Page 11 of Holiday Hideaway
“Where are his pants?”
“Oh, that ankle ballooned way up. We had to cut ’em off,” she reported. “But here’s the rest of his stuff.” She handed Tilly a plastic bag and winked. “Take good care of him.”
George fell asleep shortly after they pulled away from the hospital but five minutes later woke up and gave her a startled look.
“Who are you, again?”
“I’m, er ... Tilly.” She had to think fast. “From Piney Point Vacation Rentals. I came by the house to check up on you, and that’s when I found you. You fell off a ladder, onto the porch roof.”
He blinked and gingerly touched his bandaged head. “Don’t I know you from someplace else?”
“I get that a lot,” Tilly said. “I have one of those faces.”
George looked down at his bare legs. “Why was I climbing a ladder without pants?”
It had started snowing while they were in the emergency room, and fluffy white flakes swirled in front of the Jeep’s headlights. Back at the Crowe’s Nest, at least an inch blanketed the lawn. Tilly helped George navigate the steps up to the kitchen and steered him into the parlor and to the sofa, where she helped him stretch out and prop his injured ankle on a stack of dusty-looking throw cushions.
“You’ll have to sleep here,” she said apologetically, nodding toward the stairs. “I’ll just run upstairs and bring down some quilts and a pillow.”
“And some pants.”
Smoosh was waiting just inside the attic door. He scampered down the stairs behind her, and while he went outside, she made a quick dash to the backyard woodpile. Thankfully, George was dozing where she’d left him. She built a fire in the fireplace, then stopped to adjust the quilt she’d draped over him. She’d brought a couple of quilts for herself and a pillow, too, and fashioned a nest for herself in a broad, overstuffed wing chair that she pulled closer to the fire.
DAY 4
Tilly woke him up every four hours, as instructed. Luckily for him, he went right back to sleep. Unfortunately, Tilly did not follow suit.
At eight that morning, she found herself studying his sleeping face. That newspaper photo hadn’t done him justice. He had very nice eyes, deep brown, with the longest, silkiest eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man. His hair needed a trim and was darker than she remembered, more like a chestnut brown. He had a mole just at the right edge of his very full lower lip. There were the beginnings of a scruffy beard and a strong, almost hawkish nose.
Nobody would call him Sticks now. He’d filled out in the years since high school, and although he wasn’t a muscle-bound freak like Denny, she could tell he took care of himself.
She glanced up at an old oil portrait of some ancient Crowe ancestor and recognized the nose, although not the cruel expression from the portrait.
“Hey!” George was awake and struggling to sit up. “You’re still here?”
“Doctor’s orders,” Tilly said. She adjusted the pillows behind his back. “How do you feel?”
“I’ve felt better,” he admitted, gingerly touching the back of his head.
Smoosh, who had an innate wariness around strange men and thus was crouching on the floor near the door, gave a warning bark.
“And there’s a dog too?” George asked, looking from Tilly to Smoosh.
She bristled. “Do you have a problem with dogs?”
“Not at all,” George said. “Love dogs.” He patted the sofa and whistled softly. “Here, girl.”
“This is Smoosh. He’s a boy. And he won’t come closer until he knows you better, because he has trust issues.”
“Don’t we all,” George said.
“Are you hungry?” Tilly asked.
“Starved.” George blushed. “And also, I, uh ...”
“Need to pee?” She grabbed his crutch and extended an arm. “Come on. I gotchu.”
Once he was standing, he wobbled unsteadily, and Tilly grabbed him around the waist to keep him from falling. She felt a tiny thrill of electricity at the touch of his warm skin against hers.
