Page 3 of Her Favorite Fumble
“I’m over six feet tall,” he argued, and she arched her eyebrow. “Okay, I am six feet tall, though.”
She waited.
He crossed his arms. “I’m closer to six feet tall thanyouare.”
“I’ll take the couch, of course. I was trying to be funny, but I probably missed because I just drove three thousand miles for a hug and now—”
She waved her hand around the room where her grandmother should have been and clearly wasn’t, and then burst into tears.
* * *
Nick knew he should hug this woman he’d found in the living room.
She was crying. She’d driven three thousand miles for a hug. And, sure, she’d accused him of murdering Helen Griffin and hiding her body so he could squat in her cottage, but Lucy was clearly not having a good day.
Or a good week, more than likely, since she’d driven all the way across the country to get some comfort from her grandmother.
He took a step forward, but then stopped. “Do you want me to hug you?”
The good news was that the tears stopped. But he was a little insulted by the way her eyes widened as she took a step back. “No.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “You were saying you needed a hug. That’s all.”
“I appreciate the thought, but—” She stopped wiping tears from her face to wave a hand at him. “You’re definitely underdressed to be hugging women you don’t know.”
That was a valid point, so he shut his mouth, watching her while she walked over to pluck a few tissues from the box on an end table.
She didn’t look much like her grandmother. Helen was shorter and more compact, with salt-and-pepper hair. Lucy was tall and lithe, like a dancer maybe. Black leggings and a tank top hugged curves in all the best places, and the long cardigan over them was so light, it didn’t do much to cover her. It definitely wasn’t designed for warmth, and between it and the slip-on canvas shoes, she had to be freezing.
But what Nick couldn’t stop looking at was the cloud of red curls around the woman’s face. It looked as if it had one of those plastic claw clips in it, but her hair really didn’t want to be restrained. He couldn’t help wondering what it looked like free, glistening in the sunshine.
And her eyes were the blue of a summer sky.
Annoyed with himself, Nick snorted, which drew Lucy’s attention back to him. Since he didn’t want to confess he’d been waxing poetic to himself about how pretty she was, he had to come up with a distraction. “Do you have a bag?”
“A bag?”
“In the car. You know, a bag with clothes in it? Hairbrush. Phone charger.” He held up his hand. “Stuff for traveling. I can bring it in for you.”
“I don’t have a bag. I havebags—plural. And boxes.” She looked so forlorn he was afraid she might cry again. “Everything I own is in my car right now.”
Dread and disbelief battled to take up the most space in his head. “That was information I didn’t have when I agreed to let you crash on the couch.”
She blew out a breath, shoving some of the unruly curls away from her face. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
Nick didn’t really want to put off a conversation about whether or not this woman he’d known ten minutes actually intended to move in with him. But he also knew if he pushed, she was going to cry again. She was clearly out of gas, and maybe this would all make more sense after a good night’s sleep.
“Sure,” he agreed. “Do you need anything? Do you know where everything is?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Okay. Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
He went back into the bedroom and closed the door behind him before breathing out a sigh of relief.
His brothers weren’t going to believe this, Nick thought as he slid back into bed. And they’d hear about it, one way or another, because everybody heard about everything eventually in Wayward Harbor.
