“I inherited it,” she said. “After my mom died. It had been my grandparents’.”

“Lucky you,” Corey said. “But I can’t believe you didn’t want to live here yourself all these years, instead of renting it out.”

“It’s complicated. My parents split up when I was about five years old, and I moved with my mom over to the east coast. After Nonni, that’s my grandmother, died, I just assumed my mom sold the cottage. But she didn’t. I guess my father agreed to manage the house for her, and he’s the one who rented it to your friend Leonard. That last hurricane did a number on the roof, hence that attractive blue tarp it’s sporting. And that’s when Leonard moved out.”

“And you moved in,” he said. “From where?”

“Lauderdale. After my mom died, I was sort of at loose ends, so when my father offered me a job at his firm, there was really no reason not to move back here. I had a free place to stay, and a job, so why not?”

“I’ve always admired this house,” Corey admitted. “This past year or so, since Leonard moved out and the place was vacant, I had this far-fetched fantasy about buying it myself and fixing it up.”

“Sorry to spoil your fantasy, but I don’t see selling it. Even after Mom and I moved to Lauderdale, I’d come back every summer and spend a couple weeks here with my grandparents. It’s a special place to me.”

14

Drue had done enough talking about herself. “What about you? Tell me the Corey Wagner story. I bet you do something at a gym. Like, maybe a trainer or something?”

“I’m pretty boring. I’m only a trainer in the sense that I’m my own best client,” he said. “My day job is as a physical therapist. I’m in training to do an Iron Man triathlon, which is why you see me running so often.”

“Do you work at a hospital or a clinic or something?”

“I’m in a practice with a couple other therapists. We specialize in sports injuries.”

“Single?” She was mentally crossing her fingers. This man was seriously hunky. He had a great body and brilliant blue eyes and a genuine smile. What was not to like?”

“I am single,” he said. “How about you?”

“Same,” she said.

He pointed at her knee. “Torn meniscus? ACL?”

“Both. Plus the usual,” she said.

“That sucks. Can I ask how you injured yourself?”

“Kiteboarding,” she said. “Midair collision with a guy I didn’t even see coming.”

He bent over, then looked up. “May I?”

His finger traced the thick white scar. It extended six inches above and six inches below her knee, zigzagging around the kneecap. “Wow. Who was your surgeon?”

“Just some guy they referred me to at the emergency room. Ezra Cline? He’s in Delray Beach.”