River’s End

small plaque that identified apartment 2-B. No name, he thought. Just the number. The MacBrides still guarded their privacy like the last gold coin in an empty sack.
    “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, and pressed the buzzer.
    He had a couple of basic plans of approach in mind, believing it best to be flexible until he gauged his ground. Then she opened the door and every plan, every practical thought ran out of his mind like water from a tipped bowl. Slow and steady and completely.
    She wasn’t beautiful, certainly not if you measured her by her mother’s staggering image. It was almost impossible to do otherwise when you saw the eyes, rich golden brown under slashing dark brows.
    She was tall and slim, but with an efficient toughness to her build he found surprisingly, almost ridiculously sexy. Her hair had darkened since he’d seen her last, but was shades lighter than her eyes and drawn back in a smooth ponytail that left her face unframed.
    The child’s face had refined, sharpened and taken on the edge of young womanhood Noah always thought of as faintly feline.
    She wore jeans, a WSU sweatshirt, no shoes and a vaguely annoyed expression. He found himself standing, staring foolishly, unable to do anything but grin at her. She cocked one of those killer eyebrows, and a surprising kick of lust joined his sheer pleasure at seeing her again. “If you’re looking for Linda, she’s across the hall. Two-A.”
    She said it as though she said it often and in a voice that was throatier than he remembered.
    “I’m not looking for Linda. I’m looking for you.” And the thought crossed his mind that he always had been. That was so absurd, he dismissed it immediately. “And you just put a huge hole in my ego by not remembering me.”
    “Why should I remember . . . ?” She trailed off, focusing those fascinating eyes on him as she hadn’t when she’d thought he was just another of the nuisance men who flocked around her across-the-hall neighbor. And as she did, her lips parted, those eyes warmed. “You’re Noah. Noah Brady. Frank’s son.” Her gaze shifted from his, over his shoulder. “Is he—”
    “No, it’s just me. Got a minute?”
    “Yes. Yes, of course. Come in.” Flustered, she stepped back. She’d been deep into the writing of a paper on the root symbiosis of fungus. Now she went from being buried in science to flying back over time, into memories.
    And into the lovely little crush she’d had on him when she’d been twelve.
    “I can make some coffee, or I probably have something cold.”
    “Either’s fine.” He took the first-time visitor’s circling scan of the tidy room, the organized desk with its humming computer, the soft cream walls, the deep blue sofa. The space was compact, creatively arranged and comfortably simple. “Nice place.”
    “Yes, I like it.” Relished, hoarded the blissful thrill of living alone for the first time in her life.
    She didn’t fuss, fluttering around as some women were prone to, apologizing for the mess even when there wasn’t one. She simply stood there, looking at him as if she didn’t know quite where to begin.
    He looked back and wondered the same thing himself.
    “Ah ... I’ll just be a minute.”
    “No rush.”
    He followed her into the kitchen, flustering her again. It was hardly more than a passageway, with stove, refrigerator and sink lining one side and stingy counter space between.
    Despite the limited space, he managed to wander around. When he stood at the window, they were close enough to bump shoulders. She rarely let a man get close.
    “Coke or coffee?” she asked when she’d pulled open the fridge and taken a quick survey.
    “Coke’s fine. Thanks.”
    He would have taken the can from her, but she was already reaching for a glass. For God’s sake, Olivia, she scolded herself, open your mouth and speak. “What are you doing in Washington?”
    “I’m on vacation.” He smiled at her, and the drumming that had been under her heart six years before started up as if it had never stopped. “I work for the L.A. Times.”
    She smelled of soap and shampoo, and something else, something subtle. Vanilla, he realized, like the candles his mother liked.
    “You’re a reporter.”
    “I always wanted to write.” He took the glass from her. “I didn’t realize it until I was in college, but that’s what I wanted.” And because he felt her wariness slide between them like a band of smoke, he smiled again and decided there was