Page 8 of Seaside Strangers
After finishing the bacon and eggs, he soaked up the remaining yolks with his toast. “Where’re you from?”
“Los Angeles,” she lied.
Why is he so nosy?
Swallowing the last of his breakfast, he raised an eyebrow at her. “That’s odd. You don’t have a West Coast accent. More like from the middle states.”
Dropping her gaze to the floor to hide her astonishment at being caught in a fib, she shrugged again. “Well, my family moved around a lot. I didn’t even know I had an accent.”
He studied her for a few moments, and she fought the urge to shift under his scrutiny. If he suspected she was lying, he didn’t push it. “So, how did you end up in our little town of Whisper, and where did you meet my uncle?”
At least this part of what she was willing to tell him was true. “I’ve been traveling around a lot and ended up at the Walmart over in Elizabeth City. Your uncle noticed me looking at apartment rentals posted on the bulletin board and offered to rent me this place.”
Dan Malone had approached her to see if she needed help, saying she looked “lost.” Not trusting a male stranger, Moriah had started to walk away, but stopped when he mentioned a house available for cheap rent.
Still wary, she’d taken his driver’s license andcell phone when he offered them. At his suggestion, she’d called information for the Dare County Sheriff’s Department, then asked to speak with someone who could confirm his identity. Mary Schreiber, the secretary, had vouched for him without hesitation, saying Dan Malone was a good friend of the sheriff, an upstanding citizen, and the owner of an empty beach house. She’d gone on to describe him as a kind man who was always helping those in need—and someone Moriah could trust.
With that kind of endorsement—and no better options—Moriah had taken him up on the offer to rent his place, even if he was friends with the local sheriff. When he realized she didn’t have a phone, he’d even let her keep hold of his cell during the drive, giving her a small sense of control until they reached the beach house.
She knew trusting a stranger was risky, maybe even foolish, but there had been something in Dan Malone’s soft brown eyes that convinced her he was one of the good ones. And she hadn’t come across many of those.
“Yeah, that sounds like Uncle Dan. He’s always bringing in a stray or two.”
Her eyes narrowed, her chin lifting a fraction.
“No offense,” he added.
“None taken,” she mumbled, even as the word lingered.Stray. It hit closer than she liked—too close to how she felt, drifting from place to place, with no one to count on, while trying to survive.
Picking up his plate, KC stood and carried it to the sink. He rinsed it off, then set it in the dishwasher with the fork and knife, then washed, dried, and put away the skillet and spatula he’d used. By the time he wiped down the cooking area, everything looked as if it had never been touched.
Moriah watched him finish, then lifted her chin. “So, you’ll be leaving now?”
He spun around slowly, crossing his muscular arms over his equally powerful chest. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, um… uh…” She faltered, then folded her arms to match his stance and shifted her weight.Be firm.“You can’t stay here. I paid Mr. Malone my rent, and I don’t want or need a housemate.”
His eyes narrowed, heat flickering in them as his gaze dipped—brief, but long enough to make her aware her arms had pushed her breasts up. “What do you want then?”
Her mouth parted, caught off guard by the edge in his tone. The moment stretched a beat too long before he shook his head, as if pulling himself back,and straightened. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk to Uncle Dan and see if I can crash on his couch. Shouldn’t be a problem. Not as comfortable as my bed here, but it’ll do.”
She nodded, still watching him as he left the kitchen. A few minutes later, with his sneakers on and keys in hand, KC walked out without another word.
It took her a full ten minutes to realize he’d left the rest of his things in the smaller bedroom. She wasn’t sure if she was upset or pleased to know he would have to return for them.
And that bothered her more than anything.
Chapter Five
“So,as usual, you know nothing about Ms. Maura Jennings. She’s just another needy person in a long line of needy people.”
KC slid a box onto the shelf, the cardboard scraping softly as it settled into place. The air inside Malone’s Hardware carried the familiar mix of sawdust, metal, and paint, with a faint chemical bite from the aisles of solvents. The old ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, stirring the warm air while the bell above the front door chimed now and then as customers came and went.
The closest big-box home-improvement store sat about fifteen miles away, but most folks didn’t bother with the drive. They came here instead—outof convenience, sure, but mostly because it was Dan’s. That kind of loyalty ran deep in a town like this.
Along one wall, racks of fishing gear hung neatly organized—rods, reels, and tackle—while a chest freezer near the back held bait for the early-morning anglers. Behind the counter, photos covered the wall, corners worn and curling. Locals grinned out from the frames, holding up their best catches. A few of those pictures featured KC and his brothers, younger, sunburned, and standing shoulder to shoulder with Dan.
“Nothing wrong with being needy—everyone can use a helping hand at some point in their life.” The older man sliced open another box of latex paint with the box cutter he never left home without. “I just know she’s in some sort of trouble and needs help. What else is there to know?”
