“Where are you staying?” he asked, looking down at Charger and gently squeezing a floppy ear. The dog quivered in pleasure. Harper shifted her feet restlessly as another frisson of sensual awareness passed through her.
She really needed to snap out of it.
“I just moved in last Monday. Back there. Sierra Shores.” She waved behind her to the beachside complex of townhomes. He nodded, his face striking her again as solemn and beautiful. His gaze flickered distractedly out toward the sparkling lake. He was losing interest in their conversation.
“You’re from the south,” she said impulsively.
His shadowed gaze zipped to her face. Why did he look so stiff? “Your accent,” she said by way of explanation. “I didn’t notice it at first, but it’s definitely there.” Like a hint of rich, smooth dark chocolate.
“Yeah. Most people don’t catch that. South Carolina, born and bred,” he said after a pause.
“I grew up in DC—Georgetown, actually. DC is a melting pot—so I have some experience with teasing out accents.”
A silence descended, punctuated only by the hushed, rhythmic sound of the soft surf caressing the beach. He ran his hand distractedly across his damp, taut abdomen, the action scattering her thoughts. “Well . . . ,” he said after a pause, waving vaguely in the direction behind her. “We should let you get on with your jog. Sorry again for the interruption.”
“I’m sorry for trespassing. I did it unknowingly.”
“Like I said. You’re welcome here.”
She wondered what his friend thought of him handing out free passes to his property, but then dismissed the thought as quickly as she’d had it. He seemed the type of man to have friends who wouldn’t argue with his proclamations.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for here. The peace, I mean,” he said.
Her heart fluttered. There it was again: a glimpse of unexpected sweetness, something that tugged at her and was in direct opposition to his potent masculinity and epic, effortless confidence.
Her strange musings evaporated in almost an instant when without another word he sauntered away from her, calling to Charger with that deep, mellow voice. After a moment, he lifted his arms to a casual boxer stance and broke into an easy jog. Charger bounded into a gallop to follow him, barking ebulliently up at his master. Harper blinked, realizing she was entranced watching the rippling muscles of his gleaming back, hard, rounded biceps . . . and an incredible ass.
It took her a dazed half minute of resuming her jog in the opposite direction to realize he’d never told her his name.
It was all for the best, anyway. Harper was a little wary of men as good-looking as he’d been. She was way too prone to getting herself mixed up with self-involved narcissists. At age thirty-two, she’d finally learned the difficult lesson that what she wanted sexually—a powerful, confident male—was highly at odds with what she wanted emotionally—a smart, stimulating companion whom she respected, someone who really cared, a guy who occasionally thought enough of her to sacrifice his own needs in order to fulfill hers. Not all the time, of course. She wasn’t needy and cherished her independence. But damn . . . once in a while? Was that really too much for a woman to ask?
Apparently so.
At any rate, she’d resolved to break her dysfunctional pattern. Each and every one of her past lovers had shone brilliantly in the beginning, and then proved himself to be gold-painted crap by the time she broke things off.
Don’t kid yourself. None of your old boyfriends shone like he had just now.
Dangerous, a voice in her head insisted.
That was another habit Harper was trying to break: the fact that when it came to her heart, she found potentially risky, powerful men fascinating, and yet . . . she feared them, as well. It seemed her head and her sexual appetites did constant battle.
Not that it mattered, she discounted, inhaling the pristine air to cleanse herself of thoughts of the man and the strangely charged moment. She settled into a comfortable jog. She had way more important things to consider than men and sex. Like her new life here, for instance. Her new job. A whole new future.
And it’s not like he’d seemed remotely interested, anyway.
It was time for her to face up to the fact that she was alone in the world. Maybe she should consider getting a dog . . .
She imagined her parents’ incredulous expressions if she ever told them she had a dog. She resisted an urge to laugh, but then almost immediately, that familiar hole opened up in her chest.
It’d never happen again, that she’d tell them about some new, exciting addition to her life.
As a teenager, Harper had suffered from debilitating anxiety. Her father had been a psychiatrist. Philip McFadden had spent a great deal of time and effort years ago to cure his daughter of several phobias and associated panic attacks. One of her phobias had been for dogs. Her mom and dad might have been stunned if they’d known she was considering a dog as a pet, but they would have been proud, too.
She’d come a long way from being that anxious, sad little girl. She’d never really thanked her parents for that.
• • •
Sheldon Sangar, the Gazette’s editor in chief, waved Harper in from across the newsroom. Or at least he beckoned her as best he could while clutching several bottles of water and a carton holding what looked like two strawberry smoothies from Lettie’s Place, the local coffeehouse a couple of blocks away. In Harper’s previous jobs, the typical fuel of the newsroom was adrenaline, caffeine, and junk food. At the Sierra Tahoe Gazette, the employees preferred salads, bottled water, and jogs on their lunch hour. Sheldon Sangar was no exception to this easygoing, health-conscious company attitude. It was strange to have an editor in chief who could have passed as a hippie if it weren’t for his neat, short gray hair and newsroom badge.