“What do you want?” Digby squirmed again and he set the dog on the ground, holding tightly to the leash.
“The interview you granted Vince. I’m pretty sure he sent me over because he knows you’d rather do anything else.”
“He’s right about that.” The confession slipped out way too easily. Not cool. He was usually too guarded for those mistakes. And he had given Vince his word. “Will the two of you collaborate on the article?”
“Of course.” She crouched down when Digby wandered closer, looking for more attention. “I have a recorder with me to make sure you’re not misquoted on anything.”
He snorted.
“How about one question off the record?”
If he didn’t know better, thanks to years of experience with reporters, he’d swear her full attention was on the dog. “Ask.” Better to get this over with and start adjusting to the curiosities of small-town life.
“Tell me why a man who could live anywhere chose this fixer-upper estate on a tiny island in South Carolina.”
“First of all, not a fixer upper.” It just needed redecorated—his taste leaned more toward clean and modern than stately Southern antiques. “Everything has been remarkably well-maintained.”
She nodded slowly, standing once more. “Except secure fencing for a small dog.”
“Except that,” he agreed.
The silence stretched and he could hear the persistent drumming of the incoming tide. Seb watched Digby snuffle the grass at the edge of the driveway. Why wouldn’t she take the hint and leave?
“Shall we get started? On the perimeter,” she clarified. “I really can help.”
“No thanks. I’ll just keep a closer eye on him.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her skepticism was annoying. “You don’t even know me.”
She whipped out a voice recorder and smiled at him. Why was the sparkle in her eyes so intriguing? “I’m happy to change that. I promise it won’t hurt a bit. We’ll just have an easy conversation.”
Of all the reporters he’d met, he almost believed this one meant it. Almost.
Her shoulders sagged. “Fine. We won’t talk. Vince will reschedule. But Digby needs some water and I’d love to wash my hands before I walk home.”
“Sure.” They were halfway to the garage when he had to ask. “You walked here?”
“Biked, actually.” She tipped her face to the clear sky. “The chain broke. It’s easier to fix it at home than wrestle with it before I go.”
Seb let out a long, defeated sigh that caught Digby’s attention. Ears perked, the dog cocked his head as he pranced along at Seb’s heel. “I’ll drive you and your bike home.”
“On what conditions?”
“None,” he replied, offended. “I was trying to be, um, neighborly.”
She laughed. “Oh, good to know.”
Seb regretted many things in his thirty-four years, some questionable investments came to mind, along with his overly-documented, extremely brief relationship with a volatile actress.But letting Holly Brooks onto the property was rapidly climbing to the top of the list.
She was beautiful and friendly. Possibly even sincere. Digby’s immediate adoration for her was a solid endorsement. But she was a reporter, one with the power to lower his guard.
He could practically hear the questions humming through her mind and though she was being subtle about it, he knew she was cataloging every visible inch of the estate.
The next gate was a privacy fence that framed a generous courtyard between the pool and kitchen. At some point, someone had installed a very modern outdoor shower with a dog wash station. Neither of which he’d ever considered valuable features until Digby came into his life.
He looped the leash into the tie and filled a bowl with water for the pup. Turning, he saw Holly had stopped to stare at the view. With her lips parted and her hand over her heart, she looked stunned.
