Page 7

The deep, resonant masculine voice startled me into dropping the bag. It slid down the porch stairs, coming to a stop at the feet of the man who stood there, looking up at me. He stooped to pick it up. Rain sparkled on the spiky tips of his dark hair. His eyes met mine, and my breathing stopped. Everything stopped. Including time.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
His words started the clock again. That’s okay, I tried to say, but no words would form in my mouth. I gave him a jerky little nod. My glasses were spotted with rain, so I dried them on my sweater, or at least smeared the drops around some. Even out of focus, he looked amazing.
I couldn’t focus on any particular detail that stood out amid the general excellence. His face was wet with rain. A sexy shadow of beard stubble accented all the sculpted planes and angles of his strong jaw. He had a bump on his nose. His eyes were pale green. Dark brows, long thick lashes. Broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and muscular legs in faded work jeans. I was willing to bet he had a stellar ass to match. I was definitely going to verify that hypothesis at my earliest opportunity. Discreetly, of course.
And I horrified myself that I could be knocked on my ass by something so frivolous today, of all days. I had to shut this down right now, before I lost all respect for myself.
He observed me keenly as the rain pattered down. It gave me the uncomfortable sensation that everything noteworthy about me was written all over me, in a language that he could read in one sweeping glance. Which was unfortunate today, since God knows, I was not at my best.
I put my glasses back on. In that moment of grace before they got spotted up again, and before I could forbid my brain to do it, I flash-memorized every detail of him. The winged sweep of his thick brows, the grooves that bracketed his mouth. The smile lines. But he wasn’t smiling at the moment.
He wiped rain off his forehead with his sleeve. “Are you Nancy D’Onofrio?”
This epitome of hot manhood knew my name? I nodded, wishing I’d opted to wash my hair this morning. The tight bun was a lazy, deal-with-it-later choice. A peeled-onion, tight-lipped schoolmarm still in yesterday’s stale funeral black, eyes swollen up, breath reeking of alcohol. I looked like a walking cluster of big red flags.
This guy, by contrast, looked clear-eyed and clean-living. He probably went to bed at ten and got up at five to stand on his head for ten minutes, or run ten miles, or something insane like that. He probably drank green tea, not espresso.
I saw him in my mind’s eye, shirtless. Moving smoothly from yoga pose to yoga pose.
Whoa. How shallow was I?
It’s just distraction. The answer bubbled up from a calmer place inside my head. He was eye candy, and my eyes were hungry. Gawking at a beautiful man was a way not to think about the piece that had been torn from my life. And the ragged hole left behind.
Oh shit. Now my eyes were fogging up. The guy’s mouth was moving, and I’d just been staring. Mouth open, no doubt. I hadn’t followed him at all.
“… Mrs. D’Onofrio here? I had an appointment with her this morning.”
Oh, God, not again. Irrational anger flared inside me. Why was it my goddamn job to announce this catastrophe to the whole world? I’d been the one to find Lucia’s body. I’d been the one to call the cops. I’d been the one to call my sisters. I’d gone up and down the block, telling neighbors, activating their community phone trees. I’d told the delivery people, I’d dealt with the funeral home, I’d written the obit. Could somebody else please take a fucking turn?
Not his fault, I reminded myself. I shook my head. “Lucia’s dead.” My voice was colorless.
His face went blank with shock. “Oh, my God. When?”
I rubbed my wet eyes under my glasses, took a deep breath, and tried again. “A few days ago,” I said. “The funeral was yesterday.”
He was silent for a long moment. “I am so sorry,” he said gently.
There was no good response to that. I’d learned that this week, to my great cost. I just nodded. “Yeah. Me, too. So who are you?”
“I’m Liam Knightly. I’m the carpenter. I’m here to start the work on the house.”
“Work? On the house? What work?”
“She didn’t tell you about the renovations she was planning?”
I shook my head. “I hadn’t spoken to her for a couple of weeks before she died.”
“Neither did I,” he said. “We set this date weeks ago.”
I shook my head. No clue what to do about him and his plans for Lucia’s house. He was an ambassador from that alternate timeline, the wonderful one that would have existed if Lucia hadn’t been ... no. I had to stop the what-if thinking. It didn’t help.
Liam Knightly wiped the rain off his face. “Would it make you nervous if I stood under the porch roof with you? I’m getting drenched.”
“Uh, that’s fine,” I said distractedly. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you before. Do you want to come in? For a cup of coffee, or tea? If Lucia has tea. Or had, I guess I should say.” Damn. Babbling again. I did that when I got nervous.
Knightly’s eyes showed the subtle gleam of a smile. “Thank you, yes. Wait just one moment. I’ll go tell Eoin to wait.”