“Everyplace has a Starbucks,” Wren replied, dour. So they would come back shortly? Nothing was over.
When they had gotten about halfway down the path, they heard the creak of the door opening.
Wren jumped, startled. A sudden urge to grab Rufus’s hand and run nearly overtook him.
“Can I help you?” The voice that carried across the summer air was not that of a woman, but a man.
They turned. Wren saw, standing in the doorway, a very handsome silver-haired man he would have pegged to be in his mid-forties. He had a perfect body and a sort of Richard Gere air about him—all refinement with the suggestion of sex beneath. He wore a pair of cargo shorts, a madras button-down shirt, and was barefoot. Under other circumstances Wren might have been intrigued.
Now he was only dismayed.