“I drove up the dirt path and turned left at the ‘felled tree’ as Penn Fratila had instructed. The cabin he’d told me of was now visible ahead. A striking log cabin that made me envious. I’d always wanted to live in a log cabin. A man stepped out when he heard my tyres on the gravel. He waved, his jeans low on his hips, his dark sweater hugging nice muscles. Dark hair, tall, lanky but powerful. Whew. Such a hot, hot artist. ‘Mrs Evans?’ he said, his voice thick but clear with some unrecognisable... accent. ‘Merritt,’ I corrected, smiling. ‘Mrs Merritt?’ ‘No, just Merritt. Mrs Evans is my mother.’ (My very, very upset, angry, judgmental mother). ‘And you are Penn Fratila?’ He nodded, coming forward, taking my hand and shaking it slowly. It seemed his natural inclination was to kiss it. Instead, he bowed slightly over it and shook. I smiled. ‘I am.’ ‘That’s an interesting name,’ I said. ‘Fratila?’ ‘Penn.’ ‘Ah, my parents. Pennsylvania was a name they liked.’ He waved me in and turned to the cabin.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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