One Last Weekend by Linda Lael Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

think,” Teague said.
    â€œWasn’t it?” Joanna retorted, folding her arms. “Teague, you and Caitlin and Sammy and I came here as a family for years. Everybody knows us. And you brought a redhead to this cottage? ”
    â€œJoanna—”
    â€œShut the door.”
    Teague reached behind him and closed the door with a soft click.
    â€œYou rotten liar! ” Joanna accused.
    Teague reddened, and his jaw took on a familiar hardness. He was shutting down, backing away. In another moment, he’d turn his back on her and refuse to—refuse to what? Explain? Tell more lies?
    To Joanna’s surprise, relief, and outrage, Teague stood his ground. “You’re not going to like the truth a whole lot better than what you think happened,” he said. “Ava isn’t my lover. She’s a real estate agent, specializing in vacation properties. I should have talked to you about it first, I admit that, but you were so busy doing interviews to promote your cookbook—”
    Joanna dragged one of the chairs back from the kitchen table and fell into it. “A real estate agent?” she murmured. “You were going to put the cottage on the market—without even telling me?”
    â€œOf course I would have told you,” Teague insisted. “Eventually.”
    â€œLike when I came out here to start my novel and found a FOR SALE sign posted in the front yard?”
    â€œJoanna, I didn’t sign anything. I was just doing—research.”
    The sun must have gone behind a cloud, because suddenly the bright kitchen seemed dark, full of shadows.
    â€œAnd naturally you needed the sports car so the whole island would see you zipping around with a hot redhead.”
    Teague’s jaw tightened again, but he didn’t speak.
    And the room got darker.
    Thunder crashed somewhere in the distance.
    â€œI’d better bring the rest of that stuff inside,” Teague said.
    â€œGo for it,” Joanna said coldly.
    Teague went out.
    She sat there for a few moments, absorbing the aftershocks. Then, because it was too painful to sit still, she got up, cleared the table, scraped the remains of the celebrated omelet into the garbage, filled the sink with scalding hot water, and banged dishes around until they were clean.
    Rain spattered the roof.
    Teague returned several times, lugging gallon bottles of water, a case of wine, a small portable camp stove that could be used outside, a couple of battery-operated lamps.
    â€œWere you expecting a siege?” Joanna asked, keeping her back to him.
    â€œMore like an arctic chill,” Teague replied, but the joke fell flat between them, plopping like an overfilled water balloon.
    She turned, leaning back against the sink, gripping the counter edge with one hand. “What else haven’t you told me, Teague? What does the whole island—the whole city of Seattle—know that I don’t?”
    â€œNothing, Joanna.”
    â€œ ‘Nothing, Joanna,’ ” she mimicked. And suddenly, she was crying. She threw her hands out wide from her sides. “We spent vacations in this cottage, Teague. We brought our daughter here. We decorated Christmas trees and set off Fourth of July fireworks and carved Thanksgiving turkeys. And you had the nerve to bring a real estate agent here to put a price on all that? Without even mentioning it to me?”
    â€œYou were busy,” he repeated.
    She launched herself at him, colliding with his rock-hard chest when he didn’t give ground. She jabbed at his breastbone with a furious finger. “How much is it worth, Teague? How much for the dreams, and the laughter, the lovemaking, and the checker-playing in front of the fire? How much is it worth? ”
    He caught her wrists in his hands. “Too much,” he said hoarsely. “Way, way too much.”
    Joanna blinked. Staring up at him, she was fairly strangled by anger and heartbreak. It almost would have