Two Family Home by Sarah Title Read Free Book Online

product was up in the air. He hated that fluffy sort of artist talk, but it was true: he just had to feel it.
    Before he could feel anything, though, he needed coffee.
    Jeans on, boots on, mug in hand, he headed out the back door to the garage to wait for inspiration to strike.
    Instead of inspiration, though, he got a dose of Mother Pollyanna in shorts and a tank top, hands on hips, glaring at the remains of Myron’s garden.
    She must have heard him step stealthily off the back porch (damn work boots), because she turned to him.
    And smiled.
    God, she had a great smile.
    Walker took a sip of his coffee.
    â€œMorning,” she said. He gave a little wave and headed toward the garage.
    â€œOh, hey,” she said, holding out a hand to stop him as he passed. “I’m really sorry about the other day. About waking you up with that couch?” she added when he looked confused.
    â€œThat’s okay,” he said, trying hard not to remember the different ways he had considered murdering her and Josh McGuire.
    â€œI used to work nights. It totally messes up your sleep schedule, right? They did not make blackout curtains strong enough to convince me that it was possible for me to sleep during the day.”
    She was being sweet. She needed to stop being sweet. Or he needed to remember that he didn’t do sweet. He liked a woman with a hard edge and a mean streak. He didn’t like women who apologized for their mistakes and wore purple short-shorts.
    â€œAnyway, I’ll try to be more quiet.” She gave him that million-dollar Pollyanna smile again. “I’m Lindsey, by the way.”
    He shook her hand, then retreated quickly to the coffee.
    â€œYou’re Walker, right? I mean, I’d hate to think this whole time I’ve been . . .” She trailed off.
    This whole time she’d been what, exactly?
    â€œIt’s just funny that we haven’t met since I moved in, is all. You’d think with sharing the number of walls we share that we’d run into each other more often. I guess our schedules are really different.”
    Walker eyed the garage door. He was so close . . .
    â€œSo . . . Mary Beth tells me you’re an artist. That’s so interesting. I saw some pictures of your work online but I’d love to see . . .”
    He didn’t hear the rest of it. He never talked about his art in progress with anyone. Anyone except Myron, and barely that. He didn’t even talk anything beyond vague concepts with Madison, and she was the one who signed the checks. So he definitely wasn’t going to suddenly start talking about it with Pollyanna in her purple shorts and her messy ponytail and her great legs.
    He grunted, which meant good-bye, and stalked into the garage to hide from the pretty lady, and, hopefully, to get some damn work done.
    Â 
    Lindsey watched Walker’s retreating back as he stalked into the garage. It was a nice back. The whole view was nice. Too bad he was such a . . . what was he? Maybe he just wasn’t a morning person.
    Or maybe he was a jerk.
    She didn’t like that. They didn’t need to be besties, but a cordial relationship would be nice. Maybe, over time, he’d mellow out and just be unpleasant.
    But, man, she wanted to get into that garage.
    No. It was none of her business, and he had made it abundantly clear that she was not welcome.
    Or had he? Maybe he was just shy! Maybe he’d had a rough life on the streets and didn’t know how to accept people’s kindness! Maybe he secretly wanted to show off his work, but his fear of rejection was so great that it paralyzed his social skills!
    Or maybe he wasn’t making art at all. Maybe he was making meth.
    Okay. Now we’re getting crazy, she told herself. Detective Lindsey could sometimes go into overdrive and become Crazy Paranoid Lindsey. What she really needed to do was respect his wishes, and if Walker came around to wanting her in his studio,