The Heights

by Amy Aislin

The Heights - Amy Aislin - Lakeshore
Part of the Lakeshore series:
  • The Heights
Editions:KindleePubPaperback

Twenty-one years ago, a four-year old child was kidnapped from his front yard. He was never found. Until now.

All Nat Walker wants is to make his late father’s dream of running a father/son woodworking shop come true. And he had the perfect building in mind—until the new guy in town came in and bought the place right out from under him. The fact that the new guy is adorable means nothing. For all Nat cares, he can take his new dance studio and waltz back to New York City.

Professional dancer Quinn Carroll couldn’t be happier that he made the move to the small town of Lakeshore, Oregon. Sure, it’s not New York, but now he’ll be living closer to his adoptive brother. And since his studio will be the only one in the area, he should get enough business to keep him busy. Besides, there’s something about this place that seems familiar...

He doesn’t expect to fall hard for the local, grumpy woodworker who won’t even smile at him.

Or find out that his entire life is a lie.

This book is on:
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  • 1 Read list
Excerpt:

“That’s also the most I’ve heard you talk since we met.”

He removed his stick from the fire and let his burned marshmallow cool. “I talk.”

“Not much.” Quinn assembled a second s’more and ate it in short order. “But that’s okay. You talk when it matters.”

Nat froze with the marshmallow halfway to his mouth.

Aloof. Uncommunicative. Grumpy. Words that had been used to describe him at various times in his life by people who hadn’t made an effort to get to know who he really was.

Quinn had him pegged in only a couple of weeks?

He ate his marshmallow, chewing slowly, half an eye on Quinn. Quinn, who was adorable and sweet and charming but who Nat had judged as flaky and immature. Turned out he was smart and exceptionally astute.

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Quinn assembled yet another s’more, his foot tapping in tune to whatever song played in his head. Jesus, did he never sit still? The fingers of one hand drummed on his thigh as if playing a mental piano even as he attempted to eat a s’more one-handed.

He was like a coiled spring, tightly wound. What did Quinn do to expel all that energy besides dance? Soccer? Running? Hockey?

Sex?

Nope. Not going there.

Except now that his brain had gone there, it didn’t want to go anywhere but there.

COLLAPSE

About the Author

I started writing on a rainy day in fourth grade when my class was forced to stay inside for recess. Tales of adventures with my classmates quickly morphed into tales of adventures with the characters in my head. Based in the suburbs of Toronto, I'm a marketer at a large environmental non-profit in Toronto by day, and a writer by night. Book enthusiast, animal lover and (very) amateur photographer, my interests are many and varied, including travelling, astronomy, ecology, and baking.


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