I looked between them and cleared my throat, finishing hoarsely, “Do what you can.”
Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. They were famous words here in Carmel. Famous words Larry engrained into everyone.
He said them so much Mick burned the saying into a slab of stained maple to hang above the espresso machine. A simple reminder. A simple promise.
I sighed, resting my hands on my hips and letting my head drop forward. Mick clapped me on the shoulder a second later.
“I know you’ve got a plan,” he told me.
“Oh yeah?” I laughed. “And how do you know that?”
“Because, you’re Eli Downing.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “You’re just like him. You never give up on people who need you.”
“Thanks.”
“And it’s goin’ to work,” he assured me with another pat.
“You can’t know that,” I charged.
“Oh, I can.” He nodded confidently. “The way you look at her says you won’t stop until it does.”
With one more pat, he followed his brother inside and closed the door behind him.
Subtle.
Well, I knew where I wasn’t wanted. I sure as hell hoped where I was going was where I was needed.
Mick was right about one thing though. I did have a plan.
I pulled out my cell and called in a lifeline.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ash. You at the restaurant?”
His restaurant was due to open next weekend, so it was a safe bet he was there now.
“Yeah. Putting everything to the test. What’s up?” he asked and I heard pans clanking in the background.
“I need a favor.” I cleared my throat. “I know it’s not Sunday, but I need you to make me some spaghetti and meatballs with Larry’s marinara.”
His famous Sunday dinner.
There was a pause. “The magic marinara?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. “Damn. Okay. Give me two hours.”
“You sure?” I winced, pinching my brow.
“Eli, if you’re asking for that meal, I know you’re in trouble,” he replied. “Don’t worry. There’s nothing this sauce hasn’t been able to fix.” I heard the grin in his voice.
“Thanks.” I sighed and hung up.
A lot of broken people had found solace at Larry’s Sunday dinners. Anyone who needed a meal, an ear to listen, or a shoulder to lean on was welcome—a tradition Ash was going to carry on at his restaurant. A tradition I hoped Laurel wasn’t immune to.
I squinted up to the sky and murmured, “I’m doing what I can.” The sun peeked out from behind a cloud as though shining its approval.
Sometimes, the only thing to do was not give up.
“I hope it’s enough.”
A few hours later, freshly showered, shaved, and bearing the greatest peace offering of all time—hot, Italian food—I pulled down the drive to Larry’s house just as the sun was setting.
Even with all the trimming I’d done, the storms passing through left a trail of severed branches that crunched and cracked with warning as I approached.
I dragged in a steadying breath, the scent of homemade marinara sauce from the brown paper bag invaded my nostrils and filled my truck; it was one of those aromas that would linger in here for a couple days.
I debated calling before I showed up. But where else would she be? Plus, I doubted she would answer. And as far as trying the house phone… well, Larry had disconnected that line a long time ago, grumpily declaring he was only ever one of two places, if someone wanted to talk to him, they would know where to find him.
Still, relief settled into my bones, warm and hopeful, when I saw his truck parked out front. She was here.
Shutting off my truck, I grabbed the bag that weighed far too much to contain food fit for only two people and, putting on my best expression of sincere yet determined remorse, I made for the front door.
Two knocks, no answer. I looked around, surprised I wasn’t being chased off the property by a mallet-wielding redhead, and tried again.
Nothing.
Worry came barreling in when she didn’t answer the second time.
“Laurel?” I yelled, knocking once more. “It’s Eli.”
Still silence.
Shit.
With a growl, I twisted the doorknob, knowing a locked door wasn’t something that existed in Larry Ocean’s world.
“Laurel?” I yelled as I stepped inside, my heart beginning a heavy thud.
A quick scan of the room showed the lights in the kitchen and living room were on. Walking into the living room, I caught a faint whiff of smoke from the old-fashioned, iron fireplace but the fire had been out for a little while and the latched door was closed. Sitting on the pile of blankets on the couch was an old, tattered copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe perched on top of a stack of crossword puzzle books.
“Laurel, are you in here?” I called again. “It’s Eli. I came to apologize, and I brought dinner.”
I went to reach for my phone but stopped when I caught sight of hers lying on the kitchen counter. So much for that.
My mind checked off the possibilities. The truck was still here, so she was still here. But with the house empty…
Fuck.
I whipped back toward the door. There was only one place left for her to be.
Out by the cliffs.
Adrenaline pumped like lightning through my veins imagining her walking near them in the dark.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Setting the bag on the dining table, curses echoing my footsteps, I stalked toward the door. Cold metallic fear coated my hand as I grabbed the doorknob and swung it open.
“Christ.” I skidded to a halt.
My chest expelled the word along with the air collected inside it, prepared to yell Laurel’s name, when I saw her standing right in front of me. With a low growl, I dug my hands into my hips and accused hoarsely, “You scared the shit out of me.”
My eyes did a quick scan over her to make sure she was, in fact, real and alive and okay.
Her vibrant hair was piled high on top of her head, wild from the wind. She’d changed from earlier into a loose white tee, navy shorts, sneakers, and a less-than-relieved glare to see me.
She crossed her arms over her chest and the way it pushed her tits up, her hard nipples poking against the fabric of her shirt.
Fuck. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
My dick immediately shot to attention, straining against the front of my jeans. I’d wanted her too badly for too long. And since my punishment for wanting Larry’s granddaughter was self-inflicted abstinence, I was ready to explode with just the slightest provocation.
Clenching my teeth, my vision faltered in order to reel my focus back to the reason I was here.
“You shouldn’t be out there alone. In the dark,” I bit out.
“And you shouldn’t be here.” She notched her chin up to better pin me with her stare. “I could have you arrested for trespassing.”
Her blue irises were no longer stormy. The clouds had cleared to reveal a deep, melancholic hue that hugged darker around the edges.
My arms dropped to my sides as I nodded. “But you won’t.”
I stepped back so I wasn’t completely filling the doorway.
She arched one eyebrow, a defiant flame slicing across her forehead, and asked as she slipped by me. “How are you so sure?”
“Because lawsuits take longer than repairs,” I answered wryly.
Her irritated gaze snapped back over her shoulder to me. They broke their hold for a second to scan over me, and I wished I hadn’t caught the trace of desire that shot straight to my groin.
Clearing my throat, I ignored the angry ache, watching her turn away, and pressed on, “I brought dinner and an apology.”
“I’m not—” Her steps halted at the edge of the kitchen and she whipped around to face me. “What did you bring?”
�
��Pasta and meatballs,” I answered, adding on quietly at the end, “With your grandfather’s sauce.”
Her mouth parted slightly and I fought not to groan as lust punched me in the gut.
The stain in her cheeks crept lower, down over the white silk of her neck before it disappeared beneath her shirt—a shirt that was almost see-through under the lights. I forced my attention to her face, ignoring the need to know if her blush extended to the tips of her tits and if her nipples were just as rosy.
The air hung suspended on the tipping point. After the memory that ripped her away from me earlier, my proclaimed peace offering was a risk—a risk of more memories. But it was one I had to take.
“It smells so good,” she said softly, and my eyes widened, wondering if I’d succeeded.
She inhaled deeply, her breasts pushing against her shirt. She breathed in like it was more than air her lungs needed. She breathed like the molecules of memories in the nostalgic aroma could feed her soul.
“I haven’t had this meal in a long time.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I don’t know if it will be the same.”
Sometimes, things didn’t have to be the same for them to be just as good, I wanted to tell her. Instead, I nodded and simply tried to hide my relief.
At least, she wasn’t kicking me out.
Not yet.
It was a small progress but I would take it.
“I hope you’re hungry because I’m pretty sure there’s enough food in there for six.” I kept my tone light, not wanting to push any more than I already had.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I can definitely eat three people’s worth.”
She returned my smile and fuck if that brilliant sight wasn’t enough to make a man cling to even the smallest thread of hope.
It only took a few minutes to get plates and silverware set since we were both equally familiar with the kitchen. The ungodly amount of spaghetti and meatballs Ash had cooked up was split into two monstrously even piles between us.
And then I waited.
I watched as she rolled up the first forkful, blowing off some of the steam before her eyes slipped to mine.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Simple things. Small steps. Do what you can.
“Bon appétit,” I said roughly and held my breath.
The moan that slipped effortlessly from her lips as she took her first bite pushed me right to the edge of coming inside my pants. It was unexpected and erotic, and everything made to drive a man insane.
“This sauce is… just like his,” she murmured in awe, digging in for another huge bite.
Larry’s red sauce was famous around these parts—almost as famous as his coffee. I knew, because I’d seen it made. The labor of love took a few hours, the tomato base cooked slowly on the stove. Basil, parsley, and a dash of sugar all soaking together until it thickened up. The spices mixed with the sweetness and the acidity of the tomatoes melted into heaven on your tongue.
Magic Marinara.
We ate for another few moments in reverential, hungry silence. And as she greedily devoured her plate, I knew I’d made the right call coming here with this.
One last torturous moan shifted into a sigh as the pink tip of her tongue slipped out and slid lazily up her fork.
I choked and shifted my chair, unable to stop myself from imagining the caress on my cock causing it to revolt against my pants.
“He gave Ash the recipe when Ash decided he wanted to open the restaurant,” I offered as an explanation… as anything to take my mind off of her.
“I didn’t think it would be the same.”
“It’s pretty damn close,” I agreed. “But I think it’s the effort, not the ingredients, that make it special.”
Her face shadowed.
“I’m sorry about earlier, Laurel,” I said gruffly, setting my fork on my plate. “I’m sorry about the coffee. I didn’t mean to make you upset and I didn’t mean to overstep. I do just… want to help.”
Even now, the ragged pain on her face when she stared at me from the truck was like a knife through my heart.
She stared at her empty plate, as though the marinara stains could predict her future.
“You shouldn’t have to apologize. I overreacted. It’s just… hard… being back here. It’s hard remembering…” With a hard swallow, her head tipped to the side.
It wasn’t everything. It wasn’t every hurt or pain she carried. But, for a moment, it was as though she’d pulled off her fighting gloves and exposed the raw, open wounds on her hands—hands that had tried and failed to hold on to so many people who were taken from her.
And I sat in awe of her strength.
Beautiful. Broken. Beholden.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I murmured.
Twin blue drops, twenty-thousand-leagues of loss deep looked to me. “How can I? I’m just trying to keep my head above water.” She shivered, recollecting herself and added, “Even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to say.”
My shoulders dropped. I understood.
I understood how there were no words to drain a sea of grief.
“It’s going to take time, but you won’t swim the ocean like this forever,” I filled in when it looked like she couldn’t continue. “This is the kind of thing that takes more than a few days… a few weeks… a month to process.”
“To move on?” she asked bitterly with a quick shake of her head as though such a thing weren’t possible.
I gripped the edge of the chair.
I wanted nothing more than to hold her, to pull her back into my arms and push the stray strands of red from her face and whisper in her ear that everything was going to be okay. But, like someone who’d been starved of food for too long, whose stomach would immediately reject a feast, consoling her when she hadn’t allowed herself that comfort in so long would only drive her away.
“You’re going to be okay, Laurel,” I told her quietly, adding, “You’re a strong bean.”
“What?” she gaped.
“A strong bean,” I repeated.
“He said that to me.” She pulled her arms across her as her expression strained cautiously. “The first time I had coffee. He was making some after dinner for himself; he always did before we would sit and do crossword puzzles together. I was maybe about seven or eight, and I asked if I could have a cup.” A whisper of a smile crossed her face. “He hesitated and then begrudgingly agreed.”
I nodded, vividly imagining the scene.
“I remember how wide my eyes went—wider than the mug he sat in front of me—and I had a grin the size of Texas on my face. I took a huge breath, but only because that’s what I’d seen him do so many times.” Her eyes glazed over. “I think I’d already decided that I loved it before the first taste hit my tongue.”
“And did you?” I chuckled. Coffee was a hard flavor for a kid to like.
“I did…” Her head tipped. “Well, I told him I did, and it was the truth. But I don’t think it had anything to do with the taste.”
My chest tightened with understanding. “Did he believe you?”
“He laughed just a little and took the mug away,” she replied, staring out in a daze. “And then he told me I was a strong bean.”
I nodded, repeating the advice I’d heard so many times. “He used to say people were like coffee beans. Different flavors. Different origins. Dark. Blonde. Italian. Colombian. But none of that mattered when you put the bean in some hot water. Whatever was on the inside would come out stronger in the end.” I stood and reached for her plate, meeting her gaze. “I know it’s hot water coming back here. Being at Roasters. Remembering Larry. It’s fucking scalding,” I went on, roughly. “But you’re a strong bean.”
We stayed there, eyes locked for a moment as my statement settled.
She wanted to disagree—to argue. Her body was tight. Her brow furrowed. The blue of her irises unsettled. And a few days ago, she probably would have. But not tonight. Because slowly, surely, I wa
s proving to her it was safe to let those walls come down.
What was inside Laurel—beyond the frustration, beyond the pushback, beyond the pent-up grief—was deep-seated loyalty and endless love.
And I wasn’t going to give up until she realized she was strong enough to let her feel it once more.
“Why did you come here?” she asked a few seconds later as I carried our plates to the sink.
I looked over my shoulder. “I came to apolo—”
“No, I mean to Carmel Cove.”
“Oh.” I turned the sink on and began to scrub the dishes clean. “That was as far as the trucker who picked me up was going,” I told her, laughing to myself. “He was delivering coffee beans to Roasters.”
I remembered that day like it was yesterday. Soda and Red Bull cans littered the truck’s cab that had picked me up outside of San Diego and brought me all the way up here.
“You hitchhiked here?” She was next to me, reaching to take the first plate from my grasp, towel in hand.
I nodded. “Almost never stepped foot inside Roasters, too. But the driver threw out his back the night before so he asked if I could help him unload the pounds upon pounds of green coffee beans into the storage room.” Handing her the second plate, I flipped off the water and turned to face her, resting my hip against the edge of the sink. “That’s how I learned that Larry Ocean doesn’t lock anything.”
She glanced up and caught my wry grin.
Her movements slowed. “He always said whatever he had—”
“—belonged to the town,” I finished with her and our eyes locked. “Because sometimes people who need help are the ones who don’t know how to ask for it… or willingly accept it.”
“Wherever you get in life, Mr. Dowling, you don’t get there alone,” he’d said firmly, like he’d was a teacher who wanted to retire years ago but loved what he did too much to let it go. “While I’d prefer to choose to help someone. Sometimes, that someone doesn’t have the luxury of being able to ask. So, I don’t lock anythin’ around here. Never have, never will. If someone needs somethin’ of mine bad enough to take it without askin’, then I know they sure must need it more than me.”
She inhaled sharply, taking my meaning.
Beholden: A Small-Town Standalone Romance (Carmel Cove Book 1) Page 17
