Storm Surge by Celia Ashley Page B

erection he’d pressed against her was pretty solid evidence his body had a different idea.
    Liam went alone to collect her things from the cottage and returned with a puzzled expression on his face. “What was the point of placing the bed over the trapdoor?”
    “I don’t like mice,” she said, and left it at that. It didn’t matter he’d found nothing beneath the floorboards. Blocking off the dark province under the cottage had eased her mind, however foolish. Microscopic, icy feet tiptoed up the ridges of her spine in memory. Suppressing a shiver, Paige grabbed her toothbrush and comb from her suitcase, along with something suitable to wear while sleeping, and put a foot to the bottom stair tread.
    “Bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the—”
    “I know,” she said.
    “Forgot.” He smiled apologetically. The scar almost disappeared in the deep creases created by his grin. One day, if she didn’t blow it, they might reach a point—as friends, if nothing else—when he would feel comfortable telling her about the injury. Of course, that one day would have to come soon, or she’d be gone. She’d given herself until the Saturday prior to Labor Day before heading back home. The way the last two days had panned out, she might not make it that long. If somebody didn’t find the creep who’d broken into the cottage, her departure could be much sooner.
    Upstairs, Paige made her way slowly toward the home’s only bathroom. On her way, she glanced toward the room that had been her parents’ and, finding the door open, paused in the hallway to look in. She experienced no guilt over her study since it had nothing to do with curiosity about Liam and his lifestyle, whatever that might be. Nope. For the briefest of moments, she thought she might be able to feel her parents there, perhaps recall tenderness, a display of affection, some small proof of the love they must, at one time, have shared.
    She’d sensed nothing downstairs while sitting on Liam’s sofa. She felt nothing of them here, either, gaze lingering on Liam’s large and tumbled bed, his dark, masculine furniture, a handsome, brightly-colored area rug upon which a book lay open to a page marked by what appeared to be discarded junk mail. She backed away and crossed the hall.
    She paused in the middle of the cracked tile floor of the bathroom. Liam had only made a rudimentary attempt at renovations in this room. It looked almost exactly as she remembered. Paige sank down onto the closed toilet, shutting her eyes to block out the burden of recollection prompted by wallpaper bits still stuck to the plaster walls, the fixtures with their yellow light beside the outdated mirror, the familiar curve of the sink. Images circled in her mind like flotsam in a whirlpool.
    Mom, what happened to your face?
    Don’t ask questions, Paige.
    In time, the influx passed enough for Paige to perform her nightly routine, washing up, brushing her teeth, combing her always hopelessly tangled hair. Changing her clothes, she tucked everything under her arm and exited the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief in the hallway. Here, the walls were freshly painted, and a runner on the floor covered the age scars on the wooden floor. She found herself wondering again about the footsteps on the stairway, the shadow dancing past Liam’s. Pressing her personal items close to her breast, she held her breath and listened.
    Nothing. Why would there be? Nonsense, all of it. Utter nonsense.
    An abrupt creak of the joists in the attic caused her to jump and then chuckle at her foolishness. The door at the base of the narrow steps leading up beneath the roof stood slightly ajar. Paige walked toward it. “Liam?”
    “Paige, what are you doing?”
    Paige whipped around toward Liam’s voice. He stood with a foot on the uppermost stair, his dark brows raised.
    “I thought you had gone back to the attic. I heard—”
    “No ghost,” he said with a laugh. “The wind’s picking up. I probably