Fireside by Susan Wiggs (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

AJ’s eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. A bunch of my teammates helped her fix the place up.” Bo looked around the neighborhood, with its swath of tall, straight trees down the center strip. On either side of the street were stately homes a hundred years old, some even older, centered on broad lawns. Built by wealthy families seeking refuge from the summer heat of the city, most of the houses had been lovingly kept and restored by the new elite of Avalon—prosperous young professionals, who’d made their fortunes in the tech sector or in law or finance. Others had been converted into office and studio space for doctors, contractors and local businesses, but the look of the homes had been carefully preserved.

He glanced over at AJ to see the boy’s reaction to the storybook-pretty scenery. The snow gave the whole area a quiet, horse-and-buggy atmosphere, despite the absence of horses or buggies. AJ kept his face turned away, his arms folded protectively in front of him. Already Bo recognized the stance—full emotional body armor.

Fairfield House stuck out like a whore in church, sporting a garish paint job. All its fine architectural details had been painted in varying shades of pink. There was a sign on the wrought iron fence in the front. Fairfield House, Circa 1886. Rooms to Let.

“The landlady has a two-room suite available on the top floor,” Bo told AJ. “She provides a serve-yourself breakfast each morning and dinner each night, which is more than I get, living over the bar.” Even so, the pink-wedding-cake style of this place gave him the willies. Playing it cool, he got out of the car and motioned for AJ to do the same. He opened the gate, cringing at the rusty jangle of the hinges. Their footsteps crunched on the salted walkway that led to the painted steps of the porch. The porch furniture was fussy-looking white wicker, currently clad in zipped-on plastic covers. Several skeletal plants hung sadly from the eaves, forgotten remnants from warmer weather.

Bo squared his shoulders and rang the bell. At the last second, he snatched off his hat, recalling that Dino had described the owner as proper. AJ stood back, hovering in Bo’s shadow. The kid was probably mentally calculating the time it would take to sprint back to the car. Impatient, Bo pushed the button again.

The bell was more like a gong. The wavy leaded glass in the front door was dressed in a froth of lace curtains. Through it, he could see someone approaching. Already Bo felt completely out of his element. Mrs…He dug the card Dino had given him out of his pants pocket to check the landlady’s name. Mrs. Penelope van Dorn.

Van Dorn. Now, there was a classy-sounding name. A very prim and proper name. She was probably some kind of schoolmarm.

The door opened abruptly. “Can I help you?”

For a moment, Bo couldn’t speak. Or move, or think, for that matter.

This was no marm.

She was approximately five feet nine inches of glorious sex. Her long, glossy hair fell in waves to the middle of her back; despite her height, she was curvy enough to create a halo of cartoon birds and bees swirling around his head. Jimi Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” twanged in his ears. As he gaped at the impossibly gorgeous redhead in the doorway, his mouth went dry, and his tongue turned to acrid dust. And when he forced his brain back into gear, only one thought pounded at him.

He was so screwed.

Nine

Oh, this could not be happening, thought Kim, stepping aside to let her visitors in. Her mother couldn’t have known what a curveball this was. Mom had told her to expect two new guests at Fairfield House. Kim had never dreamed it would be this character. What were the chances? she wondered. Maybe she had angered the universe.

One of the most cursed things about being a fair-skinned redhead was the blushing factor. It was impossible to hide a blush, and she tended to blush whenever she was flustered, upset, embarrassed, intrigued or all of the above.

At the moment, she was all of the above, and her face flared a heated shade of pink to prove it. Maybe he wouldn’t remember. Of course he wouldn’t, she reassured herself. Their paths had crossed at the airport, he’d been a jerk to her and that was that. Guys tended not to remember being jerks, so she was probably safe.

“Ma’am,” he said. “I remember you from the airport. Reckon it’s time we were properly introduced.”

An awkward beat of silence stumbled past. So he did remember after all. Which meant either he didn’t think he’d been a jerk, or he didn’t care that he’d been one. She narrowed her eyes at him, not about to be taken in by that faux aw-shucks charm. “I remember you, too, Mr.…” She checked the appointment card her mother had handed her, asking her to greet the new arrivals. “Crutcher,” she read. “And son.”

The boy looked from the tall guy to Kimberly. He carried a backpack slung on his shoulder. He had beautiful thickly lashed eyes and an unsmiling mouth that gave him a very solemn, very unkidlike air.

She wondered exactly how old he was, who his mother was. Where his mother was.

“I’m AJ,” he said in a gravelly, curiously endearing voice. “AJ Martinez.”

“Hello, AJ,” she said, smiling. It wasn’t the boy’s fault his father was a tool. “I’m Kimberly van Dorn. Call me Kim.”

He looked around, wide-eyed. He was small and uncertain, quite unlike his father.

“Feel free to check things out,” Kim said, taking his jacket. “The kitchen’s in there, and there’s a library and TV room. The big round room with all the windows is called the rotunda.”

He followed Bo’s lead, parking his boots in the boot tray by the door. Then, with his hands in his pockets, AJ wandered through the downstairs, as silent and careful as a museum visitor. That, at least, was a good sign. Her