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At First Touch
Cindy Miles


Don't trust your eyes.Trust your heart…After suffering a tragic accident, Reagan Quinn's military career was cut short and her sight gone forever. Returning to her childhood home only reminds Reagan of what she's lost. No light, no color; just shadows and indistinct forms. But one man refuses to let her give up on herself.Reagan can't see Eric Malone. All she knows is that he's there every day, driving her completely bonkers. Eric pushes her out of the darkness and into a world shaped by taste, touch and scent. But Reagan isn't quite prepared for what happens when she stops depending on her sight…and starts seeing with her heart.







Don’t trust your eyes. Trust your heart…

After suffering a tragic accident, Reagan Quinn has her military career cut short and her sight gone forever. Returning to her childhood home only reminds Reagan of what she’s lost. No light, no color—just shadows and indistinct forms. But one man refuses to let her give up on herself.

Reagan can’t see Eric Malone. All she knows is that he’s there every day, driving her completely bonkers. Eric pushes her out of the darkness and into a world shaped by taste, touch and scent. But Reagan isn’t quite prepared for what happens when she stops depending on her sight…and starts seeing with her heart.


“Close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

Eric let his fingers gently graze her eyes, one by one, brushing her lashes.

“Big eyes, long, thick lashes.” He moved to her lips, let his thumb softly scrape them, tugging one slightly open, and he lowered his head, brushed his lips over hers and kissed her deeply. “I could kiss these all day,” he muttered against her, then opened his eyes.

Hers were closed, her lips wet from their kiss, and she leaned into him. She breathed a little heavier now.

“Eric,” she said quietly, her fingers tightening around his.

He didn’t give her another second to question things. Or him. Or what he might want or not want. He’d wanted this for a while, but also wanted to give Reagan her space. Not rush things. Jesus, it hadn’t been easy, but he wanted things right with Reagan.

This was right.


Dear Reader (#ulink_6e1c0a39-a7a1-58ae-a5ee-5a14561ba660),

At First Touch introduces the youngest of the Malone brothers, Eric, and a girl he once knew: Reagan Quinn. Though these childhood friends were separated, a tragic event that has left Reagan blind brings them together. So when Reagan returns to Cassabaw to live with her sister—Matt’s soon-to-be sister-in-law—a very different young woman comes home. Bitter and angry at life’s turn of events, Reagan has no desire but to just be left alone—and somehow figure out a way to never be a burden. Unbeknownst to her, Eric Malone is the very catalyst she needs to realize her full potential.

This second book in The Malone Brothers captures many of the quirky flavors from the first book, Those Cassabaw Days, as well as the beloved characters I hold so close to my heart. From the familiar briny salt marshes and whimsical boardwalk on the beach, to that grain of childhood that remains in us all, discovered, sometimes accidentally, through a certain scent, sound or song.

Cindy


At First Touch

Cindy Miles






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CINDY MILES grew up on the salt marshes and back rivers of Savannah, Georgia. Moody, sultry and mossy, with its ancient cobblestones and Georgian and Gothic architecture, the city inspired her to write twelve adult novels, one anthology, three short stories and one young-adult novel. When Cindy is not writing, she loves traveling, photography, baking, classic rock and the vintage, tinny music of The Great Gatsby era. To learn more about her books, visit her at cindy-miles.com (http://www.cindy-miles.com).


For my family.


Contents

Cover (#u179fb853-5585-5236-aefd-b9feab52f5e3)

Back Cover Text (#u1b37da09-8abb-51cd-9bea-a700796f0cf4)

Introduction (#ub9d97557-3998-5f54-bf7b-736fac45ccae)

Dear Reader (#u8cbf4c15-bda7-529f-88d4-0d0953ad1e9b)

Title Page (#ue6b8dba8-555f-5de9-b0dc-b078c6f839e5)

About the Author (#uba9b18e4-4f79-5e2f-9e0a-d562a0e61213)

Dedication (#ub8763c76-fdf1-579b-9b28-39fcca30e83f)

CHAPTER ONE (#ucea4b92b-df85-5567-8a13-c1783a3022ba)

CHAPTER TWO (#u047e4f63-c274-50da-ae80-716b239a097b)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf066789d-48b0-55af-a095-4d62c31752a3)

CHAPTER FOUR (#udd1d8cd1-a2be-56e2-ad62-6bddeecfec84)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u691bdf4b-5e81-50ba-a282-4cf4877ec4d2)

CHAPTER SIX (#u85c05211-09cc-51c9-841a-4ef1b75c6291)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f48e852e-ad5a-5647-85f0-803ee855bbe3)

Cassabaw Station

Early August

IF ONE MORE person accused Reagan Quinn of having PTSD, she was going to lose it. She knew what it was, knew many others had it, and it was a serious, dangerous condition she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. But she didn’t have it. Not at all.

She was just, simply and bluntly to the point, pissed off. Bottom line.

Mad. As. All. Holy. Hell.

She was blind. Not on the edge of insanity.

The doctors had insisted her other senses would kick in to make up for the loss of sight. It hadn’t happened yet. How could it when your vision was literally knocked from your skull? They’d said it would be like the cells in her body would swarm to all other areas in order to perfect them—to try to make up for the loss of that one particular sense. The doctor had said it would happen, and in an excited sort of way. Like it was cool. Superhero kind of cool. She distinctly remembered telling one doctor in particular to go screw himself. Twice. He’d compared her to Daredevil. The blind lawyer from Hell’s Kitchen. She was nothing like Daredevil. Well, with one exception: she could see shadows, outlines, forms. Nothing definitive. Just like the blind superhero. But she doubted her vision would return to see something special like a rainstorm, where everything was all magical and beautiful and poignant. It sounded a lot cooler in a Marvel movie, instead of real life. Her life.

And now she was coming home. A place she hadn’t returned to since the tragic accident that had taken the lives of her parents. She was basically helpless, depending on others, which she hated. Oh, the government was also helping her with a check for her troubles.

And that was great, having a government check. Even free college. She’d loved the service and defended her country with pride.

But what in the holy of all hell was she going to do with herself now?

“I spy with my little eye something...” Emily Quinn’s pause lasted...and lasted. And lasted. “Brown. I mean tan. Definitely tan! Okay, more like a sort of, oh, I don’t know, a—”

“The marsh.”

“Dang it, Reagan, I swear,” Emily huffed. “I just honestly swear.”

They’d been playing I Spy ever since Emily had picked her up at the airport. A really idiotic game to play with a blind person who could see only heavy shapes, but who was she to judge? Maybe her older sister didn’t know what exactly to do with her. No one did, really. Not anymore. Walk on eggshells? Treat her like an invalid? Pretend nothing’s wrong? Every option was completely and utterly wrong. All she wanted to do was get the hell home and go to bed. Sleep for a week. And pretend this nightmare wasn’t truly happening. Maybe, after a week or two of slob-like slothery, she’d awaken and an epiphany would strike. An idea on how to fix this stupid situation. But for now, it was I Spy. Or not. “No more,” Reagan insisted. “Seriously, Em. I’m kinda beat. It was a long trip.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right.” Reagan jumped when Emily’s warm fingers threaded through hers. It’d take some getting used to—touches occurring before you see them coming. “I missed you so much, Rea. I just... I’m so glad you’re home. Here, you relax and I’ll turn the music up a bit. There’ll be time for girl talk later.” Silence for a moment. “I’ll just be quiet.”

Emily’s quirkiness actually made Reagan fight a smile. At the same time, the quiver she’d noticed in her sister’s voice saddened her. Her older sister had always been different. Did her own thing, no matter what anyone said. Reagan had liked that about her. “I missed you, too, sis,” Reagan answered, and squeezed her sister’s warm hand. She had, too. More than Emily would really ever know. They only had each other, the Quinn girls. Well, she supposed, Emily now had the Malones. She was engaged to the middle son, Matt, and if Reagan remembered correctly, he was a cocky pain in the ass.

Girl talking, yes—they’d be doing plenty of that. She knew Emily Quinn’s inquisitive mind, and Emily would want to know every detail of the accident. She would want to know her present condition, limitations. Feelings. Everything.

Reagan would tell her. Just not now. Extreme exhaustion and jet lag clawed at her. Made her grumpy. Made her short of patience.

The volume increased, just a little. She rested her head back and listened to Emily’s unique addiction to vintage music—Benny Goodman, maybe. Funny. Reagan vaguely remembered her mother listening to the same kind of music. The neighbors’ grandpa, too. Soon to be Emily’s grandfather-in-law. Their neighbors on the river. That was another thing she’d have to get used to. Insta-family. Insta-everything, really. Insta-different-life.

Sleep didn’t come—not in Emily’s Jeep. Jeeps were great, especially living on an island, but whether in domestic driving or in the armed forces, they were jolting and bumpy. It was simply their nature to scramble your innards. So no matter how exhausted she was, sleep wouldn’t happen. And since attempting to focus on distant shapes in a moving vehicle tended to make her queasy, Reagan kept her head slightly turned toward the window and her eyes closed, allowing the sun to warm her skin. It also made her sister think she was napping. The whole thing worked until they reached the river house. There her shenanigans ended. Abruptly.

Sleep and slothery wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon.

The moment Emily cut the engine, voices rose over the marsh to greet Reagan’s ears. Close, but not too close, laughter. Male laughter. One older voice swearing. An old blues singer’s voice from a record player carried on the briny breeze that wafted through the open Jeep. The wind rustled her hair. A wind chime clanged softly nearby. As she peered through her shades, she could vaguely make out the shape of the river house.

The smell of...something delicious hung in the air, too.

“Happy homecoming, little sister!” Emily said with excitement. “A hero!” Again, Reagan’s hand was enveloped and she jumped. Soft lips pressed against Reagan’s cheek as Emily kissed her. “I wanted to surprise you!”

Reagan sighed and inwardly cringed. “Well, you did that, Em.” God Almighty, a freaking party? That’s the very last thing she’d wanted. Especially with a bunch of strangers. But she didn’t want to come across as a total unappreciative ass, so she pasted a grin to her face and squeezed Emily’s hand. “Thanks, sis.” Her voice sounded strained, even to her own ears. But in Emily’s excitement, her sister missed it completely. These people, Emily knew. She didn’t. Maybe once, but that was a hell of a long time ago.

“Okay, come on and meet everyone!” Emily said with excitement, then her voice faded a little. Footsteps hurried away and they, too, grew quiet and became lost in the music and voices and swearing. Reagan reached for her walking stick on the Jeep’s floorboard. Hopefully, she wouldn’t trip over a pine root and go sprawling on her face in front of everyone. It wouldn’t be the first time since the accident. Probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Oh! Shoot!” Emily said. She sounded at least fifty feet away. Footsteps began crunching against something she couldn’t immediately identify? Pine straw? “Reagan!”

“Stand down, my overanxious and soon-to-be sister-in-law,” a teasing male voice said, closer. A tall figure loomed, and along with it a clean, soapy scent met her nostrils and blended with the river brine. “Wow. Reagan Rose Quinn.” The male voice connected to the looming shadow drew closer. Close enough that his body heat clashed with hers. “I’ve got a confession.” He paused, and she felt him lean closer. “Ever since your sister showed me a picture of you in full gear, I’ve had a major crush on you.”

Instantly, she stiffened, and he laughed, and it was a deep, male sound. “At ease, Quinn. Welcome home.”

Reagan kept her shades in place. Who was this guy? She had to keep reminding herself that she wasn’t a hundred percent, pitch-black blind; she merely saw dark, discolored shadows. Not enough to see features. Not enough to see tree roots, either. Just barely enough to see outlines. Forms. But she imagined the look on his face was a cocky one. “Uh, thanks. A Malone?” she said. Honestly, she had one in five shots. She couldn’t be wrong. Apparently the one who came to drag her from Em’s Jeep was the one with no filter.

A large, callused hand grasped her elbow and tugged, urging her out of the Jeep. “That’s a crap guess, Quinn. You already know there are five of us living next door. Which one am I?” the voice teased. Reagan could hear the amusement.

She allowed his help, but the moment her stick touched the ground, she leaned away from him. Usually that was signal enough for someone to let go. He did not. “Eric,” she announced with impatience, and wondered why he acted as though he knew her. He didn’t. None of them did. Not even Emily.

“Ha! Lucky guess!” he announced with almost too much joy. “Now quit trying to pull away from me and just come on,” he said quietly, for just her to hear. “I can tell you want a party as much as you want me escorting you right now, but both are happening whether you like it or not.” A slight swoosh of wind pushed past as he drew closer. “So just smile that gorgeous smile you have and get through it,” he said against her ear. “Your sister means well. You’re all she’s talked about. She’s been planning this for a week. Besides, Jep’s shrimp cakes are legendary—almost as much as the dipping sauce he makes to go with them. Plus, I just heard your stomach growl so I know you’re starved. Now,” he said, not quite as close. “Can you see anything at all?”

Reagan gave a half laugh. Eric Malone hadn’t changed too much. He’d been filterless as a kid, too, and apparently hadn’t outgrown that quality. Gorgeous smile? What a line. The last smile he saw on her, she’d probably been missing teeth. “Actually, yeah. I can see shadows. Shapes. Forms. Which is why you can let go—”

“All right, good to know,” he interrupted, and did not let go of her arm. “So can you tell we’re cutting across your yard and heading down the lane to mine? Do you remember?”

Peering through her shades, Reagan knew they made it difficult to see—especially when her condition was exacerbated by sunlight. But as she stared, she could see darkness on both sides, and a lighter pathway in the center. “I can. And yeah, I do remember.”

“Good times, huh?” Eric Malone moved at her pace—not pulling or tugging. People tended to do that. Just pull her along. “All right, lots of roots in here,” he announced. His voice wasn’t too deep. It had an even cadence that wasn’t too brash or too smoky. Amusement. He had a lot of that. Always had.

“Does it still smell the same, Reagan Rose? Take a big whiff,” Eric suggested, and he inhaled deeply and loudly, then pushed it out in an exaggerated exhale. “Can’t beat it, can you? That good ole river brine?” He chuckled lightly. “To me, that’s the smell of home.”

“Smells like sea sewage to me.”

He chuckled as they picked their way along the lane that as kids they’d run through at top speed. “Well, then,” he said beside her. A little closer. A little more amused. “Give it some time. It’ll grow on you.”

“I doubt it.” She knew her answer sounded acerbic. She’d meant it to.

“Hey.” The air shifted as he leaned closer. “Open your mind, Reagan Rose Quinn. And your nostrils. There are a lot of great experiences just waiting to happen.” She felt a nudge as Eric gently elbowed her in the ribs. “Glad you’re home, by the way. It’s been too long.”

Before Reagan could recover from Eric’s comment—actually, from any of them—dark shadows accompanied by voices descended upon her.

“My God, look at this grown-up girl,” a deep male voice said. The form grew closer, and Reagan’s hand was enveloped by a large warm one. “Good to see you home again, Reagan.”

In what she hoped was the right direction, Reagan turned and smiled. “Thank you, sir,” she replied.

“That’s my dad, Owen,” Eric said beside her.

“Oh, sorry, honey,” Owen said. “I should’ve warned you before grabbing your hand, eh?” His chuckle was lighthearted and gruff at the same time. What was with all this friendly familiarity? She hadn’t seen any of these people in more than fifteen years. It made no sense to her.

No matter how often she was reminded that she couldn’t see, Reagan always tried. She peered through her shades—squinted hard, as if that would in some way help clear the blur. Brighten the darkness. It didn’t. So she held up her hand and gave her head a soft shake. “No, it’s fine, really,” she said. “It— I—take some getting used to, I guess.”

“Warning, I’m about to hug you,” another of the forms called out, and in the next second Reagan’s body was being squeezed. Firm lips grazed her cheek. “Nathan,” the voice advised. “You still look like a brat, by the way.”

Memories flashed before her. “Your favorite name for me.”

“I guess I can almost rightfully call you sis, huh?” another voice said. Spoke, but didn’t grab. Didn’t hug. Didn’t touch.

“This is grown-up Matt, Rea,” Emily spoke beside her, then giggled. “My fiancé and your soon-to-be brother.”

Reagan turned her face toward Matt’s form. “I’ve heard...all about you.”

Matt chuckled softly. “I bet you have.”

“Well hells bells, no one told me the party was going to be in the side yard,” a deep, gravelly voice said. Another shadowy form moved toward Reagan, and she could tell a limp made him wobble a bit as he made his way to the group. Winded, he cleared his throat. “Gotta tell an old man these things, you know. Say, darlin’, can you bake? Not sure if I want any pies baked by a blind girl, but I’ll give anything a try once—”

“Dad,” Owen chided. “Forgive old Jep, Reagan,” he said. “The years have stolen his manners.”

Reagan felt caged in. Surrounded by so much unfamiliar familiarity. She wanted to escape. To be alone. “From what I can remember he lost those long ago.” Everyone chuckled around her, and she turned her face toward Jep. The old guy spoke his mind, and she confessed she liked that. At least he wouldn’t tiptoe around her. “Em’s always been the baker. I just...lick the bowl.”

“Hmm,” Jep remarked. “Suppose I can share a bowl now and then. Still—glad to have another purty girl livin’ beside us. You’re welcome in our home anytime, darlin’.”

“Thanks,” Reagan replied.

“You’re welcome. Owen!” Jep called out.

“Right here, Dad,” Owen said close by. “Come on around back, kids.”

“Damned hush puppies won’t cook themselves, you know,” Jep added.

“I know, Dad.”

“Eric, I’m ready for those shrimp now, if you can find it in yourself to stop all that damned flirting and get a move on,” Jep grumbled.

“Yes, sir,” Eric replied, then his voice was at Reagan’s ear. “He’s just jealous. I’ll save you a place beside me.”

Reagan didn’t say anything, and the forms all began moving away.

An arm slipped through hers. “Come on, Sissy,” Em said with a soft laugh, close to her ear. “Let’s go.”

They walked, and soon the shadows and shapes and forms of the Malones all blurred together, and Reagan couldn’t tell who was who. Emily led her along the side yard and around back, to where the sun must’ve been shining with all its might, with no clouds to block the rays from her skin, and her cheeks warmed, and a fine sheen of moisture clung to her bare arms. For a moment, she felt...right.

She imagined the sky was a vast blanket of blue. Imagined the sun gilded everything in its path. Imagined the water rippling as a mullet fish or a ray broke the surface. And as they stepped onto the dock, Reagan concentrated. Hard. She could hear the water lap at the marsh grass and mud, and the brine rose and blended with the warm June air as it rustled the big, waxy magnolia leaves.

Yeah. She was home, all right. All those things felt familiar. Smelled familiar. Seemed familiar. Like from a long, long ago movie she’d watched; the way a certain scent triggered a particular event from the past. There, but dormant. Waiting for that spark to release it. It made her remember the girl she’d been, running down the dock and launching off of it, knees pulled to her chest, falling into the warm, brackish water. It seemed...a lifetime ago. The life she’d had before her parents’ fatal accident. Before her own.

Only Reagan had changed. She was different. Different from anyone gathered on the dock.

And she’d never be that Reagan Quinn again.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_33863be9-cd50-5593-9005-bce1164e65a4)

THE PUNGENT AROMA of strong coffee brewing seeped into Reagan’s subconscious, and her eyes blinked open. Confusion webbed her mind at first—where was she? For a moment she stared hard, trying to clear the haze and blur of the room. She sat up, rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. Then the feeling of dread that visited her daily swamped her, and she froze. She wasn’t just blind. She was blind...and home.

Back on Cassabaw. Had been, for nearly a week.

Coming home was...a shock. The last time she’d been on the island was the day of their parents’ funeral. They’d pulled away from the cemetery, a U-Haul carrying their belongings, and she’d never been back. She didn’t remember as much as Emily did, but flashes now crossed her mind, and they were like a thick cloud of recollections in front of her face. Ones she could almost see, but not quite. Faded pictures that were memories of her parents, laid out in an album; of playing on the dock with her sister; of easing through the creek in their father’s aluminum boat and letting her fingers brush the marsh grass as they passed. Sometimes she wondered if she actually remembered the memory or just the photograph.

She’d lost her sight. Her parents. Her childhood. She’d lost...all of that. What she had in her brain was now the only photo album she had.

Reagan let her body fall back against the pillows and she lay there, arm draped over those cursed eyes, and she squeezed them tightly shut and just...breathed. Tears pooled and spilled over her closed lids, dampening her pillow.

Moments later, a knock sounded at her bedroom door, and before she could respond, the creaking of a rusty hinge alerted her that it was being cracked open.

“Rea?”

Reagan swiped at her eyes and sat up. “Hey,” she answered hastily, not wanting her sister to catch her in a moment of weakness.

Emily’s soft footfalls crossed the room, and the bed sank a little when she sat on it. “I made coffee,” her sister said.

“Yeah, I uh...” Reagan replied. “I can smell it.” She smiled, but turned her face toward the light streaming in through the window.

“You okay, sis?” Emily asked, and she draped her arm over Reagan’s shoulders. Then she lifted the ponytail Reagan had pulled her shoulder-length hair into the night before. “Want me to brush it? It’s grown out since you cut it short.” Emily tugged at her ponytail. “I can braid it if you like—”

“No, Em.” Reagan rose from the bed and slowly moved toward the blurred image of the window. With her hands outstretched, she grasped the sill and stood, allowing the sunlight to bathe her face. Outside the windows, crickets chirped. “I’m not helpless. I can get myself in and out of bed, dressed and...even braid my own hair. I’m not an invalid.”

Emily’s sigh reached her ears. “I know—I didn’t mean anything, Rea. Honest. Hey,” she said brightly, changing gears. “Let’s have breakfast on the dock. Like we did when we were kids. Do you remember?” Her footsteps grew closer. Hesitant. “It’s a sincerely magical morning. Perhaps a mermaid will join us.”

Reagan closed her eyes briefly, and a slight smile touched her lips. Emily had a way with words, and she’d always made up the best stories when they were kids. “Sure.” She turned toward her sister. “Sounds good.”

“Swell! I’ll throw everything together! You like bananas, right? Fruit? Greek yogurt?” Emily said, and Reagan nodded. “Great!” Em’s voice grew faint as she hurried from the room. “It’ll only take me a sec!” A crash to the floor followed by a muttered shiitake mushrooms! reached Reagan’s ears, and she again felt her mouth pull into a slight smile. Emily Quinn—soon to be Malone—hadn’t changed a bit. She’d never been one for swearing. Instead, she’d made up her own forms of verbal release. Shiitake mushrooms being one of them.

The sounds of Emily bustling around in the kitchen washed over Reagan for a moment more; they—the noises—seemed familiar, too. Of a time long, long ago, when their mother used to make ham sandwiches and dill pickles to eat on the dock. Or toast waffles—toast with butter and syrup—and bacon on Saturday mornings. Sounds she’d taken for granted as a kid were the only link to the past she had now. The clink of silverware. The creak of the pantry door. Reagan breathed, scanned the room with her useless eyes, then eased across the wood-planked floor, arm outstretched, and made her way slowly across the hall to the bathroom. The thing about the Quinns’ river house was that it had a lot of windows, allowing the sun to pour in from all directions. It gave her some semblance of direction. A small help, she guessed.

In the bathroom, Reagan quietly closed the door behind her, washed her face and brushed her teeth with the toiletries she’d carefully laid out on the shelf after she’d first arrived. After running a brush through her hair, she pulled it back into a ponytail again and then stared hard at the blurred image before her. Tentatively, she lifted her fingertips to her eyes. Brushed the tender skin beneath them. The corners. Then the lids.

Useless. Blank stares. That’s all she had to offer now.

Pushing angrily away from the sink, she made her way back to her room, bumped into the door frame and swore, then once inside pulled open the first drawer of her meticulously packed dresser. Emily had helped her arrange the clothes in her dresser so all Reagan would have to do was feel around for them. With her fingertips she felt in the first drawer for a bra. Easy enough. In the next drawer, a pair of cutoff faded jeans that she knew reached midthigh and had a hole near the pocket. Then a tank top. Plain. Easy. No color coordination required. The only thing she’d ever have to worry about would be that her shirt was inside out, and she absently lifted her hand and brushed the back of her tank. Small, silky tag intact and inside shirt. With a shake of her head, she sat on the floor and pulled on her well-worn Converses, then slipped on her shades, grabbed her walking stick and headed for the kitchen.

Shadows and light collided as the sun poured in through the multitude of windows, from every angle, and for a moment Reagan stopped in her tracks to get her bearings. Living room. Kitchen to the left. She continued on, tapping her stick side to side as she went along. She knocked against something hard—an end table, probably—then something soft. Sofa. She felt like a fool, swiping the long stick with the telltale sign that a blind person was on the move: white stick, red tip. Swipe swipe swipe.

“Just let me grab one more thing and we’re all set,” Emily said, and her figure shot about the kitchen in a hurry, then came to stand before Reagan. “Okay, ready?”

“I can help carry something,” Reagan said.

“Nope, it’s okay. I’ve—”

“Em,” she warned with impatience. “Seriously.”

“Fine,” Emily agreed with a sigh, then draped a strap over Reagan’s shoulder. “You carry the lunch box. I’ve got the thermos and cups.”

Reagan nodded and adjusted the bag. “Right behind you.”

The screen door creaked open and Reagan caught it with her palm as she and her sister stepped onto the porch. Humidity clung to the air around her, and she inhaled the ever-present brine that always heightened at low tide. She followed her sister’s lead, walking the trail she remembered from years ago, until they left the shade of the magnolias and live oaks and hit full sun on the dock. The wood creaked as they started across, and Reagan picked her footing carefully.

“You should’ve seen this when I first returned,” Emily said. “Every other wood plank was sketchy, then there was the big gap.” She giggled. “I’d hired Matt to repair it, and Lord have mercy above, you should’ve seen him out here.” She sighed, and the sound floated back to Reagan on the breeze. “All cutoff shorts and bare chest with all those muscles glistening from the water.”

Reagan’s mouth tugged up in the corners. “Sounds like you were perving on him, sis.”

“I totally was,” Emily confessed. “Are you okay back there?”

Reagan swept her stick side to side, and the dock was just enough of a shadow in the bright sunlight to make out. “Yep, I’m good.”

“You amaze me, you know?” Emily continued. “I mean, look at you. Taking the dock like you own it. Which you do.” She giggled. “On a good day I pick my way carefully down, even though it’s in good shape now.” Another sigh. “Guess I’m a scaredy-cat.”

Yeah, right. You’ve never been a scaredy-cat, Reagan thought, but said nothing. She just continued her path to the end, then eased down the aluminum plank to the floating dock. It rocked back and forth with the lapping water. Another door creaked, and Emily’s figure bustled about in the little dock house, then finally returned.

“Let me throw down this quilt,” she said. “So our backsides don’t fry.”

Reagan stood, letting the salty breeze brush her face and toss her ponytail as she waited.

“Okay, it’s all ready. Move one step over and have a seat. You’re close to the edge, so we can hang our feet in the water.”

Reagan slowly lowered, felt the cool material of the quilt beneath her palms, and eased onto it. Slipping off her sneakers, she felt for the edge, found it with her fingertips and lowered her feet into the tepid water. A shadow moved, then a splash beside her as Emily found her place.

“Okay. Yogurt,” her sister said, handing her the cool plastic container. “Spoon is right beside you.”

Reagan sighed, hating that she had to be told where items were, felt the lid with her fingertips and pulled the thin foil top off. Found the spoon next to her on the quilt and picked it up. “Thanks, Em.”

“No problemo,” she returned. “You know, we could—”

The sound of Emily’s phone ringing cut off her words. “It’s the café. I’d better answer,” she said. “Emily Quinn, esquire and entrepreneur, here. Oh, hey, Toby, what’s up?” Silence, then, “Oh, shoot. Okay, give me a few and I’ll be right in.” Emily sighed. “Fudgsicle,” she huffed. “I’m sorry, sis. I have to go in. Ginger had to leave sick.”

Reagan nodded, the wind pushing at her hair. “It’s okay, Em. I’ll be fine.”

“Two hot Quinn chicks,” a voice interrupted, and grew closer. “Could a guy get any luckier?”

Emily laughed. “Ha! It just got worse. I have to leave. Hey,” she said with a touch of glee in her voice. “Why don’t you take my place?”

“No, he doesn’t have to,” Reagan interjected. “I’m perfectly fine—”

The floating dock rocked as Eric Malone jumped from the ramp and landed with a heavy thud. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said cheerfully. “It’s your lucky day, Reagan Rose. I have the entire day off.”

“Umm,” she replied, pushing a spoon of yogurt into her mouth. “Lucky me.”

Emily laughed. “Rea, are you sure you don’t want to come with me? You could sit on the pier, or on the covered deck at the café? Or inside with me—”

“Sure, maybe with a cup beside me, for people to throw change into. No, thanks, I’m good,” Reagan replied. “You go.”

Eric’s laughter broke out over the river. “She and all of her grumpiness are in good hands, Em,” Eric said with confidence. As if he wasn’t irritating the hell out of her with his cocky buoyancy. “Thanks for the breakfast, sis.”

“I don’t need to be in anyone’s hands,” Reagan insisted. “And I’m not grumpy.”

She was promptly ignored.

Footfalls sounded as Emily jogged up the metal ramp and headed back across the marsh. “See you guys later! Call me if you need anything!”

The docked swayed as Eric plunked himself down beside Reagan, and the sound of water rippling and lapping against the edges alerted her that he had dropped his feet in, too. “So,” he said. Chipper. Jubilant. Annoyingly so. “This is what you call breakfast, huh?”

Reagan shrugged. “You don’t have to eat it. And you don’t have to babysit me, either.”

“Wow. You must be exhausted,” he said.

Reagan swiped her spoon around the inside of the yogurt container, finding it empty. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Looks like that chip on your shoulder is pretty heavy.”

“There’s no chip,” she said, frustrated. “I just don’t like being treated like a baby.” She gave a short laugh. “No one seems to get that.”

“Coffee?” he asked.

Reagan sighed. “Yes, please.”

Eric chuckled, then she heard the sound of liquid pouring into a cup before he pushed it into her hand. Warmth soaked through to her palm. “Thanks,” she muttered quietly, and sipped the hot drink that her sister had made just perfect. Lots of sugar, lots of cream.

“So, what do you want to do today?” Eric asked cheerfully. “Hey, are you gonna eat your banana?” The sound of him rummaging around in the bag met her ears.

“Yes, I’m going to eat it. And we aren’t doing anything today,” Reagan replied.

“Why not?”

Reagan stared through the shade of her sunglasses, out across the water where only the vague, dark outline of the little island they all used to play on lay in the distance. “Because,” she said, “I don’t need a babysitter.” She turned her gaze in his direction, but saw only a silhouette. “Don’t you have anything to do?”

“And pass up the chance to hang out with the hot neighbor? Nah,” he said, his voice buoyant again. He leaned closer. “Not in a million. So, you can either tell me what you want to do, or I’ll just have to surprise you, Reagan Rose.” He chuckled. “Either way, babe, I’m just not taking no for an answer.”


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_17a7556e-3280-5c18-a287-91b3f4585cbc)

ERIC COULD SEE it in her face. The fierce pull of her brows. The tightly pressed lips. The muscles flinching in her jaws. Every characteristic screamed annoyance. He’d known she wouldn’t want to go anywhere. Especially with him.

He was, in Reagan’s words, a virtual stranger. Soon-to-be sort-of brother, though.

Yup. She had a big damn chip on her shoulder all right. Couldn’t say he blamed her. She’d been through hell. First, as a kid. And again more recently, when she’d lost her sight in an accident on a base in Afghanistan. While he still didn’t know the full details, he knew she’d suffered. Some kind of fuel accident had claimed her sight. Knew she was angry, bitter. He could see it. Hell—he could feel it, like how the air grows heavy and dense when a storm is about to unleash. Her inner fury rose from her like a thick, soupy fog.

And he had a mind to rid her of her pending storm.

“So what do you say, huh, neighbor?” he pressed.

Reagan gave an acerbic laugh. “Yeah, uh, no. Thanks for the offer, but I’m good.” Her hands reached for the banana he’d tried to coax away from her earlier, patting the quilt until she found it, and she slowly peeled it. Ignoring him proficiently.

A skill she’d no doubt perfected as the youngest sibling. He knew the tactic well. And he knew how to counter it.

“Oh, come on,” Eric coaxed. “Give me one good reason why not. Sun’s out. A decent breeze. The salt water. All makes for a perfect day.” He watched her as she broke off a piece of banana and popped it into her mouth. Noticed how the sun made her cheeks pink; spotted the freckles on her nose, and a few on her shoulders. Her thick wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail. It was blonder than Emily’s, he thought. Still shot with streaks of red, and shorter, but you could definitely see the resemblance in the sisters. He watched her chew, and waited.

Finally, she gave her feet a kick in the water, making it ripple. “Listen, Eric,” she began, her blind gaze fixed on some point across the river. “I appreciate your attempt. Since we’re already neighbors, and we’re going to sort of be family, it’s a...nice gesture.” She turned her head in his direction, drew her feet from the water and set them on the quilt. “So that’s why I’m going to be perfectly honest and tell you the truth. Just leave me alone. I don’t want to be looked after, watched or treated differently. I don’t need to be entertained. And I don’t need to be coaxed out of my shell.”

Eric stared at her, watched her pat the water from her bare feet with a towel. She was one tough bird. “Hey, I’m not biased,” he answered with a grin. “I’d still hit on you even if you had your sight. So quit stalling, Reagan Rose, and just...relax—”

“Are you going to force me to be rude?” Reagan asked, then pulled her sneakers on and began reaching for the items on the quilt, placing them in the lunch bag.

Eric laughed and started to help. “Yeah, I think you’ve already got that one covered, darlin’.” Blindly she reached over and somehow grabbed the apple out of his hand and plopped it into her lunch bag.

Finished, she patted around once more, then rose, grasping the edge of the quilt with her hand. She tugged; he remained firmly planted on it.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

Eric slowly rose, and he could tell she wanted to yank the quilt from beneath him. He laughed. “Wanna go for a swim? It might help release some of that—”

“What?” she snapped, glaring in his direction. He could feel her anger rising in the air. “Release what, exactly?” She wadded the quilt up and tucked it under her arm.

Eric ran his hand over his head and peered at her. It wasn’t like he was trying to piss her off on purpose. Okay, maybe he was. She needed a virtual kick in the ass. He couldn’t help but grin, and he was pretty sure she could hear it as it tugged at his face. “I don’t know. Some of that mean you got all bottled up inside, maybe?”

Slinging the lunch bag onto her shoulder, she bent down, stuffed the empty thermos and cups in the bag, rose, and grabbed her stick. She turned, her eyes covered by the dark shades she wore, but he knew fury raged in them. “You don’t know me anymore,” she said quietly. “Stop pretending that you do.”

With that, she tapped her stick, hitting him in the shin before making her way slowly and cautiously up the ramp.

“What about our swim?” he called after her.

“Help yourself,” she threw over her shoulder.

He watched her for a moment, moving over the marsh, her little stick tap-tap-tapping as she felt her way along. Shorter than her sister Emily, she still had gorgeous lean legs and a damn cute ass, if he had to admit it. He watched that ass swagger away. “Need some help?” he called out.

“Nope,” she answered. Her voice drifted over the water, and he thought despite the fact that she had a decent amount of acid in that remark, it was still pretty adorable.

“Sure?” he yelled once more.

She merely shook her head and kept on making her way, each step striking that blind stick of hers harder against the wood of the dock.

Eric could only laugh, shake his own head and follow her.

The sun fell bright this morning; hot, humid, with only a slight breeze shifting through the reeds of the marsh. It carried a voice pretty well, though, and he could hear Reagan’s angry muttering as she sashayed her way back home. She was moving fast across the dock—probably faster than she should. Matt had fixed it up but still—it was an open dock. Wooden slats secured to pilings with metal screws and that was it. No handrails. She could misstep and fall right in.

“Hey, you better slow down,” he called out.

She went even faster, and Eric winced.

He shook his head again. “Hardheaded girl,” he grumbled, and picked up his pace to a jog. “I like that.” By the time he caught up to her she was off the dock and making her way to the house.

He gently grabbed her arm. “Reagan, wait,” he said. “Stop.”

She jerked to a halt and stared straight ahead. Sighing heavily, she shifted her weight. “What?”

Eric dropped his hand. “Do you have plans or something? It’s a gorgeous day, Reagan Rose.” He watched the dappled sunlight fall across her cheeks, and her chest rise and fall as she breathed. “Spend it with me.” Staring at her eyes through those shades she wore frustrated him. He wanted her to take them off. He wanted to take them off himself. Fling them across the yard. Stomp on them. Why he cared so much, he didn’t understand. He certainly wasn’t in the market for shitty company, and Reagan had a seriously bad case of Bad Attitude. Something pulled at him, though. Their childhood? Yeah, that had to be it. He’d always been a sentimental guy at heart.

Reagan’s back stiffened. “Please,” she finally said. “Just leave me alone.” She turned then, tapping her stick until she reached the porch steps, then climbed them and left him standing there. “And stop calling me Reagan Rose.” The door closed behind her, and Eric sighed.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he glanced up and stared as the sun speared through the magnolia branches. What the hell was he going to do with little Miss Hardhead Quinn?

Eric scratched his jaw and stared at the house.

He grinned.

“I’ll leave you alone for now, Reagan Rose,” he called out. “But I’ll be back!” He watched for a moment. Waited for movement by a window, or the door to open. A shout. A swear. Any sign of movement that Reagan had heard his words.

Nothing.

With a determined shake of his head, he turned and headed back down the lane that separated the Quinns’ property from the Malones’. Eric was well versed in the art of hardheadedness. He himself was a master of it. But he’d never dealt with such an indomitable female before. As he strode down the lane, making his way back to his house, he grinned, and that grin was still pulling at his face when he loped up the steps of the river house and flung himself onto the porch and leaned against the pillar. His eyes met his grandfather’s gaze.

“No luck, eh?” Jep asked.

Eric shoved his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “Nope.” He rubbed his jaw. “Stubborn doesn’t quite sum it up.”

“Hmm,” Jep muttered. “Figured as much. So what’cha goin’ to do about it?”

Eric shrugged and rested his head against the pillar. “Hell if I know. Not give up?”

“Damn straight, not give up,” Jep agreed.

“Advice?” Eric asked.

Jep nodded. “Push back.”

Eric thought about it and agreed. Push back. He knew despite having been childhood friends long ago, they were strangers now. Neither was the same person. Well, maybe he was. Or, was he? After the big, ugly breakup he’d been through, it certainly had embittered him a little. His trust in others had faded, whereas before he was full-on, full throttle filled with all kinds of trust. But Reagan Quinn had definitely changed. The fact that she’d lost her sight and independence just made things more challenging. He looked at Jep, who wore his signature baby blue coveralls and USCG cap perched on his head. His bushy white eyebrows were drawn in a perpetual frown—a joke, really, since everyone knew that despite his cantankerous looks, Jep Malone had a soft heart—as he gave his advice, and Eric had learned long ago to heed it. His grandpa was a wise old guy.

He pulled his legs up and rested his hands on his knees. “She’s angry.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Jep added.

“Yeah,” Eric agreed. “I suppose I would be.”

He and Jep were quiet for a moment, and Eric listened as the wind chimes clanged from the Quinns’ front porch and carried across the property. That same wind rustled the leaves in the trees overhead, knocked the bell on the buoy right off the dock. What would Reagan do to keep busy? Why didn’t she just stop being so pigheaded and agree to accompany him...somewhere? Anywhere was better than sitting around doing nothing. That was the fastest way to hopelessness, and he could say that with experience. The rocking chair creaked as Jep pushed back and forth, and when Eric looked up, his grandfather eyed him skeptically.

“I see smoke risin’ from atop that head of yours, boy,” Jep said. “Got anything good planned?”

Eric cut him a grin. “I usually don’t have to try this hard, Jep my man.” Jep scoffed at his comment, and Eric sighed and pushed to his feet. “My Malone charms are perfected.”

“Or so you thought,” Jep added. He chuckled. “I’m goin’ to enjoy watchin’ this one unfold. Boy, you better sharpen them charms and quit bein’ so damned cocky.” He turned his gaze to the lane, in the direction of the Quinns’ river house. “I think that girl’s gonna give you a run for it.”

Eric turned his gaze, too, and smiled. He pictured Reagan all mad, sitting in a chair somewhere, fuming. “I think you’re right.”

“Usually am.” Jep peered at him. “You ain’t sweet on her, are you?”

Eric laughed. “Gramps, she’s been here a week. No, I’m not sweet on her.” He shrugged. “But we’re pretty much family now, and I’m determined to help her through this transition. She used to be...” He thought about it. “So damned crazy. Full of life and would take on any dare. I guess I don’t like her just sitting around, staring blankly at the wall.” He winked. “I’m going to make her snap out of it. Call it brotherly love.”

“Even though she hasn’t asked for your help?”

Eric nodded. “Damned right.”

“Hmm,” Jep said, giving his rocker a push. “What about Celeste?”

The mention of his ex-fiancée made Eric’s heart take a nosedive. He pretended that it didn’t bother him. “What about her?”

Jep didn’t say anything, only stared, curiously studied Eric as though seeing something no one else could see. Those bushy white brows were pulled into a frown, and he just sat there, rocking. Staring.

“I know that girl broke your heart,” his grandfather finally said. “And not so long ago, either.”

“Jep, I—” Eric began.

“Ah,” Jep interrupted, holding up a weathered hand. “I’m not tryin’ to drag up old wounds, boy. I’m just sayin’, watch it with Reagan. She’s not the one to get over Celeste with. You know, what do you kids call it these days?”

Eric stared hard at his grandfather. That’s what he thought he was doing? Putting the moves on Reagan as the rebound? Hell yeah, Celeste had stomped on his heart. Ripped it out and twisted it. Dramatic? Yup. But that’s what it had felt like. He’d asked the girl to marry him, for Christ’s sake. She’d said yes. Then the moment he’d announced he had been given transfer orders to Cassabaw, Celeste had broken the engagement. Just like that. But he wasn’t rebounding. Hell no. “Yeah, Jep,” he said, and rose. “Rebound. Copy that.”

“Rebound, that’s right. Don’t get all mad now,” Jep countered. “I’m just advisin’ you is all. Just in case your head was parked up your ass.”

Eric chuckled and shook his head. “Advice unneeded, but appreciated out of respect,” he clarified. “Celeste was months ago, Jep.” He nodded. “I’m...good. No rebound necessary.”

Jep eyed him, a white brow lifting. “I’m skeptical about that, but we’ll see.”

Eric started for the door.

“Where’re you off to?”

He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at his grandfather. “To plan round two of Mission: Hardhead Quinn.” He wagged his brows and pushed inside, and just as the screen door closed he heard his grandfather mumble.

He knew Reagan was in pain. He knew it was going to take a while for her to realize she was part of the family now, and that the Malones had one another’s backs. Always.

And as Eric flipped on the hot water for a shower, his mind raced as to just exactly how he planned on making her cooperate.

Hell. That would be half the battle. And half the fun. The only thing was, why did he care so much? Many years separated their adult lives now. Before, they’d been kids, with no hurts other than scraped knees or splinters, and no heartache. Well, that was before Reagan and Em had lost their parents in an accident.

Either way, something inside him was egging him on. Making him want to tackle the force of nature that was Reagan Quinn. She was dog-determined to have her way, which was to obviously hide from the world. For some reason, he wasn’t having it.

Reagan Quinn would in no way, shape or form be able to say no.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_98a28037-bf8a-5ce1-bcd8-bfd38d4fd71a)

“NO.”

Eric Malone sighed. An amplified, overstressed one. “Why not?” he said, and was close, just on the other side of her screened door. She could make out the dark outline that was his form. “Just...why not?” he asked.

Reagan’s mind whirled. Why was he being so damned persistent? For the past several days he’d attempted to lure her into any and all sorts of activity. Lunch. Supper. Breakfast. Fishing. Boat ride. Picnic. She’d said no each and every time. It wasn’t like they knew each other, or had an invested relationship. She’d known him as a kid. She’d known him as an adult for all of a week, yet he acted as if he’d known her his whole life. Like they were...close. And they were not.

What the hell did he want with her?

Her heart wasn’t into much of anything anymore, and really, she wanted to just be left alone. She thought she’d conveyed that quite clearly. But no matter how many times she told Eric Malone no, he came back just as many with a different proposal.

“Reagan, it’s just a friendly drive to the grocery store,” Eric pushed. “You can keep me company. Give me advice, even. What do you say? You’ve got to get out at some point, right? You don’t want to stay cooped up in the house.”

“Why, yes, I most certainly want to do exactly that. I like cooped.” Besides. Friendly drive to the grocery store? What did that even mean?

Eric’s laugh came from his chest. “Nobody likes cooped, Quinn.”

“So this is purely a selfish request on your part, yes?” she asked. When he didn’t reply, she continued. “Because, in case you didn’t notice? I’m blind. I can’t see the scenery typically noticed during a friendly drive. I can’t see items on the grocery store shelves. I can’t see...you. Anything.” She shifted her weight, her hand on the screen door’s handle. “I’d basically just be sitting there. Like a hood ornament.”

Eric was silent at first; the cicadas rose from the yard. Then his laughter fell through the screen, and it was all male. Simple. Joyful. “If that’s the way you want to look at it,” he said. “Hood ornament, huh? That’s pretty funny, Reagan Rose. Almost as funny as making me talk to you through this stupid screen.”

He’d been after her the previous week—ever since she’d arrived—to drive off with him. To somewhere. Anywhere. He’d persisted, pushed, begged. Eric Malone had said anything he thought might convince her, and still she’d refused. Em had told her to just...give in and go. Perhaps if she did, he’d leave her alone. She doubted it, but it was worth a try.

“Don’t you have any friends? Girlfriends?” Reagan asked. “Being in the Coast Guard, I’m pretty sure you do. Go hang out with them. Do guy stuff. Go...date.”

“Ah, checkin’ up on me, huh, Quinn?” he teased. “Of course I have friends.” He sighed. “Girls, by the dozens of course, but not interested in any of them. But I don’t know—my friends? They’re just not as cute as you.”

Why that comment made Reagan smile, she couldn’t understand. But it did, and she fought it. Hid it. Covered it up with her hand, turned her head. “Being called cute stopped affecting me a long, long time ago,” she said.

“Yeah,” Eric answered. His voice sounded light, as though covering up a laugh. “I can tell. Now stop stalling, Reagan Rose. You have turned me down every single time I’ve stopped by this week. I can’t take one more rejection. I just can’t.” A thud sounded against the door frame, accompanied by an exaggerated sigh. “In case you’re wondering, that’s my forehead hitting the wood. Out of epic frustration. And now I’m making a sincerely adorable puppy face. You comin’ or aren’t ya?”

“You’re overacting,” Reagan muttered under her breath, still fighting a grin. “All right. Under one condition I will come with you.”

“Yes! Name it,” Eric said.

Reagan stared in the direction of his shadowy form. “That you leave. Me. Alone.”

“Whoa, now,” he added. “Let’s make an amendment here.”

Reagan waited.

“If—and I stress the word if—you don’t completely and utterly enjoy the absolute hell out of yourself today, I’ll back off.”

“I didn’t say back off,” she corrected. “I said, leave alone. As in stop coming over here, trying to convince me that I need to get out of the house.”

“Well, that’s nigh to impossible, don’t you think? Seeing as how we’re practically family and all?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Why do you care if I’m just sitting over here staring at the walls?”

Another heavy sigh. “Do you have a fork? Ice pick? Can opener? I’d like to poke my eyes out now, please. Out of epic frustration.”

Reagan’s lip twitched. Just a fraction. “That’s a really nice thing to say to a blind person. And, you say the word epic a lot.”

“Ha! I saw that!” Eric said excitedly. “And epic is a grand word indeed. And, I’m not joking about your blindness. I’m simply expressing my extreme annoyance with you. Now quit your stalling, girl, and come on. I mean it, Reagan.”

With a sigh of defeat, she pushed open the screen door. “Come on in. I’ll just be a sec.”

“Holy God, wait. Do you hear that?” Eric said, his steps falling across the wood planks as he eased inside.

She stopped and strained her ears. She heard absolutely nothing. “What?”

“It’s the sound of ice cracking.” He chuckled. “From around your heart.”

She shook her head and made her way down the hall. “So glad to know you turned out to be such an Irish American comedian.”

“I’m a natural, too. Don’t you think?” he called after her, in a heavy Irish accent.

“Whatever, Lucky Charms.” Reagan just shook her head, stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Eric’s whistling and footfalls as he moved around the living room echoed through the wood, and she shook her head yet again. What was it with him? It irritated her that he could coax—and so easily, so it seemed—a smile from her. Like, irritated the absolute hell out of her. Why?

Truth be told, she’d wanted to try to pull her weight a little more and thought she’d make an attempt at dinner for her and Em. Perhaps going to the grocery store wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Basic ingredients for say, spaghetti, couldn’t be that hard. Could they? Running a brush through her hair, she tied it into a ponytail, brushed her teeth, and made her way into her room where she quickly pulled a pair of shorts and a tank from her dresser, felt for her Converse sneakers, and slipped her bag over her shoulder.

She could do this. This...grocery shopping with Eric Malone.

Practically family. Right? He didn’t really feel very familial.

With a deep breath she made her way back to the living room.

“Your shirt’s inside out.”

Reagan froze.

“And...you have on two different-colored sneakers.”

For a split second, embarrassment burned the skin at her throat in a hot flush. But only for a split second. She narrowed her gaze. “Liar. As if I’d trust you, the practical joker.”

“No, Reagan, really—”

“Just come on before I change my mind,” Reagan interrupted. Was he always the perpetual clown?

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” he complied, chuckling.

The air shifted as Eric moved ahead of her, and she noticed he smelled...good. Clean, like some kind of zesty, piney guy soap. The screen door creaked, and she knew he was holding it open for her. “Thanks,” she muttered, and eased through and onto the porch. Immediately, she lifted her hand, feeling the air to find the pillar. Tapping her stick to make sure she didn’t trip.

But a warm pressure settled against her lower back as Eric placed his hand there, guiding her. “Almost to the end,” he said.

“I know,” she answered, and felt the post with her palm. Shame coursed through her. Why in the hell did he feel the need to baby her? If she fell, she fell. So what? Falling would be better than feeling incapable.

Finally, she felt the ground beneath her feet, and she strained her eyes to try to pick out the shadowy form of a vehicle. Before she could, though, Eric applied pressure to her lower back once more and guided her. A door creaked open.

“Up you go,” he said cheerfully, and Reagan felt for the seat, then placed her foot inside and rose up. “I borrowed Jep’s old truck. Watch your feet,” he warned, and the door creaked and slammed shut.

Reagan felt for the seat belt but couldn’t find it. In the next second, the heat from Eric’s body leaning over her made her suck in a breath.

“Here, I’ll get that,” he said, and he was close, and his hands brushed her shoulder, then the belt snugged against her. A metal click sounded, and his warmth left.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” she answered.

With a laugh, Eric turned over the engine, revved the motor, and the truck began to move. The wind blew in from the open window, tossing Reagan’s ponytail. The air felt heavy, as though rain loomed overhead. The pungent brine wafted in, and she wiggled her nose.

“It’s definitely an acquired smell,” Eric commented. “So. Reagan Rose Quinn,” he started. “It’s a gorgeous day.”

Reagan kept her face turned toward the open window. Shadows flashed by, abstract, undeterminable. “So you’ve said. Although it smells like rain.”

“Right.” He chuckled. “Rain’s great, too, don’t you think? Liquid sunshine. What I mean to say is, what do you see?”

Had Eric Malone lost his mind? “Have you been eating sketchy mushrooms, Malone? I see shadows. Dark blurry forms. Nothing else. We went over this already, remember?”

Again, he chuckled. “Really? That’s it? You’re just doomed to a life of haze and darkness?”

Exasperated, Reagan blew out a sigh. “What’s your problem?”

“I, my beautiful but testy neighbor, have zero problems at the moment. Except your mule head. Now, think. Use your other senses and tell me what you see.”

Reagan rolled her eyes. “Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

She shook her head and faced the window. “Don’t...try to be my Mr. Miyagi. My therapist.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Well, how many blind people have you befriended, huh? How many?”

“You’re my first,” he answered cheerfully. “And you’re totally avoiding this exercise.”

She gave a short, acerbic laugh. “Of course I am! It’s ridiculous!”

“Come on, Reagan,” he crooned. “Humor me. Stick your hand out the window. Take a deep breath in. What do you see?”

It angered her—his constant battering of trying to help her see. But what was she to do? Leap from the truck? She’d committed to the grocery store outing, and now she was good and freaking stuck. Better to humor him, so he’d possibly drop the whole damn thing. Silently, she stuck her hand out the window.

“It’s windy,” she said.

“Tsk, tsk, I call no being a smart-ass,” he joked. “Of course it’s windy. I’m driving fifty-five miles an hour. Now feel it again. And take a big whiff.”

Reagan let her hand drift outside the open window and thought about it. Felt the moisture cling to her skin. Slowly, she inhaled, exhaled. She rubbed her fingers together. “A storm. The air feels heavy, and it has a salty, earthy scent.”

“You got it,” he agreed. “Big black clouds are swirling overhead.”

“I thought you said it was a gorgeous day?” Reagan asked.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right?” He added, “I love storms.”

Reagan thought back—way back, to before she and Em left Cassabaw. “You always did,” she answered quietly.

“You remember.” Eric laughed softly. “Sitting on the end of the dock, watching those storms roll across the river,” he mused. “Then, when the rain started to sting our skin, or lightning flashed, we’d run for the dock house and stay crammed under the quilt table until the storm passed.”

A smile tugged at Reagan’s mouth. “I don’t remember much, but yeah, I do recall that.”

“Good times,” Eric said. “Childhood is the best. Okay, what kind of music do you like?”

At least he was a decent conversationalist. No uncomfortable silent lull looming over their heads. “I...don’t know. Any kind.”

“God, Reagan.” He groaned. “You’re killin’ me. Come on. There has to be something you love. How about the crazy tunes your sister digs?”

Reagan laughed lightly. “To a certain extent, yeah. But definitely not to Em’s capacity.” She thought. “Classic rock, I guess.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” he said, and after a moment, the Eagles’ “Hotel California” began that mournful opening. “Remember how we loved this one?”

Reagan nodded. “Still do.”

The music continued and the Eagles began to sing the lyrics. Joined by Eric. And he sang loudly.

“Don’t ya remember the words?” he finally asked.

“Of course,” she answered.

She shook her head and wondered about Eric Malone’s motives.

Soon, the truck bumped and jerked to a halt, and the engine went silent. “We’re here,” Eric announced. In the next second her door was being opened. A slight breeze brushed her skin, sultry, salty. Eric’s hand closed around her elbow, and she stepped out of the truck.

“Okay, okay, one thing, Malone,” Reagan said. Eric was close—she could see his dark form a few inches away. Taller than her for certain. And broad. She could smell his soapy skin. Feel his body heat. “Don’t treat me like a blind person. Okay? It’s embarrassing.”

“Define ‘like a blind person,’” he answered. His voice washed over her, quiet now and raspy. “Just so I’ll be clear on the matter.”

Reagan sighed. “Like, let me do things,” she said. “Yes, if I’m about to step out into a line of traffic, pull me back. But I don’t want people staring at me like I’m helpless. I’m not.”

He was quiet for a moment, and Reagan nearly squirmed under what she assumed was his scrutiny. “Did you know you have the most adorable nose I’ve ever seen?” he said softly. “In my life.”

Reagan felt her cheeks burn. “You’re trying to distract me from my point.”

He tugged her elbow, and she shifted away from the truck door. He closed it, and the vibration of metal shimmied next to her. “Don’t worry, Reagan Rose,” he said close. “I know you’re more than capable. No treating you like a blind person. Copy that. Now stop stalling and let’s hit the aisles. I’m starved.”

Why Eric’s close proximity and blunt words affected her so much, she hadn’t a clue. Whether he was ticking her off or making her cheeks turn hot, he affected her.

She could only pray he didn’t notice.


CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_4909c292-6101-5001-bd9d-ad1176dce409)

“UM, MA’AM? EXCUSE ME,” a woman’s voice said, close to Reagan. She had a nasal voice and heavy Southern-belle accent, and pungent perfume wafted off her in a heavy cloud that nearly took Eric’s breath away. He watched her lean closer to Reagan, a smile caked with lipstick spreading across her face.

Reagan turned her head slightly. “Sorry, yes?”

“Your blouse is on inside out, honey,” the woman said. “And you have on one white sneaker and one blue one.” She gave a squeaky laugh. “Didn’t know if you knew it or were starting a new trend!”

“New trend,” Reagan muttered. “Thanks anyway.”

“No prob!” The woman turned and grinned at Eric, her eyes moving over him in blatant flirtation. Early thirties maybe, and sporting a large rock on her wedding finger; he simply nodded. She waved and sauntered off to the next aisle.

Reagan simply stood there, looking mad. With her head tilted back, just a little, her chin jutting upward, she sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

Eric wiped his smile with his hand. “Incredibly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she spat.

Eric couldn’t help but laugh, but he covered it up by clearing his throat. “Reagan, I swear I tried.”

Reagan shook her head. “You weren’t very convincing! Can we just hurry, please?” Her voice was an aggravated whisper.

Eric leaned close to her ear and noticed how nice she smelled. Fresh, like some kind of wildflower. “You are insanely cute. No one cares, Reagan. Relax.”

“That woman noticed,” she answered.

Eric glanced around, but the woman was long gone. “That’s because she’s one of those busybodies. Into everyone’s biz. So don’t worry about it.”

Reagan lifted her head high, then slid her shades off her face and tucked them into her bag. “I feel totally stupid.”

Reaching for a shopping cart, Eric pushed it beside her and placed her hand on the bar. He closed her fingers over it. “You only feel as stupid as you allow people to make you feel, darlin’. Now, come on. Push.”

She began to walk, slowly. “You want me to push?”

“Sure, why not? Let’s hit the produce first.” He leaned toward her again. “I’m right next to you, so don’t worry. I won’t let you take out a pyramid display of canned yams or anything.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Eric studied her as he pulled Jep’s grocery list from his back pocket. “My pleasure.” She had on white shorts that showed toned, tan legs, a worn white Converse and a worn navy Converse—which totally cracked him up. Her navy tank was indeed inside out, with the little silky tag on the side seam hanging loose. Her arms were firm with perfectly shaped female biceps—not too big, but definitely defined. Her tanned skin was nearly flawless, save the occasional rogue freckle here and there, as well as the few that trekked across her nose. A finely structured face with a pair of incredibly juicy lips—

“Why aren’t we moving?”

Eric blinked, pulling himself from his engrossed inspection. “Sorry,” he admitted. “I got all caught up in checking you out.”

He watched her cheeks turn pink, despite the fact that her brows pulled together into a frown. “Are you always so arrogantly forward with strangers?”

Eric grinned and glanced around, noticing an older woman with snowy white hair piled high on her head, sorting through the bananas. The woman’s half smile and brow wiggle almost made him burst out laughing. He shrugged and waved, then bent his head close to Reagan’s.

“We used to swim shirtless together in the river,” he said softly, next to her ear. “In nothing but a pair of cutoff jeans. We’re far, far from strangers, Reagan Rose.” He lowered his voice even more. “We were practically naked together—”

Her elbow landed squarely in his ribs. “Ow,” he grunted.

“Will you cut it out?” she spat. “You’re ridiculous. That was a hundred years ago, and most of it I don’t even remember.”

Eric passed another glance at the old woman by the bananas, who steadily watched the exchange between him and Reagan. Her grin was wider now, and he only returned the smile and shrugged, holding his hands up in defeat. The old woman shook her head, amused, and ambled to the bin of oranges.

“Okay, okay, I give,” Eric said. He stepped back a bit before Reagan punched him in the face. “Tell me what you want and I’ll guide us there.”

She gave a frustrated sigh. “Oranges. Grapes. Bananas. Onions. Avocados. Romaine. Tomatoes. Green pepper. Mushrooms. Garlic.”

Eric watched her eyes as she spoke, noticing the brilliant blue with flecks of green and the dark blond lashes that fanned out like caterpillars against her upper cheekbones. Finely arched brows had eased from their perpetual frown, adjusting into the sexiest expression he’d ever seen. In. His. Life. He shook his head. “Your wish is my command,” he said, guiding them toward her choices. “I love the way the produce section smells,” he said, drawing in a large breath. “Don’t you?”

“I guess,” she said, feeling the avocados with her slight fingers.

“Well, take a whiff,” he challenged. “Like, a big one. And really notice the different scents.” When she ignored him, he pressed. “Reagan, do it.”

She went rigid, back stiff, and wouldn’t budge. Didn’t inhale.

He felt determination creep up his throat, and Eric reached for a big fat orange and held it under her nose. Pushed it against her nose. “Seriously, Rea. Sniff it.”

She gave a slight inhale then grabbed the orange from him. “Great. It smells like an orange, Eric. Can we go please?”

He could hear it in her voice—the loss of patience, the frustration at his urging. Part of it made him want to press, force her to realize that losing her sight wasn’t the end of the world. The other wondered how far he could push without getting his eyes blacked out.

In the end, he conceded. “Okay, Miss Attitude. How many do you want?”

“Three. If you just give me the bag I can pick them out.”

He obliged, handing her one of the little plastic bags on a roller close to the bin. Reagan felt around the oranges, squeezing lightly until she had chosen her three. Silently, she stood. Waiting. He could tell she was warring with herself.

“Okay, what next?” he asked, throwing in a bag of seedless red grapes. He plucked a few out and started popping them into his mouth. “Want a grape?”

“No, I don’t want a grape. They’re not washed. The pasta and spaghetti sauce aisle, please. And I need ground Italian sausage.”

“Good choice, one of my faves,” he answered. Pretending not to notice her grumpiness. Eric guided them down aisle after aisle, and they’d stopped at the tomato sauce to ponder the selections when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. When he looked, it was Jep.

He answered it. “Franco’s Pizza. Pick up or delivery?”

“Pizza my ass, you crazy boy.”

Eric glanced at Reagan, since Jep’s loud voice could be heard quite plainly without the speaker being on. A very subtle grin lifted the corners of those plump lips, and it made him smile, too. “What’d you forget, Jep my good man?”

“Buttermilk. I need some buttermilk. You talk that Quinn girl into going with you?”

Eric laughed. “Of course,” he replied, watching Reagan’s face. “She can’t keep her hands off me, Jep. It’s the craziest thing—umph!”

Just that fast, Reagan planted her pointy little elbow into his ribs.

Jep laughed. “Right. Sounds like it. And get me a candy bar, son. A big one.”

“Copy that, Gramps,” Eric wheezed, and stuffed the phone in his back pocket. He rubbed his side. “You punch pretty hard for a runt.”

“You deserved it,” she countered, and started pushing the grocery cart. “A large jar of plain sauce and angel-hair pasta, if you don’t mind.”

“Good choice,” he answered, and grabbed the items from the shelf. He could tell Reagan was just not going to cave. They passed a woman holding a silver tray filled with meat and cheese on toothpicks, and Eric plucked two up and grinned at the woman. He popped one chunk of cheese in his mouth.

“Reagan, here, you gotta try this cheese.”

“No, thanks.”

Eric popped the other one and nodded at the woman. “You don’t know what you’re missing. I could eat the whole tray.” Still she said nothing. “Anything else?”

“French bread,” she answered. “Wine.”

“Gotcha.” They made their way first to the wine and beer aisle, where he studied the entire row of choices.

“Red or white or...pink?” he asked.

“Red.”

Ah, at least she did care about that one. Scanning the red choices, he picked one, staring at the label and wondering how in the hell he was supposed to know if it was right or not, shrugged, nestled it into the cart, then headed to the bread aisle, and he handed her a store-made loaf. “How’s this one?” He glanced down at her, watching her response.

She squeezed it, looking completely uninterested. “Fine.”

Eric laughed. “Reagan, you didn’t even smell it.”

A second—maybe two—passed before she lifted it to her nose and inhaled. She nodded. “Like I said—fine.”

Eric dropped his head and sighed. “Anything else? If you say one single girlie product—” he glanced up and around “—or anything from aisle eleven, actually, I’ll strangle you.”

A tiny smile coaxed her lips upward. She even tried to hide it by turning her head. So slight a movement he nearly missed it.

But he didn’t. And it made him grin.

She shook her head. “Nope. After the meat aisle I’m finished.”

“Are you sure? I mean...” He bumped her shoulder with his and they made their way to the meat department. “We could make three more passes by the deli and nearly get an entire meal from that lady holding the platter of cheese jammed on toothpicks.”

Again, she shook her head and tried to hide a smile. “You’re so weird,” she said. “No, thanks.”

“All right, then,” he answered, proud that he’d coaxed an almost-laugh from her. “But don’t be all sorry about it later, when you’re wishing you had cheese on a stick.”

“I’ll consider it,” she answered. She sighed. “Thanks for helping me out, Malone.”

His gaze raked over her, and he tugged her ponytail. “Anytime. And I mean that.” He glanced down at the sausage. “Sweet or hot?”

She gave a nod. “Sweet.” Eric grabbed a large pack and together they made their way to the milk aisle, where Eric grabbed a gallon of whole milk and Jep’s buttermilk, then headed to the front of the store. He guided Reagan to a relatively empty checkout line. After loading all of the items, including a monster candy bar for Jep, Eric slid his card through to pay.

“Eric,” Reagan said, and when he looked, she held a fifty-dollar bill. “Please.”

“Well, I would,” he countered, lowering her hand with his. “But I aim to eat some of this fine Italiano fare you’re preparing, so it’s only right that I pay for it.”

The frown on her face proved she was not very happy.

“Besides, I already slid my card.” He looked at the cashier, Sarah, and inclined his head. “Tell her, Sarah. I already slid the card. What’s done is done.”

Sarah was a middle-aged woman with black hair tucked behind her ears and several shots of silver showing at her temples. Her eyebrows rose and she shrugged, but a smile tipped her lipstick-pink lips. She’d worked at the market for years now. “It’s true, honey. The card hath sliddeth, the deal done.”

Eric winked at Sarah and grinned.

Reagan shook her head. “You didn’t have to.” Then she lifted her chin. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “But if you pull something like that again, I’ll hurt you.”

Eric cast a quick glance at Sarah and shrugged.

“Gotcha. You’ll hurt me,” he offered. “Let’s get outta here, eh?”

The moment the automatic doors opened, heat poured in, replacing the frigid temp of the grocery store. The parking lot was filling up, and they made their way to Jep’s truck. “Sorry, no air,” he apologized. Jep’s truck was like a damned oven. “Weird, but I kinda like it like that.”

“I’m used to it,” Reagan claimed, and, holding on to the lip of the truck bed, made her way to the passenger’s side.

Eric quickly loaded the grocery bags, parked the cart in the drop spot and hurried back to the truck. He leaped in. “Anywhere else?” he asked, turning over the engine.

“We have meat and dairy in the back, Eric,” Reagan reminded.

Eric glanced at his occupant. “So. We’ll drop the stuff off and go grab a bite to eat? Maybe?” He pulled out of the parking lot.

“Thanks, but no,” she said. “I need to get back home.”

“But Reagan, we can—”

She turned to him then, blue eyes crazy mad and glassy. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Eric turned another quick glance at Reagan. “Other than you’re gorgeous? Hmm. Gimme a sec. Let me think...”

She turned to the open window, facing away from him.

For once, he didn’t push. He left her to her thoughts as they crossed the two-lane bridge that carried them over the marsh and back to the island. Every few moments, he’d glance her way. Her body was rigid again, uncomfortable, like she was ready to bolt. Did he make her that uneasy? And wasn’t he doing it on purpose to lighten her up? Eric made it all the way to her drive, then, surprisingly, to her house, without uttering another word. The moment the truck stopped, she opened the door.

“Reagan,” he started, and climbed out and met her at the tailgate.

She slipped her glasses back on. “Look, Eric. I appreciate your eagerness to help me. But...I just can’t.”

“Can’t what?” he asked.

“All this...smelling of things, and seeing with my other senses. I’m just not ready for this new life that’s been thrown at me.” She inhaled, lifted her chin. “And I’m not ready for you.”

“Me? Aw, come on, of course you’re ready for me. There’s nothing to me. Really. I swear.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Can you just leave my bags on the porch by the door?”

Eric stared at her, and she was reeking with frustration, anger. She was independent, and she’d been robbed of it. Being a soldier? Yeah, she took it twice as hard. He could tell. “What? And risk Jep, either of my brothers or, hell, your sister socking me in the nose for just throwing your stuff on the porch?” He laughed softly and grabbed the bags, slipping them all onto both of his forearms. “Hell and no. Soldier, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to tap your little stick up those steps there and open the door for me. I’m already loaded down with your groceries.”

Reagan swore under her breath. He couldn’t quite make out the word, exactly, but thought it sounded familiar. Then she started moving toward the porch, her stick slapping at the ground in angry swipes until she felt the hard-wood planks. Once up the steps, she stomped to the door and unlocked it.

“You can set them on the counter in the kitchen,” she spat.

Eric trotted up the steps and brushed past her. Sitting all of the bags on the granite countertop, he turned to find Reagan still standing by the door. It was still open. A silent invitation for him to leave.

With a hefty sigh, Eric walked to her, and just before he stepped outside, he stopped. Regarded her face, the angry lines around her mouth. He knew she wasn’t specifically angry at him. He was her outlet, probably.

And he was going to work that anger right out of her.

“Thanks for taking me,” she announced again. “I...appreciate it.”

“What time should I be back?” he asked, smiling.

She shook her head and stared off toward the kitchen, aggravated. “Just...come whenever your brother comes.”

Eric’s grin widened. “Do you know how foxy you are when you’re pissed off?”

Reagan’s mouth pulled tight...right over the smile she was trying so hard to keep off her face. “Shut up and leave, will ya?”

Eric’s lips twitched and he leaned closer. God, she was so damn cute. “Please don’t screw up the ingredients.”

“Out!” Reagan barked.

Scooting past her, he stepped outside, and with a final glance over his shoulder, stared at his new neighbor. His old childhood pal.

The hot girl he was determined to make laugh.

Eric stopped at Jep’s truck and glanced over his shoulder, staring at the Quinns’ river house. A slow smile tipped his lips upward. “See ya tonight, Reagan Rose!”

When she didn’t answer, he merely chuckled, put the old truck into Reverse and headed home.

* * *

APPARENTLY, REAGAN DIDN’T know the force she was up against. Yeah, flirting was his character, and all along he’d been telling himself he was just helping out an old childhood pal.

But was he really?


CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_d08b92cd-6008-590a-be4a-8d6163138339)

REAGAN LISTENED TO the gravel crunch as Eric drove slowly up the drive.

Since when had he made it his personal mission to drive her crazy?

Standing in the kitchen, the house’s muteness all but consumed her. She strained her ears, trying to listen. To distinguish other sounds. Anything to break the silence.

Light filtered in through the many windows of the river house, causing more shapes of objects to appear in shadowy forms. Reagan strained her eyes as she scanned the counter, and began feeling inside each grocery bag to determine what needed to go into the refrigerator. Milk. Fruit. A package—square, cold, with plastic covering—came to her palm. She squeezed it a few times, trying to figure it out. She sniffed it. Nothing. Perhaps Eric had bought something and had forgotten to take it out of her bag? She sat it in the fridge, then turned to the lower cabinets, opening the one closest to the stove and feeling for a frying pan, a pot and the colander. Setting each atop the stove, Reagan moved along the counter, her hand outstretched, searching for the cutting board. Her fingertips brushed something hard, and then it fell over and crashed to the floor.

“Dammit,” Reagan muttered, and stood still, trying to get her bearings. Easing right, she made her way to the pantry, opened it and found the broom. She began to blindly sweep the area in a wide arc, hoping to get it all. Finished, she inhaled, and continued on with the task of now finding a knife. Dangerous? Yeah, probably so. Hopefully, she’d dice the tomatoes, peppers and onions without chopping off a finger. She’d just go slow. Take it easy.

At the sink, as Reagan washed the vegetables, her thoughts drifted to the morning spent with Eric. She hadn’t meant to sound so...stiff. Unfriendly. Ungrateful. She used to never be that way at all. Now? She felt...mad, all the time. Inadequate. The unwanted center of pitied attention. Eric’s personality was opposite of the way she was now. He was so upbeat. Involved. Ridiculously charming. Seemingly carefree. Just like he’d been as a kid. From what she could recall, anyway. It’s not like she and Eric had been as close as Em and Matt. Reagan barely remembered the little brat.

But for some reason, said brat seemed set on involving himself in her new, less-than-desirable blind life.

What was she to do with that?

Shaking her head, she continued on to her task of attempting dinner preparations. Tasks she’d completed in record time before now took her long, tedious minutes. Em had told her the cutting board was behind the mixer on the counter, so she felt her way there and moved her fingers over the cool surface until they brushed the hard metal of the standing mixer. Sliding her hand around she felt the wooden cutting board, and she pulled it out. Feeling for the first bit of vegetable she’d washed, Reagan lifted what she believed was a pepper—smooth and waxy beneath her fingertips—and sniffed it. Definitely a pepper. Now for a sharp knife. Reagan thought about it. Where had her sister said they’d be? She reached into a drawer. One by one she checked through the drawers until she felt the blade of a knife and lifted it out. Examining it carefully, she determined it wasn’t exactly the type of blade she needed, but it’d have to make do.

After what seemed like hours, Reagan completed the chopping of the vegetables. Not before she dropped half of them onto the floor, or knocked them onto the floor with her arm or hand. Finding the sauce—she hoped—Reagan dumped them into the pot, added the vegetables, and felt the burner knob with her fingertips. Hoping the setting was on low, she turned to the task of browning the sausage. Draining it in the colander. Adding it to the sauce. Finally, the entire process was done and the sauce simmered on the stove top.

And then a knock interrupted preparations.

“Reagan? Eric Malone again.” A voice came from the porch. “I uh, came to help. You. With, uh, supper— God it smells good in here.”

Reagan just shook her head. Did he think her totally incompetent? “Come on in.”

The door creaked open, almost before the words even left her mouth, and Eric’s heavy footfalls moved toward her. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I didn’t want to be eating, I don’t know, cardboard and stems—dang, girl. You’ve made a mess in here.”

Reagan’s ears detected laughter in Eric’s voice, and she just sighed. “Yeah, well, help yourself to clean it up.”

“Gladly. Broom?” he asked cheerfully.

“Pantry.”

Instead of the pantry door opening, Reagan saw Eric’s shadow move toward the stove. The metal lid scraped as he removed it. “Hey,” he said, smacking his lips. “Not too shabby, soldier. Tastes even better than it smells.”

A faint smile touched Reagan’s lips. “Yeah, what did you expect?”

Suddenly, Eric’s hands grasped hers. “Digits? Let me examine you.” His thumbs grazed her palms, then each finger. “Nine total. Is that right?”

She shook her head and withdrew her hands. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

“Seriously. It’s very good. I’m thoroughly impressed.”

“Why?” Reagan asked. “Because a blind girl can actually still function in the kitchen?”

Eric laughed. “No. That you can actually function in the kitchen. Emily told me you hate cooking.”

Reagan shrugged, patting the counter until she found the pepper core, then scooped it in her hand. “Hate is a little drastic. Disinclination is more accurate.”

“That’s a fancy word for hate, Reagan Rose.” Again, his hand was on hers, prying her fingers open and relieving her of the pepper core. “I’ll get that.” She heard the sound of the core being dropped into the trash can. “Okay, now what?”

Reagan turned and washed her hands, then felt for the towel and dried them. No way was she getting rid of him, so she might as well just roll with it. “I was going to make garlic butter for the bread. You can...chop the salad.”

“Sweet, let’s do it,” he said, a lilt in his voice. “What do you need for the butter besides, well, butter. And garlic?”




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