Haven Creek by Rochelle Alers

distorted Trina’s pretty face. “Why didn’t you say something?”
    Morgan’s arm went around Nate’s waist. “We decided we didn’t want to go public with our relationship for a couple of months. I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now.”
    “I won’t say anything if you want to keep things on the down low,” Trina whispered conspiratorially.
    “Thank you,” Morgan and Nate chorused. Both exhaled an audible sigh when Trina turned on her heels and walked away.
    “I owe you, Mo.”
    She gave Nate a long, penetrating stare. “Yep, you sure do.”
    “I’m sorry, but I hadn’t realized Trina had changed that much when I told her I would dance with her. And you’re right. I have been away too long and I definitely don’t get out enough. I had no idea she was looking for a husband. Maybe I should take Jesse up on his offer to come to the Happy Hour.”
    “The ladies at the club would love you,” Morgan said teasingly. “You’re single, educated, and don’t have any children. They’d be on you like white on rice.”
    “Not if you come with me.”
    Morgan shook her head. “Nope—I already bailed you out once. Now you’re on your own.” She knew if he’d asked her years ago she would’ve said yes.
    “Please come with me just this one time. As a friend?”
    She moved to one side to let a boy carrying a plate piled high with catfish fritters pass. “I can’t, Nate. I’m too busy with my project to go clubbing.”
    “What if I tell you yes?”
    Morgan held her breath. When she’d created the list of artisans she would approach for her project, she knew she wanted Shaw Woodworking at the top of the list. Their reputation for crafting some of the finest pieces of furniture in the Lowcountry was legendary throughout the region. The Shaws’ carpentry skills had been passed down through the generations, and when she researched the architectural plans of many of the homes built on Cavanaugh Island the names of Nate’s ancestors appeared on documents dating back to the mid–eighteenth century. It had been a Shaw who’d laid the parquet floors at Angels Landing, not only when it was first built in 1830 but also following the Civil War, when a fire had destroyed most of the rooms on the first floor.
    “I don’t want you to agree to sign on to the project out of gratitude. Maybe after you see the rendering you’ll know whether you have the time to devote to the work. This commission is too important to me to accept a commitment of less than one hundred percent. There are folks waiting for me to mess up. I refuse to let that happen.”
    “Auntie Mo,” chimed a childlike voice.
    Morgan glanced down at her five-year-old niece tugging on the hem of her dress. There were traces of a red substance on her chubby cheeks, and wisps of hair that had escaped the sandy-brown plaits falling to her shoulders were curling around her cherubic face. Bending slightly, Morgan picked up the child, who hugged her tightly around the neck.
    “Auntie Mo, Mama wants you to sit with us.” Her gaze shifted to Nate.
    She dropped a kiss on the little girl’s hair. “Amanda, this is my friend Mr. Nate,” Morgan said when Amanda continued to stare at him.
    Nate smiled. “Hello, Amanda.”
    Amanda hugged her aunt tighter. “My daddy says I can’t talk to strangers.”
    “Your daddy’s right. You shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
    Amanda rested her head on Morgan’s shoulder. “I talk to my friends in school.”
    Nate’s eyes met Morgan’s when he said, “That’s a good girl. Mo, go sit with your family while I try and find my folks.”
    “As soon as I put this little munchkin down I’m going to get something to eat. And don’t forget to save a dance for me, baby ,” she drawled, her voice lowering to a seductive timbre. Nate’s laugher followed her as she carried Amanda to the table where the Danes had managed to find a place to sit together. Amanda wiggled to get down, running and climbing onto her father’s