Restoration by Kim Loraine Page A

in her appearance in the hall mirror. She immediately rubbed at her eyes, trying to wipe away the tear tracks running down her cheeks. She padded over to the front door and looked out the peephole. With a start, she saw Drew standing on the stoop.
    “Just a minute please,” she yelled through the door as she ran to her bedroom.
    Tearing through her dresser to find something appropriate to wear, she finally settled on a pair of dark jeans and a sheer cream top with a camisole underneath. She ran a brush through her hair, applied a light spray of perfume, and took a steadying breath as she walked back to the front door.

Chapter 7
    “Grace! Please let me in. It’s a bloody hurricane out here.” Drew’s voice was tinged with panic and frustration.
    She rushed to the door and pulled it open. “Drew, what are you doing here?” She motioned for him to come in out of the storm.
    He stood dripping on her floor with a box full of what looked like camping supplies and her coat slung across one arm. “You left the shop so quickly and . . . well, I didn’t think you . . . that is, I didn’t know if you’d be properly prepared for the storm.”
    “Wow, that’s so nice of you. And really not necessary. We’ve got storms where I come from, you know. This is definitely not a hurricane.”
    Drew’s gaze fell to the wet floor and he pushed past her into the living room. He set the box of supplies and her coat down on the floor next to the fireplace. The wind howled and the rain beat mercilessly against her little cottage.
    “Do you want to stay for a bit? You know, until the storm dies down?” she asked as he reached for the door.
    He cocked an eyebrow and grinned as he peeled off his wet coat. “I’d quite like that.”
    She watched him take in the living room with its half-empty wine bottle and pint of chocolate ice cream right next to the sofa. Yet another blush crept up her neck and she busied herself in the kitchen, watching him from the corner of her eye as he took a seat on one end of the sofa.
    “Not expecting company, I see?”
    She bristled. “Nope. Just me and Jane Austen for the night.”
    He nodded. “Might I trouble you for some tea?”
    “Oh, sure. You probably need to warm up. Give me a second.”
    “So, you said you’re no stranger to storms. Where is it you’re from again?” he asked as she filled the kettle and put it on the stove.
    “Virginia. Right on the coast. It’s a small town called Golden Beach. We get a lot of storms each year. Hurricanes, plain old wind storms, ice storms, the list goes on.”
    He raised one eyebrow. “So, then, why did you leave your mack and books at my shop if there was obviously a big storm coming in?”
    “Mack? Oh, my coat? I . . . was just in a rush and forgot I’d taken it off.” She was flustered as she came around to the living room and sat on the sofa. “Thanks again for bringing it back, and all the supplies.”
    His lips turned up in a slight smile. “My pleasure.”
    The space between them seemed to suddenly decrease as she examined his features. The last time he was in her house he’d kissed her, and not just a little kiss either. Her gaze lingered on his freckles, a light dusting across his nose and cheeks.
    He had an errant eyelash on his cheek and, unable to help herself, she reached up to brush it away. As her fingers touched his skin she raised her eyes to his. They were so like John’s, but different, too.
    She now noticed the color was a deeper brown, less freckles covered his face, and his smile was brighter, less guarded. He raised his hand and took hers from his cheek, not letting go, gently pulling her to him.
    For a moment, she was falling into his gaze and as the distance between them diminished, she felt a familiar twinge of anticipation. Their connection was abruptly interrupted by the screeching of the tea kettle. She shot up off the couch and bolted for the kitchen to subdue the offending kettle and take a moment to gather her