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

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Staring down at the pictures stacked on the counter, I interrupted her gently, “Let’s not jump to any conclusions right now. She only just got here. She needs time.”

  I traced my finger over the top one. It was the photo I always stared at when it hung on the wall on the other side of the room. It was of Larry and Mark and Laurel—three generations—taken just a few months before Laurel’s parents, Mark and Fiona, were killed in a boating accident. It was her eyes—their Ocean blue—wide and welcoming. But no more. Looking into that gaze a moment ago, all I saw were the walls built up around her heart, high and strong out of necessity. But I wasn’t sure if those walls were meant to keep others out or hold her sadness in, though I had a feeling it was both.

  “She doesn’t want to be here, Eli. You heard her,” Diane insisted with a voice that wavered with just as much pain as the rest of us felt. “She’s going to hide away until you are done here and then sell the place and not look back. Poor girl is hurting, and I can’t say I blame her, I just wish circumstances were different.”

  Gritting my teeth together, I turned to face the small group. “She’s not going to hide away. She’s going to be here, every day, watching this place come back to life.”

  “Why? She won’t want to do that.”

  Maybe… maybe if I could get her here in the shop, around the people who loved her grandfather, maybe then she’d finally let herself heal. If I could just make her realize that this didn’t have to be another loss for her, that she could stay here and gain a future with the town that thought of her like family.

  Fuck, it was a tall task. But I had to try.

  For him.

  For her.

  I had to try.

  As though calling me out on my partial truth, the image of her curled into my chest, too drunk to filter the emotions bleeding from her heart when she begged to not lose anything else to this place, whispered that my mission—my need—to get her to stay had some to do with her grandfather, but more to do with the beautiful, broken woman who was scared to come home.

  More to do with wanting to be the man who made her feel safe to stay.

  And more to do with selfishly not wanting to let her go.

  And I didn’t give a shit how stubborn or determined she was, I would show Laurel that this place was worth loving.

  “She will come if she thinks it will get her closer to leaving. And when she’s here, somehow, I’ll figure out a way to show her this is where she belongs. With us.”

  With me.

  The thought came unbidden and I shook it off like it was an involuntary twitch that came from my heart but shouldn’t suggest anything serious.

  Roasters was her home. Carmel was her family. Now more than ever.

  I wasn’t going to let her lose her legacy and the love that came with it, no matter what it took.

  Laurel

  I bolted upright on the couch as a loud pop jarred me from where I’d fallen asleep in the middle of catching up on work emails on my iPad. The tablet skidded and thumped onto the floor, unharmed, at my sudden movement.

  Something was definitely leaking.

  Tossing it back onto the worn cushions, I darted for the kitchen where the loud pop and now swishing sounds were coming from. The noise grew louder as I approached though I didn’t see anything immediately.

  As soon as I rounded the island, my stomach did a somersault when I saw water running down the seam of the cabinet below the sink, the door vibrating against the pressure. I thought it sounded funny earlier when I’d filled my glass of water from the tap, but figured it was just old pipes.

  It was just old pipes… old pipes ready to burst.

  Without thinking, I bent down and opened the cupboard, only to be greeted with a spray of water right to my face.

  Squealing, I stumbled back, my arm coming up to shield my face just as I slipped on the water already coating the tiled floor and falling directly on my ass, the pooled liquid wasting no time in soaking through my lounge shorts.

  “Are you kidding me?” I yelled up at the ceiling, like God, or more likely, my grandfather was listening.

  It wasn’t bad enough I had a coffee shop which was neck-deep in water damage and overall disarray, but now the house I was staying in—the house I’d also inherited and had to sell—just blew a pipe.

  With a strangled cry, I grabbed ahold of the counter to help myself stand, wincing at how sore—and wet—my ass was. Pushing the wet strands of hair that clung to my forehead and face back, I took one more good look at the water pouring out onto the floor before the thought hit me that I had no idea what to do.

  One might think the thought would have struck sooner—maybe when the spray smashed into my face or water sent me crashing onto my ass, but no. I could apply fashion tape with surgical precision to menswear that almost fit right, but how to fix a pipe that was spraying water all over the kitchen. Nope. Not a clue.

  Running back to the living room, I grabbed my phone and pulled up Diane’s number. Just as quickly as I tapped on her name, I ended the call. What was I thinking? Diane wouldn’t know how to fix a pipe either—she ran an art studio for Pete’s sake.

  Shit.

  I had only one other number in my phone for someone in this town. Someone who’d insisted I put it in my contacts the morning of the funeral—right after he’d handed me ibuprofen to take for my headache.

  And if I thought realizing my house was flooding, and I didn’t know how to stop it was bad. Realizing that the only person who could help me right now was the very man I was trying to avoid was even worse.

  I wished I had George, the plumber’s, number. I wished I had time to get his number. I wished I had time to get anyone else’s help except for the number I was dialing.

  “Hello?” Like I’d just stepped in front of a fire, his voice sent a spray of warmth up my spine.

  “Eli?” I croaked. “It’s Laurel. I-I have a problem.”

  Understatement of the month. I had lots of problems. And somehow, I seemed to be reaching to him for each and every one of them.

  “What?” His tone immediately deepened into something sharp with concern. “What’s wrong? Where are you? Are you okay?”

  I groaned. “I’m fine. The house is not. I… I got a glass of water earlier and the next thing I know, there was this loud pop and a waterfall landed in the kitchen,” I rambled as my hand waved in all directions like he could see what I was motioning to. “There was water coming out from below the sink, so I opened it and now there’s water everywhere and it’s not stopping, and I don’t know what to do and—”

  “Laurel,” he cut me off decisively. “Breathe. Do you know how to turn the water off in the house?”

  “No.” I walked back toward the kitchen and saw the water was now running into the dining room and pooling around the chairs. “Oh my God… it’s everywhere.”

  “Laurel, listen to me.” His voice was steady like he had all the answers and knew exactly what to do and even with, what looked to me like flooding, it calmed me. “I want you to go into the basement and follow my instructions, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I replied thickly, nodding to no one, and hopped through the puddles that scattered the path to the garage and the basement door.

  Over the next few minutes, I tried not to freak out in the small, dark cellar while I followed Eli’s instructions, directing me toward the main water valve for the house and told me how to shut it off. I let out a long exhale when I heard the flow of water come to a stop.

  I could have hung up—he could have hung up. But he didn’t. He stayed on the phone while I went back inside and confirmed the spray had come to a halt. I didn’t say much as he calmly told me to just start cleaning up the water, and it felt like barely a minute later when he came bursting through the door.

  “You’re here.” I stood immediately, looking back and forth between him and the mess on the floor.

  “You needed me,” he replied simply. The way his eyes locked on me made me feel a
s though the words were anything but simple. “Are you okay?”

  He glanced over my sprayed and soaked form.

  “Y-yeah. I’m fine,” I said a little too unsteadily for my liking. His shoulders sagged with relief and he finally took a look at the damage. “Just irritated.”

  My head ducked and I wrung out the towel I’d used to soak up some of the water into a bucket.

  He stepped around me, his arm brushing mine for barely a second, sending sparks down my body. I reached for the counter to steady myself. I may not know how to fix a pipe, but I knew that water and electricity don’t mix and right now, I was wet and he was sparking.

  “Larry has a tool bag out in the garage,” he said with a strained voice as he craned his neck under the sink. “I’m going to grab it and then, I can get this tightened up for you.”

  He disappeared and then returned a minute later with the tools and some more towels to mop up the water.

  “Put these under you,” I said, taking one of the towels and laying it on the floor for him.

  He cocked an eyebrow at me, clearly not as concerned about getting his jeans wet as I was, before crouching down with a muffled ‘thanks.’

  The tool bag clunked when I set it on the counter and pried it open.

  “Can you hand me the wrench on top?” His voice echoed in the space underneath the sink.

  I was about to ask how he knew the one on top was the right one when I realized that it was the only decent-looking, if not only, wrench in the bag.

  When I turned to hand it to him, my body froze at the sight. The way his shirt pulled and bunched over the hard planes of his stomach, the way his arm muscles bulged against the fabric as he reached for the pipe underneath the sink… the twenty-four hours I’d gone without seeing him made my attraction hit harder, not softer as I’d been hoping.

  He’d come when I called, all hot and heroic, and I wondered if it would’ve been safer to let the house be submerged.

  “Laurel?”

  My gaze dropped, my cheeks warming, as I handed him the wrench and our fingers connected like frayed wires in a puddle of water, the electrical shock instantaneous and intense.

  I jerked my hand away, and thankfully, he caught the unsteady tool before it dropped.

  “You alright?” he asked again. I swore I could see the embers in his eyes flickering in the shadows of the cupboard like he was some sort of supernatural creature; he would have to be for him to think he could save me.

  “Yes,” I assured him firmly before grabbing my towel and bucket and moving to clean up the water that had made its way into the dining room. “So, you’re a contractor and a plumber?” I tried to make light of a moment that only grew heavier.

  His laugh echoed from the cabinet. “Not a plumber, just know how to do the simple things like fix a leaky pipe and jerry-rig the water heater to make sure hot water comes out.”

  My lips turned up in a smile. “Did my grandfather teach you that?”

  “No.” His voice strained and I gulped, imagining all those muscles flexing tight as he closed off the leak. “No dad around to do it when I was young, and my mom was… sick a lot. Couldn’t afford the real thing, so I learned the good old-fashioned way. Along with some carpentry, automotive, and even electrical. And cooking. Although I’m not sure which of those was more dangerous to the house—attempting to rewire circuits or trying to cook food.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly even though upset was the farthest from how he sounded.

  “Don’t be. Just meant I learned early on that most things in life, no matter how broken, blown, or busted, are still worth fixing… no matter how much damage they seemed to have caused.”

  My eyes locked on my hand frozen on the damp towel soaking up water. Was he talking about me? I felt the undercurrent of longing, of wanting to lay his words over me like a balm, but it was swiftly quelled with the lash of anger that roared defensively through my veins.

  Just because he could fix a pipe didn’t mean he could fix me—or the curse of loss that hung over my head.

  “Larry taught me other important things,” he continued wryly. “Like the art of roasting the perfect bean.” He grunted. “And how sometimes a good cup of coffee has nothing to do with the brew and everything” —he groaned—“to do with the conversation and compassion it comes with.”

  I put a fist to my mouth, a cry lodged in my throat.

  “Coffee and community,” he went on, huffing as the wrench clanked against the metal pipes. “That’s what Roasters is all about, right?”

  It took every ounce of strength to swallow down the pain and strangle out a reply. “Yeah.”

  There are two kinds of hurt. There was the kind you could see coming and the kind you could never imagine happening. If I could see it coming, it wouldn’t be so bad… to love… to live. But I couldn’t. I didn’t make bad choices. I didn’t love people I knew would hurt me. I loved people who were good people, who promised to never leave. Who promised to always be there for me. It wasn’t my fault for trusting and loving them, and it wasn’t their fault they were gone.

  And if it was no one’s fault, then there was no explanation. There was nothing I could do to stop it from happening again except never let my heart out of my sight. So, that was what I chose to do.

  No. Not chose.

  That was what I did.

  A few minutes later, with only the clanking of Eli working under the sink, I’d mopped up most of the water, wringing out the excess, and depositing the damp, used towels into the laundry room off of the garage.

  Back in the kitchen, the cupboard beneath the sink was closed, the tool bag had disappeared and it would have looked like nothing had happened even though twenty minutes ago, Niagara Falls had been gushing from that very spot.

  “Moment of truth,” he grunted.

  I jumped slightly at his rasped voice from behind me, having gone into the cellar to turn the water valve back on. I felt the barest touch of his hand on my arm as he shifted around me to reach for the sink.

  My breath caught.

  Not because I was afraid of another flood, but because he was still touching me—and I’d made no move to remedy it.

  A gentle stream flowed from the sink a moment later.

  My shoulders sagged with relief, and I offered him a weak but grateful smile. “Thank you.”

  “Of course.” His eyes captured mine. “I’m always here to help.”

  And just like that, guilt washed over me. One more problem Eli had to fix. One more thing I owed to him. It was the worst feeling—to feel like I was beholden to him and this town, to my family’s legacy when I had nothing left to give it.

  Like trying to draw water from a stone, or in this case, pull a solid foundation out of an ocean; it just wasn’t possible.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he added as though he could hear my thoughts spilling out and was just as determined to put a wrench in them.

  “Well… I didn’t know what to do… I really appreciate it. I guess I will see you this week,” I offered as a goodbye, and shied back toward the living room.

  We may have cleaned up the water, but the mess of emotions it caused were something I didn’t want to risk revealing in his presence.

  “Laurel.” I jumped when I heard my name come from behind me. “It’s not your fault,” he continued gruffly. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  I turned to face him and my breath caught, realizing how close he stood. I swallowed over the lump of desire that inflated like a birthday balloon in my throat.

  Of course, it wasn’t my fault. I knew that, but I didn’t feel it. Instead, it seemed like everything was just crumbling around me. Literally.

  “Pipes are old. Just like the ones at Roasters,” he insisted, and I could only nod.

  I wanted to cry, and it was the most ridiculous feeling. Days of dealing with death, getting Diane’s call, the viewing, a funeral, a grieving community, and not a single damn tear. But now, a leaky pipe was what wo
uld do me in?

  Why now? Why this?

  “I know, thank you.” I shouldn’t have spoken because the impending tears watered my words. “I’m fine. Really. It just scared me. I’m fine.”

  “Christ.” I heard him swear before I felt myself tugged hard into his solid chest.

  I should protest. I hardly knew him. Unfortunately, from what I did know, resting against him was the only place that felt safe enough to process some of the pain, knowing he’d protect me. “It’s not your fault, Laurel.”

  He repeated the words over and over again with a gravity that made the sentiment more than just about the stupid pipe. Meanwhile, I stood still, like a petrified animal in his warm embrace.

  I didn’t hug him back. I didn’t even sob. All I could do was let a few streams of tears leak out to relieve some of the pressure building up inside me.

  I shouldn’t be leaning on him for this—for comfort. I knew better. Leaning on someone only guaranteed a fall when they disappeared from your life.

  But I couldn’t stop myself.

  He was so warm and solid. The thump of his heartbeat underneath my cheek so determined and strong. For a second, I let myself believe there was nothing that could take this man away from me—as though he were mine or something crazy like that.

  It was probably only a few minutes later, even though it felt longer, before I dragged in a clogged breath and moved gingerly from his embrace. I didn’t want to leave it. It felt like so many of the other things about this place—familiar, yet foreign.

  “I’m sorr—” My apology fizzled and died on my lips when the hands that held me reached up to cup my face, his fingers pushing the damp hair stuck to my cheeks back behind my ears before his thumbs rubbed reverently over the wet skin, like he was drying off rain from one of the seven wonders of the world.

  And that world—the one that kept beating me down—stopped.

  It stopped because he made it. Because he wouldn’t let it touch me—hurt me anymore.

  And because he wanted me.

  I watched his eyes, the fighting flames inside them shifting between burning restraint and molten lust.