“Well, you’re about to really get to know me.” He came to a stop at a four-way and swept his gaze over to hers. There was something mischievous there. Something intriguing just behind his eyes.

“I am?”

“Oh yeah.” He leaned over, not breaking their eye contact. Sloane could have sworn her body started to vibrate in response. The corner of Brady’s lips slid up slowly, but what he said was meant as punishment, not pleasure. Much to Sloane’s immediate and frustrating disappointment. “Because there’s no way in Hades I’m doing any of this by myself. As far as I’m concerned? You, Sloane De Carlo, are not leaving my side for the next two weeks.”

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Peggy Parker-Calhoun was absolutely the woman you talked to when the art supplies in the county ran out, putting you in dire straits, but every Arbor Bay local worth their salt knew it was Marsapan Parker-Calhoun Junior, her Siberian Husky, who you really had to win over before getting near any of the goods.

Sloane had only met Marsapan Junior once, but she had been an avid fan of his father when she was younger. She just hoped the two shared the same love for peanut butter biscuits from Paws & Tails. She had one in her pocket and two in a baggy in her purse.

Brady had none.

He had refused to hold them and, what’s more, had tried to get out of going to Ms. Peggy’s in the first place. Even now, standing on her front porch in the morning heat, he was straight-backed, arms-crossed, and frowning.

It was an intimidating look.

Also a stimulating one.

His five o’clock shadow had grown a bit more, and the effect paired nicely with his rough-and-tumble outfit of a worn tee and jeans.

Though, after the disaster of a lunch the day before, Sloane wasn’t about to trust the man or her libido for that matter. Not fully, and definitely not with gathering the art supplies they needed.

“She’s a hoarder.”

Brady did that thing where he leaned over and whispered just above Sloane’s ear. She had to fight her eyes from fluttering at the whisper.

“She’s prepared.”

“For what? The apocalypse of crepe paper and chicken wire?”

Sloane tilted her head at that. She gave the doorbell another push.

“I’m impressed you know what crepe paper is.”

“Clearly you’ve never come to the bar around Valentine’s Day. It’s the one holiday Aunt Clara dives in deep with crepe-paper everything. Streamers, random circles, twisted monstrosities, giant flowers. You name it, she’s forced us to crepe paper it.”

“And, clearly, it’s scarred you.”

“It sure didn’t enlighten me,” he grumbled.