He held a pair of work gloves in one giant hand, and I was embarrassed to feel heat rush between my thighs.
Especially under these… circumstances.
“Um… yeah. I was looking for someone to give me a key, but?— ”
“You could have rang the bell.” The black-haired guy next to the blond scowled at me like I’d committed an unforgivable sin, but there was more than annoyance rushing under my skin.
And who could blame me? He was even bigger than the blond, his dark hair cut short and precise, his steel-gray eyes boring through me like a jackhammer. He had a lean but muscular build, the body of an athlete, and sharp cheekbones over a lush mouth set into a controlled line.
“I did,” I said. “Twice.”
The third guy brushed his shaggy brown hair off his forehead with a grin. Dimples creased his cheeks in a way that somehow made me want to both squeeze him and bang him.
“Sorry about that. I just got home.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Beck. Well, Beckett, but everybody calls me Beck. I work the bakery for Evelyn.”
“Uh… hi, nice to meet you.” My mind spun as I tried to process what I’d just found with what was happening: the house and property, the gazebo, the three stupidly hot guys standing in front of me. “And yes, I’m Avery. Also, there’s a dead guy in the gazebo.”
2
AVERY
I lookedaround the front parlor — at least I think that’s what it would have been called when the house was first built — and registered the decor with surprise. Shock had settled in as I’d been led inside by the sheriff’s deputy who’d arrived on the scene after the black-haired man called 911, and I’d barely noticed the rest of the house.
Now I saw that the room was surprisingly modern. Not sterile-modern — although there wasn’t anything personal or any pictures of Aunt Evelyn — but updated-modern. I’d subconsciously expected stuffy furniture and shelves full of knick-knacks, but the sofa was newish and upholstered in a crisp navy, the wing chairs on the other side of the marble coffee table covered in a cheerful yellow print.
The marble fireplace looked original, but instead of heavy dark furniture, the sofa was flanked with two small mirrored chests that might have originally been intended as nightstands. The ivory-and-navy rug was traditional, but the table lamps had modern shades, and the brass chandelier hanging from the coffered ceiling was simple and clean-lined, each bulb covered by a crisp cream-colored shade.
Not what I would have expected from the traditional architecture. Either Aunt Evelyn had impeccable taste or she’d hired an interior decorator.
My mind went to the three men I’d met at the gazebo, another subverted expectation.
When Irving Norwood told me the house came with caretakers, I’d expected grizzled old men with weathered faces and thinning hair and maybe a kindly older woman who kept the house in order (my imagination was apparently sexist).
Clearly I’d been more than a little off base, and my face got hot when I thought about my body’s reaction to the three muscular tattooed guys at the gazebo.
Then it dawned on me — I would have to live with them, at least until I sold the house.
I squirmed on the sofa and told myself it was because I was nervous about all the police activity since that was preferable to thinking about the fact that I’d gotten wet at the thought of my three new roommates.
I looked up as a woman entered the room. The front door had opened and closed a dozen times since the deputy — a lanky guy about my age who had been equal parts nervous and strangely excited— had led me into the parlor. I’d watched several uniformed officers make their way past the room, but now a middle-aged woman with a long dark braid walked toward me.
“Afternoon,” she said. “I’m Sheriff Crowe.”
Her face was pretty and makeup-free, lined with weather and sun rather than age, and her dark eyes were sharp and observant.
“Hi,” I said. “Avery Hart.”
“Evelyn’s niece.”
I nodded. “I’d just gotten here when I found the…” I pointed vaguely to the window.
She sat across from me in one of the wing chairs and removed a notepad and pen. “I’m going to ask you to take me through your movements right up until Deputy Pike got here. That okay?”
“Sure.” I wasn’t surprised they were questioning the caretakers and me separately. I’d watched enough true crime to know that was how it worked. We’d discovered the body — well, technically I’d discovered the body — and they wanted to see if our stories lined up before we had a chance to commiserate.
“Let’s start with when you got into town,” she said.
I took her through my drive into town, my arrival at the house, and my walk through the property in search of the caretakers. Then I recounted all the details I could remember about the dead man in the gazebo.