The man who came out wasn't Patrick. He was close to Patrick's height but broader—the build of someone who worked manual labor and did it seriously. Tanned, even this late in the season. Blond hair gone a little long at the collar. He had a tool belt over one shoulder and a travel mug in his opposite hand, and he stopped cold when he registered her in the chair.
She looked back at him steadily.
He scanned the drive, presumably looking for a car and finding none. Then back to her. The expression on his face was not hostile but guarded.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Patrick.”
A beat. “Does he know that?”
She considered the question and its implications. “Not yet.”
Something moved across his face. She wondered how often he’d had to deal with women showing up unannounced, and what their behavior had been like compared to hers.
She could see him running it. Young woman waiting on the porch with a to-go pack of coffee and donuts. Not rattled. Not cow-eyed. Just patiently waiting.
She let him work it out.
He descended two steps, shifted the tool belt, and looked at her with a directness she respected even if it was mildly skeptical. “I’m Garrett.”
“Morgan.”
He set his mug on the railing and looked at her with frank, reassessing attention. “The MDI from Philly.”
“That’s me.”
The last of the wariness dropped. “He’s up. Give him a few minutes.” He started down the steps, then paused and looked back. “You can wait inside, if you like.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He looked like he wanted to protest—probably had the same innate small town chivalry instinct Patrick had—then thought better of it. Nodding, he loaded the tool belt into the massive F350, got in, and drove out.
A few minutes later, a dog appeared around the corner of the house from the direction of the back yard. Large, dark-coated, with the loose-limbed authority of an animal entirely at home on this property. He made his way up the porch steps without hurry, crossed to her chair, and put his nose into her palm.
She scratched behind his ears. He leaned into it and closed his eyes.
“Wow. You’re easy,” she told him.
He tilted his head so she could reach the other side.
She’d been working on his chin for a few minutes when something registered in the edge of her vision that made her go still. Apresence.
She looked up.
A man with dark hair and dark eyes was at the far end of the porch, one shoulder against the post, arms loose, a mug in his right hand. He was in the shadow of the eave, still in a way that few living things were.
She regarded him. He regarded her. The dog shifted against her knee, demanding more scritches.
“Have you been standing there the whole time?” she asked.
He raised his mug in a minimal acknowledgment. His expression was calm. Not unfriendly.
He didn’t offer his name. She didn’t offer hers. Her phone buzzed.
Patrick:Leaving in 10. You up?
Morgan:Yes. I’m on your porch