incredible length of time, made his eyes compelling.
Staring at her now, he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. His eyes were issuing a challenge. Go ahead, they seemed to say. You’re dying to know why I’m in this chair, so why don’t you just ask?
She wasn’t going to take up that dare. Not now. Not until she knew him better, or not until she got at least a verbal commitment from him that he would finish his book.
“Have you written any more, Mr. Evans?”
“Want a refill of iced tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Another sandwich?”
“I’m full, thank you. Have you got more for me to read?”
He looked pointedly at Mike, who took the hint. “Excuse me. I need to put some things away.” The older man got up and left the room through a connecting door.
As soon as Mike was out of earshot, he said, “You’re a very determined woman.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
“I know.”
He backed away from the table, turned his chair, and stared through the glass as though he could penetrate the darkness and see the surf. Maris gave him this time. If he was balancing the pros and cons of a decision, she wanted to say nothing that might tip the scales against her.
After a time, he turned back. “Do you really think it’s that good?”
“Do you think I would travel to a remote spot on the map if I’d had a lukewarm response to your writing?”
“In plain English, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Evans, it’s good.”
He looked at her with exasperation. “My tongue has been inside your mouth, which makes the ‘Mr. Evans’ a bit ridiculous, don’t you think? My name is Parker. Call me that, okay?”
She swallowed but refused to look away from him. “Okay. And you can call me Maris.”
“I planned to.”
He seemed determined to provoke her one way or the other, but she was equally determined not to let him. “Where are you from, Parker? Originally. The South, I know that.”
“Shoot! What gave me away?” He spoke in an exaggeration of his natural drawl.
She laughed softly. “Well, there is the accent, but Yankees have a hard time distinguishing regional nuances. For instance, Texans don’t sound like South Carolinians, do they?”
“Texans don’t sound like anybody.”
Again she laughed. “Where did your particular accent originate?”
“Why is that relevant?”
“Some of the words you use…”
“Like?”
