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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Leaving Tim’s boat turned out to be difficult for Valerie. Convincing herself that there was no way she could see him in any capacity again was even harder. She’d resigned herself to drive that wedge between the two of them because if they kept on as they were, she was going to fall for him. He was getting under her skin and making her want to talk—to share. And she feltcomfortablewith telling him her secrets. It was a freeing feeling being able to get up some words when she needed so desperately to, and she’d liked it too much.
He was becoming an addiction, and addictions had tendencies to prevent people from achieving what they were capable of. She knew herself too well.
So, when she returned to Shora and realized she had his house plans in her SUV and that his spare house key had magically appeared on her key ring, she had the tiniest of fits.
She’d need to get his things back to him—she needed to control the return of them so he wouldn’t take her unawares by seeking her out to fetch it.
She decided to wait until she was certain he was at the boat factory and used her lunch break to drive over to his house.
A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she steered down the treacherous slope of his driveway and saw that his truck was gone.
She left the car running and jogged to the door with the poster tube, let herself in with the spare key, and carried both to his office. She left his things on the desk and turned only to receive the fright of her life.
Leaning into the doorway with his arms folded over his chest was a tall, lanky young man with dirty blond hair that hung into pale blue eyes. He wore an oversized polo shirt and jeans that sagged a bit lower than was strictly necessary.
He drew in a long inhalation and let it out through his mouth. “You’ve got a key. You must be one of Dad’s flavors.”
“Excuseme?” She didn’t give a damn who that guy was or why he was there, but she wasn’t going to let anyone disrespect her like that.
Dad, he’d said, though.
He’d said “Dad” and he was in Tim’s house.
That’s meant…
Oh shit.
She slapped a hand to her forehead. The young man—whom she now guessed was Tim’s son—shrugged and cleared his throat. “I wonder how many keys he had made,” he mused.
How many…
She narrowed her eyes at him and suppressed the niggling compulsion to growl at him. Something in her had snapped at those words “how many.”
“I’m certain it’s none of your business how many keys he’s had made,” she said with forced calmness, “because unlike you—apparently—he’s a grown man and can give keys to the home he owns to whomever he wants.”
Kevin flinched.
Good, you little brat.
It was easy to be indignant when she didn’t have to confront everything the young man had said or let it mean anything. She was good at being the scolding parent type. She’d cut her teeth with that on Leah, and she had qualms about sticking her nose out when she needed to.Obviously, he needed the treatment.
She tapped the poster tube on the desk. “Those belong to your father. Iwilllet him know I dropped them off. They’re just architectural plans, but if you’re in a nosy kind of mood I can recommend a couple of websites for you to reference as you squint at them. That way, you know what you’re looking at.”
He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “What, the first architect didn’t figure out how to turn this dump into a perfect wonderland for Dad’s Family 2.0?”
This little snot…
Valerie gritted her teeth and tried to temper her tone before replying. “What’s wrong? Did he tell you that there wouldn’t be a room for you or are you always this accusatory for no good reason?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t care if there’s a room for me. I won’t be here.”
“Why are you here in this so-calleddump, then?”
He drummed his fingertips along the sides of his arms and stared at her.
“Clamming up now, huh? At least be a little less predictable, Mr. Dowd. You’ve got the moody teenager thing down pat, and I’ve got to tell you, it doesn’t suit you.”
