Beholden: A Small-Town Standalone Romance (Carmel Cove Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  There were a few high tops with good views of the TVs and the far wall was broken up into several booths, deep green cushions covering the seats like thick moss.

  And the lights, they all had green lampshades. Like a leprechaun had come in demanding only green illumination.

  Carved wood. Thick moss. Leprechauns. Apparently, I was getting drunk inside a fairy tree.

  This bar was strange though; it smelled like mint. Not smoke. Not beer. Not liquor. Minty-fresh. It was the first thing I noticed when I walked inside before a single drink had been ordered. And it caused a peculiar alertness to my stupor as though even here, even under the influence, I couldn’t escape the crystal-clear confines of my new reality.

  I shook my head—another mistake as everything immediately spun and swayed.

  My hand slapped down on the bar to steady myself.

  “You alright?” Buzzkill Benny—both of him—slowly came into focus.

  “Yep.” I grinned. “Just… ahh… remembered something…” I hit the top of the bar again as though that would make it seem more normal.

  Yeah, I was getting cut off. Dammit.

  That was about as clear from his expression as my drunkenness was from mine.

  My head dropped, feeling like a belt was tightening around my chest. My hair that had been as straight as a sunbeam earlier now slipped in frizzy, strawberry waves over my shoulders. This is what happened when I came to this place—I unraveled. Right down to my roots.

  I didn’t want to leave the bar. I didn’t want to have to go back to reality—to the memories. To the obligations and expectations.

  I drank tonight for a lot of reasons, not in the least of which was trying to forget that I was angry with a dead man. I shouldn’t be. It was wrong to be. But I was. I was angry that he hadn’t left me the option to just calmly sail from a shore that was always stormy.

  No, I’d come back and grief threw anchors over me like chains. Heavy, imprisoning anchors. Not the kind that kept you steady. The kind that took you down.

  Pull it together. Loss has been scarred into your bones. You’ll survive this like you survived the ones that came before—alone.

  Straightening my spine, I looked up to see Mick had returned and was talking to Benny, both of them looking at me.

  But there was someone else with them.

  And then the friendly, frustrating giant moved, and the scorch from those blazing embers trailed up my spine once more. The perfect stranger from the hallway.

  I’d recognize him anywhere—and if not from his looks, from the way his presence was like lightning through my body: the bright energy on the horizon that warned me of the impending storm.

  Even though the pain was distant, I bit down hard on my tongue, searching for something to jar me from my trance.

  From far away—a safe distance from the protective and distracting warmth that I’d crashed into earlier, I took in the rest of him, everything from the neck down, for the first time.

  Black suit pants that clung to him like night and his white shirt strained slightly over his chest with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing forearms that had far too many veins to be legal. Then again, I was sure they were; this was California, after all.

  My crossed legs cinched even tighter as heat flooded between them. All because of those eyes.

  The corners of them were tipped down slightly, giving them a naturally serious stance. Not serious as in angry or somber, though. They were serious like Clark Kent searching for the nearest phone booth—seriously determined to save the world.

  I doubted my model was about to pop the buttons on his shirt to reveal blue spandex, although I wouldn’t complain if he did, but that didn’t change the look that said he was coming to save me.

  My whole body tingled like it should after four martinis, only this tingling had only just started. He might not be a superhero but there was something about him that felt like magic.

  I groaned. God, I hoped my friendly giant didn’t bring him over here.

  A pitiful laugh escaped my chest like I’d given it a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card as they moved around the bar and began to head directly for me.

  Even drunk, it seemed I never had any kind of luck in this town.

  “Miss Laurel,” Mick’s genial tone rung next to me.

  I was in trouble.

  Like I was trapped in some sort of myth—definitely a Greek one because they always seem to end tragically—the giant spoke but I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off the model-god who stood silently next to him.

  “Let me introduce you to Eli Downing. He was a… good friend of your grandfather’s.”

  I turned my head slowly as he spoke, knowing the face and the wood-burning eyes I was about to become officially acquainted with.

  “Good to meet you, Laurel.” His voice warmed me again like the heat from a fire, slowly and steadily working its way first through my clothes, then into my body, and finally settling in my bones, making me never want to move away. “I’m so sorry… about your grandfather.”

  My head tipped to the side like the thoughts in my brain were uneven.

  And they were.

  Those were the same words I’d heard from more people than I cared to remember in the past few days, each repetition digging deeper into the hurt of my heart. But when he said them, they weren’t laced with pity, they were laden with regret. Real regret.

  My brow scrunched.

  Why did he sound like he was apologizing to me for my grandfather’s death? Like he was the one responsible?

  For the first time since I’d gotten the news, I felt the first prick of tears in the corners of my eyes. Like a mosquito bite, the sting was all it took for my body to try to fight off the foreign feeling, to swell and itch and eliminate it.

  What if I gave in and it never stopped?

  What if I scratched the itch of sadness and it never eased?

  What if I couldn’t stop scratching my heart until it was open and bleeding and unable to heal?

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, ducking my head and searching for something else to say. “I think… I have to pee.”

  Mostly, I just needed to get away from Mr. Model-Magic who was making my brain even foggier with things like emotions. I didn’t like emotions. That’s why I moved to L.A.

  The Land of Acting. Lacking in Authenticity.

  His voice strummed through my body all the way to the bathroom—which was thankfully about three steps to my left.

  Just like the last time, I didn’t have to pee. I did, however, need to put a stop to the crazy desire that was practically impossible to control at Martini Level Four.

  With another groan, I splashed some cool water on my hot mess. Looking in the mirror, I realized it did about as much for me as a squirt gun used to put out a forest fire. My makeup was streaked, my hair was a frizzy mess, and my clothes looked like I’d just worn them to a spin class.

  I covered my mouth, laughing at myself.

  I might not be able to stop wanting him, but if I looked even half of what the mirror showed, that would be plenty to deter him from wanting me.

  I reached for a paper towel, startled by an old photograph of the town hanging on the wall. It was of Ocean Avenue back in the sixties. My grandmother and grandfather were standing outside Ocean Roasters, the hand-carved wooden sign hanging above them, with their son, my dad, Mark, and their daughter, my Aunt Jackie, in front of them.

  I gave up with a long groan. Maybe it was time to go. All I had to do was go back out there, call Diane and ask her to come pick me up, thank my Friendly Giant for the drink and his concern and Model Magic for his condolences. Easy.

  Too easy, I thought.

  Until it wasn’t

  I stumbled to a stop in the doorway realizing that there was only one male left standing. This wasn’t how drinking was supposed to work; they were supposed to multiply, not divide.

  “Where did—” I broke off because ‘Friendly Giant’ was the only thing tha
t came to mind, the martinis making me blank on his real name.

  “Mick had to go pick up his brother,” Model-Magic replied and my body started to vibrate again. “I’ll take you back to Larry’s.”

  There were several parts of me that urged yes. Fortunately, the hardened part screamed no.

  “Thanks, but my friend is coming for me.” I patted my pocket like I was just waiting for my cell to ring that my ride was here.

  “It’s almost midnight, Laurel; Diane is sleeping.”

  My mouth opened and closed several times. Four martinis made forming words the newest Olympic sport.

  “How do you know?” I demanded, defiantly reaching for my phone.

  Who did this guy think he was?

  When I tipped to the side, one of those warm, strong hands clasped my arm and held me up straight. His grip was like a lightning rod, a metallic center for all the electricity he created in my body to strike and the force of it sent me reeling.

  And when I steadied next to him, the first breath I drew was brewed with the fresh scent of coffee. Even stronger than the mint of the bar, he smelled like fresh ground beans with a hint of lily.

  God, I hated lilies. But I liked the smell of him. And the warmth from his touch.

  I winced, seeing several missed calls from Diane along with a final text that said Mick called to let her know he’d picked me up and that Eli was going to come get me and bring me to Larry’s.

  Wait… this was…

  Like the key to a safe, all the tines clicked into place. The funeral. The friend of my grandfather’s. The coffee and the lilies. This was the Eli I was supposed to meet.

  How had I not realized?

  There were four answers to that question, and they were all the same.

  My head snapped up to confront him and the alcohol hit me like a home run, tearing through the dizziness of first, the nausea of second, and the blackness of third, sending me sliding—or rather sinking—into home that just happened to be his arms.

  Eli

  Swearing hoarsely, I caught Laurel’s compact curves just as she went to tumble to the ground. Mick was going to hear it tomorrow. I didn’t give a shit if Larry’s viewing was today, he shouldn’t have brought her here; he shouldn’t have let her get this drunk.

  Her Friendly Giant.

  I huffed. If Mick was a giant, then Laurel had found the perfect sentimental stone to sling at his heart because the man had completely caved to whatever she asked.

  I should’ve come sooner.

  I didn’t expect the viewing to go on for so long, and I didn’t feel right leaving Diane there alone without Laurel. I reasoned Mick could handle Larry’s granddaughter for a bit, but I was wrong.

  “Thanks, Benny,” I said tightly, adjusting my hold as he put her purse in my open palm.

  What a damn day…

  I’d been caught up at Roasters this morning, subconsciously waiting until the very last moment when I’d have to face the finality of Larry’s loss. Even though I’d been the one to find him in his garage. Blood everywhere. Gun resting in his limp hand. Today was the day I’d had to face his loss and the world at once. And all the reminders of how I should’ve done more.

  Maybe if I had, he wouldn’t be gone.

  I grunted, shifting her soft, sleeping weight against me. This was the second time I held her against me, and it was just as memorable as the first. I recognized her earlier at the funeral home. It had taken a moment, her familiarity obscured by the decade that had passed since any of the photos hung in Roasters were taken.

  Yet, my impression of her hadn’t changed. From the photos to in-person, she was mesmerizing.

  And infuriating.

  A feat for a woman I’d known all of thirty seconds. What the hell was she thinking, hitchhiking into town? Christ… Thank God it was Mick who’d picked her up and texted me to let me know. The thought of her in anyone else’s care made my grip tighten her against me.

  “You got her?” the youngest Covington brother asked, ready to jump over the bar and lend a hand if necessary.

  At that moment she sighed and burrowed her face into my chest. A burn of possessiveness shot through me. Yeah, I had her. The problem was the unexpected notion that I wanted to keep her.

  “Yeah,” I grunted roughly, glancing down at my precious cargo. “Yeah, I do.”

  Mesmerizing.

  Her hair was the color of a burning sunset—a warning sign of the fire that burned inside her. And her eyes? Even though they were closed, I’d drifted so far into their rich ocean blue earlier I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it back to shore.

  She breathed softly against me, so relaxed compared to what she’d been a minute ago. I shouldn’t have, but I let my eyes stray down from her hair, over her freckle-studded cheeks, taking note of her adorably pert nose, and lips that were full and lush now that she wasn’t frowning at me and my body began to harden.

  I didn’t know what hurt more: wondering how long it had been since she’d smiled, or wanting to be the reason she did.

  Focus, Eli.

  I gritted my teeth. I should’ve looked away; she was Larry’s granddaughter—she was still passed out for fuck’s sake.

  But she was fascinating, and I was weak.

  My eyes drifted rebelliously along her pristine pale neck that disappeared enticingly beneath the collar of her shirt.

  Her black suit was wrinkled and covered with a fine film of dust, as though it had been balled up, run over by a bulldozer, and then put back on. But even dishevelment couldn’t detract from how the fabric clung to every curve.

  Maybe it was her clothes or maybe just the look in her eyes, but Laurel Ocean had a presence that felt larger than her size. From the second I met her, I noticed her strength before her stature. I noticed for being so small, she carried so much. Not like the god, Atlas, who held the world, but like an ant who, without myth or magic, carried ten times her weight in loss without batting an eye.

  But holding her now, sedate and serene, I realized just how small she really was—smaller than even the photos had let on. And I’d looked at those photos for a long time… I’d looked at her for a long time trying to understand why she never came back.

  Now, I wondered if it was the same reason she fled the viewing today without a word.

  Because the strongest people would rather break alone in the shadows than risk reflecting any weakness in the light.

  That truth was all too clear to me now. And it was why I told Diane I’d find Laurel and bring her home.

  I might not have been able to help Larry out of those shadows, but Laurel was here and I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight; I owed him that.

  Still she fought me with a fire that bled into her thick, silken hair that draped over my forearm, right up until she passed out, all soft and warm and woman into my arms. My body—especially my cock—really took notice of that. My heart though had me holding her like I could hold her troubles, even just for one night.

  “See you tomorrow,” Benny said with a heaviness in his voice. It was a hard day for the whole damn town, there was no denying that.

  Tearing my eyes from my warm cargo, I grunted goodnight and carried my passed-out princess over the threshold and out to my truck.

  “Where… am I?”

  My eyes flicked to the passenger seat as Laurel shifted, dragging her gaze from the black outside the window over to me.

  “W-Who are you?” Her blue gaze was a tempest. The perfect storm: beautiful and tragic.

  I slowed, turning onto the gravel drive that led off the cliffside highway down to Larry’s cabin that sat both in the mountains and by the sea, looking out over the rocky cliffs down to the Pacific.

  “We’re almost home,” I answered quietly, belatedly realizing this wasn’t actually her home.

  “Don’t have a home.” Her head slumped back to look out into the night.

  “You do now,” I informed her, turning on my high beams because the brush had grown thick ove
r the drive even in just a week.

  “Don’t want it,” she argued weakly.

  Intoxicated and intractable.

  I bit my tongue, wanting to remind her that it had been in their family for centuries—just like the coffee shop. Today, it was worth millions even though it was small.

  She needed to want it.

  I needed to make her want it.

  “Well, you’re going to want it for tonight so you have some place to sleep,” I said, throwing my truck in park right next to Larry’s old Nissan and came around to the passenger side.

  My whole body jolted to a stop when I opened the door to see how her very business-like black blazer was caught tight up under her chest, popping two of the buttons open on her white blouse, and pushing the almost glowing white swells of her tits up.

  Fuck.

  Again, I found myself ogling the questionably-conscious granddaughter of the man who’d been like a father to me. My gut clenched as another wave of guilt and grief came over me.

  Larry Ocean had been the closest thing I had to family.

  He’d given me a home when I had none, taught me how to work at the coffee shop and then how to run it until I’d made enough of my own money to start my construction business. He gave me a place, a purpose… he taught me what it meant to be a part of this community: to help others. Birth, race, sex, background, education… none of it mattered to Larry because it didn’t matter to the important things in life—like how to treat people with kindness and respect, to love your neighbor when they need it, and let them love you when you did.

  There was a reason the line into the funeral home stretched for miles earlier: when a good man dies, the whole world felt his loss.

  Like a natural disaster, only the permanent scars left from the destruction were all held internally by everyone who knew him.