Free Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3) by Gina Ardito Page A

oldest building in Snug Harbor, erected almost a hundred years before the American Revolution. For a five dollar admission fee, visitors could tour the old farmhouse if they liked. Or, for a measly ten dollars, they could sign up for the nightly ghost walk. A highly entertaining attraction, I’d heard. I’d never gone myself. Too many ghosts haunted me as it was.
    I drove all the way to Coffield’s Wharf, cruised along the north shore road, where fishermen lined the rocky beach, intent on finding blackfish, bluefish, and the stray almost-out-of-season green bonito. I circled back to Main Street before finally pulling into the animal hospital’s parking lot. Because I stared at the ignition while turning off the engine, I missed the new participant in my game. When I looked up and through the windshield, there he stood. Iggy Zemski.
    For God’s sake, how could I get him to understand I wasn’t the dating type. Maybe, once he saw the flock of hornets following me, and got wind of why I was suddenly a celebrity, he’d lose interest. Nothing cooled a man’s interest in a woman faster that a murder allegation.
    He strode to the driver’s side of my Jeep and waited for me to climb out. I stared at him, this fierce protector who focused on his prize, totally oblivious to the blustery wind or the reporters clambering out of their news van behind me.
    Didn’t the man ever wear a jacket? The temps had dipped last night, and the morning’s misty start had left me frigid. But not G.I. Joe—or in this case, G.I. Iggy. His biceps bulged in his olive-covered tee, which was stuffed into khaki pants, creating the ultimate off-duty uniform of a hero. He stood there patiently, never giving the slightest indication I was holding him up or dawdling on purpose—which I was. Once I’d grabbed my purse, he opened my door, took my hand to help me out onto the gravel, and then wrapped me inside his bulky body, covering me from the camera’s unwavering gaze.
    “Iggy? What are you doing?” I murmured against his chest.
    “I’m part of the contingency plan,” he replied as he hustled me toward the back entrance.
    “Oh.” Speech abandoned me, as did my brain’s ability to form a coherent thought. I’m wearing an Iggy cloak . My senses swam in this man. His scent, his warmth, the beat of his heart all surrounded me like a comforting security blanket. No wonder he didn’t bother to put on anything heavier than a t-shirt. Iggy Zemski gave off more heat than a furnace.
    “Dr. Herrera.” This time, I recognized her voice. She was the same reporter from yesterday’s phone call. Tanya Carter. “Jayne, just a few words. Please? We’ve come all this way to talk to you.” When I didn’t say anything, not even my standard “No comment,” the woman added, “We won’t be the only ones to come here, Jayne. We’re just the first. Why not share your story with us and get it over with, once and for all? Unless you have something to hide…”
    I stiffened at the innuendo. Iggy pulled me tighter to him, burying my face in his chiseled pecs. The man was a series of contradictions: gruff but protective, rock-hard but soft-hearted.
    “Jayne?” the reporter called again. “Five minutes. That’s all we need. Then it’ll be all over for you.”
    “Don’t answer them,” Iggy grumbled.
    As if I would. No matter how much time I gave them, they’d demand more until they found something they could use to convict me in court. I’d already been convicted in the court of public opinion. I wasn’t stupid enough to lower my shields and risk prison time.
    We scaled the few steps, and the back door swung open with a screech of rusty hinges—a common problem in a seaside community—and, on a burst of warm air, I was rushed into the kitchen area. Once the door closed and locked behind us, Iggy let me go and stood alone in the corner, arms folded over his chest, his eyes glinting with steel as he stared at me. I missed his protection the second