Page 12 of Rush Turner (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #6)

Jessa

R ush didn’t bother knocking. He strode in as if he had lived there — which, as it turned out, he had.

At that moment, I didn’t know. All I saw was a man in worn jeans and a black shirt, toolbox swinging at his side, confidence in every step.

He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, took in the puddle and Aunt Marie swatting at the spray with an old dish towel.

“Morning, ladies,” he drawled, amusement flickering in his eyes when he met mine. “Pipe’s still giving you hell?”

“You could say that,” I muttered, pushing wet hair off my forehead. “It’s all yours.”

Rush set down his toolbox, dropped to one knee, and got to work. He moved so easily, like he knew exactly where everything was under that sink — which made sense, but not to me yet.

While he worked, Aunt Marie leaned in, whispering behind her hand, “He’s handsome. And handy. Don’t let that one get away, dear.”

I shushed her, cheeks flaming. “Aunt Marie, please—”

Rush twisted something, and the spraying water stopped with a final hiss. He sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag, then turned to look around the kitchen slowly.

His eyes lingered on the window over the sink, the old built-in shelves. There was something soft in his expression — not quite a smile, not quite sadness.

“You all settled in?” he asked, voice oddly quiet.

“Almost,” I said. “Still some boxes left. But the kids love it. It feels… safe here. Like it’s always been ours.”

His eyes flicked to mine. He swallowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, it would feel that way. I grew up in this house.”

My breath caught. “What?”

Rush pushed to his feet, bracing a hand on the counter like he needed the steadiness. He gave a soft, incredulous laugh.

“My dad built this place. We raised goats out back, too. I slept in that room—” he pointed down the hallway toward where Joanie was playing music, “—until I was seventeen. Then I joined the Navy and never really came back.”

I stared at him, trying to process it all at once — the way his fingers drifted over the windowsill like he was greeting an old friend, the ache in his voice when he said never really came back.

“I didn’t know,” I whispered. “The rental agency didn’t say. They said the owner didn’t live around here anymore.”

Rush shook his head, still half-smiling. “They didn’t lie. My brother manages the land. He lives in Florida now. I haven’t thought about this place in years. Guess it’s got good bones.” He glanced at me, eyes warm. “Like its new tenant.”

I wanted to hide my face in my hands. Aunt Marie sighed dreamily behind me.

“So… you don’t mind we’re here?” I asked, my voice small.