by Gina Ardito
The adult Sam Dillon had kept his thick dark hair that begged to be tousled, broad shoulders that tapered to six-pack abs, and the sexy swagger of a man sure that he could have any woman in town. Except me.
His ursine gaze raked over my pink sundress, then down to my cotton ankle socks and beat-up sneakers. “Interesting workout attire.”
I quirked my lips. “For your information, I’m on my way to work.”
“In that outfit?”
“Makes for a quick getaway after I swipe a candy bar from here.” The retort zinged out before I could stop it.
Sam snorted and slowly shook his head. “That smart mouth of yours is going to get you into big trouble one day, Paige.”
Yes, Daddy. I managed to clamp my lips around that riposte so it stayed inside my smart mouth.
Jerking his fingers at me, pistol-like, he asked, “Seriously. What’s with the dress and sneakers getup? Is there a marathon for urban professionals I don’t know about?”
I patted the computer case slung over my shoulder. “I decided to walk to the office and didn’t want to ruin my work shoes.” No way I intended to tell him about the Thirty Days to a New You plan from Dara’s show. Sam already suspected I was an idiot. Too much conversation on my part would only confirm I was an idiot.
“Walking, huh? What happened? Your car break down?”
“No, it’s such a nice day, I just…felt like walking.”
He cocked a dark, feathery eyebrow. “In this weather? You know there’s a storm blowing in, don’t you?”
Ha! He thought he’d clinched my idiot title. Not quite, pal. I gestured to my umbrella. “Hell-o? Why do you think I stopped here?”
“Uh-huh.” His gaze scanned the shelf of pain relievers and cold remedies in the opposite aisle. “You need a ride?”
“With you?”
His glower snapped back to me, darker now, and his honey brown eyes turned hard as topaz. “That’s right, I forgot. The perfect Princess Paige can’t be seen fraternizing with the local yokels. Someone might start to think you were one of us.”
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe beneath the man’s outrage. I’d been joking. But Sam obviously didn’t see the humor. Questions whipped through my brain with the force of a tornado. Was that really what he thought about me? That I considered myself better than the people I’d grown up with? Better than my own sister?
The sudden static squall of his radio cut the tension with the subtlety of a chainsaw at a funeral.
“Sam,” the dispatcher squawked. “Check in, please?”
Turning away from me, he unclipped the mike from his hip. “Yeah, Em. What’s up?” He never looked back, just strode away, leaving me to ponder his accusations.
Long after he’d left the store, I stood at the end of the aisle, the dopey umbrella dangling from my hand.
Chapter 2
Nia
Sam must have been around the corner when Emily contacted him. I’d barely managed to duck into the car, turn on the engine, and flip the wipers a few times when he appeared from the back of the restaurant.
He pulled up alongside and signaled me to roll down the window. When I complied, he leaned sideways toward me. “Hey, Nia,” he shouted over the heavily falling rain. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I can’t believe, today of all days…” I let the statement go unfinished. What could I possibly say? It wasn’t like any day was a good day for a hit and run.
“As long as you’re okay. The car’s just metal and leather. Remember that. Nothing there that can’t be fixed. You, on the other hand, are irreplaceable.”
For the first time all day, I smiled. Who would have thought the guy who tormented Paige all through junior high and high school could grow up to be so sweet? And hunky. “Thanks, Sam.”
Waving off my gratitude, he jerked his head at the hood of my car. “Is she drivable?”
I assured him she was.
“Drive around to the overhang near the main entrance,” he directed. “Colin won’t open the restaurant for another two hours. And at least we’ll be out of the rain while we handle the paperwork.”
“Got it.” I shifted into drive and followed Sam under the blue-and-white-striped awning attached to the front of The Gull and Oar.
With both cars lined up beneath the shelter, we stepped outside to survey the damage together. Sam and I had very different reactions.
He blew out one long exhale through pursed lips. “Well, this isn’t too bad.”
I winced and sucked in a sharp breath. No? My poor Passat would definitely need major cosmetic surgery. Aside from the dent in my bumper and cracked taillight, on closer inspection, I also noticed the trunk no longer aligned perfectly with the back end of the car.
A pad and pen in hand, Sam fired off questions at me. Where exactly was I when this happened? Was the light red? Did anybody stop to help or leave contact information as a witness? What did I remember about the Jeep? Color? Model? How many passengers were in it? Did I get a plate number? Even a partial?
Once we’d completed the paperwork, he told me to stop by the station later for a copy of the accident report. Then I could contact my insurance company and start the ball rolling on repairs. “Don’t worry, Nia. Brice will take good care of you,” Sam said, referring to our local auto body pro. “Drive safe now.” With that, he climbed into his patrol car.
Now a full forty-five minutes late for work, I figured I’d more than fulfilled the requirements of Paige’s thirty day challenge for today, and opted to head back onto Main Street to get to Nature’s Bounty as quickly as possible.
At last, I pulled into my parking space behind the row of stores that sandwiched my gift shop. High-tailing it out of the car, I snagged the strap of my purse on the seatbelt clip. The hiss of stitches tearing on the soft leather handle only added sharp bitterness to my anxiety, like acetone on a ripped cuticle. I smothered an unpleasant wish aimed at Paige and wrangled my purse out of the seatbelt’s greedy clutches.
Dodging sheets of rain, I jogged to the back door with the store’s keys in my outstretched hand.
Once I stepped inside, I gasped. The air conditioning, set on a timer to turn on every morning at eight a.m., sliced cold air into my damp skin. I hugged myself against the shivers as I headed for the front door. While warmth slowly seeped into my body, I unlocked the main entrance, flipped the sign from “Closed” to “Open,” and turned on the lights. A rainbow of colors greeted me. Although Nature’s Bounty sold the usual souvenirs prevalent in a beachside town—seashells, sand dollars, towels, key chains and bottle openers—what made my little shop different from the others in Snug Harbor was my hand-blown glass. Shelves with artfully displayed Christmas ornaments, jewelry, wine goblets, hurricane lamps, photo frames—all created in my workshop at home—lined the walls to dazzle the eyes of prospective buyers.
I barely stowed my purse under the counter and tied my sales apron around my waist when the bells tinkled as the front door opened. Without looking up from the counter, I greeted the first customer of the day. “Welcome to Nature’s Bounty. May I help you with something?”
“I hope so.”
A smooth baritone voice wrapped around me like a velvet cape on a snowy afternoon. I glanced up. Thank God I was empty-handed, with a stool behind me to support my weakening knees. Because the man who spoke had just stepped out of every dream and fantasy I’d entertained since I was thirteen years old. Glossy, tight curls—the color of a latte—swept off an angular face with a high forehead and slightly stubbled chin. Shoulders wide as the ocean fairly burst from a baby blue button-down shirt, open at the neck with the long sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Dark eyes flashed beneath raven brows.
He was the pepper to my salt shaker, the spice that my bland life lacked. He topped me by a few inches—a nice contrast since I normally wound up around men who stood at eye level or, worse, looked me straight in the bust. As I locked eyes with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious, my palms grew sweaty and
my hands shook. One surreptitious glance downward on my part confirmed no wedding ring on that significant third finger of the left hand. I stifled the urge to pump my fist. Yes! Maybe Paige was on to something. Today could be the start of something wonderful after all.
“Oh, thank God you’re finally open! I’ve been sitting in my car for over an hour.” A nubile blonde in a lime green zip-up hoodie and vivid floral sarong skirt entered my store, along with a blustery wind that whistled around the sales floor. Only in a beach town could someone wear that outfit and not look stupid. She pushed the hood off her flawless face, allowing thick waves of honey blond hair to tumble to her shoulders.
My welcoming smile widened to encompass both customers, but the full wattage flashed on the one with testosterone. “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” I told the newcomer. Or more, if Cupid gets involved here.
“You’re Nia, the glassblower, right?” the woman asked.
Nia, the glassblower? Growing up, I was “Nia, the redheaded twin.” When Paige left for college, I became, “Nia, the one who stayed behind.” After I opened Nature’s Bounty and Paige returned home to take over Dad’s accounting business, I earned the title, “Nia, the artsy one.” Paige, on the other hand, gained “the smart one” as her surname in second grade and kept it to this day. “Nia, the glassblower,” however, was a totally new moniker and almost a separate identity from my twin. I’d take it. Happily.
“I guess that’s me, but as I said—”
“We’re looking for wedding favors,” the woman said. “Something totally unique. Paul Ivers at Snug Harbor Liquors recommended you.”
We. Wedding favors. Thud! My heart crash landed back on Earth, and my smile faded to black. Of course, this gorgeous guy was already taken. Did I really expect my love life to take a one-eighty because of Paige’s silly challenge? I swallowed my disappointment and pasted on a professional mien. “I’ll have to thank Paul for thinking so highly of my work. What did you have in mind?”
The woman sashayed over to my counter in a cloud of sex appeal and expensive perfume. “You tell me. I was thinking, perhaps, heart-shaped wine stoppers. But then I realized that’s too cliché. I want something totally unique. Not the same mass-produced trinkets everyone else gets.” Removing her rhinestone-studded pink sunglasses, she looked up at my fantasy guy, batting neon blue eyes framed in lush black lashes. “Right, Aidan?”
“Whatever you say, Camille,” he replied and picked up a cluster of glass grapes from the nearest shelf. His long, slender fingers danced over the delicate orbs the way they might caress a woman’s curves: slowly, gently, tentatively, but with a look of desire that stole my breath. His dark eyes, the hue of Kahlua, gleamed beneath the high intensity lighting. “This is amazing.”
“Thank you,” I murmured and fought the urge to fan my face. Despite the dampness still clinging to my skin, heat emanated from me in waves. Beneath my canvas apron bib, my heartbeat kicked up tempo.
Down, girl, I told myself. He’s taken.
He hefted the sculpture a little higher, pointed to the tiny dent in the bottom where my pontil had held the red-hot piece during the final construction phase. “You made this?”
This time, I could only nod. My mouth had dried to dust.
The clusters, available in both green and dark purple glass, were wired with miniature lights in the center so each plump grape appeared to glisten with dew.
“Electric lights shaped like grapes? That’s not a wedding favor,” the woman named Camille insisted. “I told you—”
“This isn’t for the wedding, Camille. I thought I’d like to get something like this for the business.”
Camille’s face mottled an ugly reddish purple. “How about we focus on what we came for right now? You can come back on your own time and shop for those seagulls, or whatever they are.”
“Piping plovers,” he replied blandly.
I stood, stunned. Sure, love was blind sometimes. But this guy must have been deaf and dumb, as well. Why else would he do nothing when she spoke to him in such a nasty way? I surreptitiously glanced around them, looking for television cameras from that Bridezillas show. At least her rudeness had one benefit. My attraction to Mr. Delish had shriveled shorter than his backbone.
I should have realized that we were incompatible from the minute he walked into my shop. He was, after all, a tourist—a necessary evil in Snug Harbor, with the emphasis on “evil.” Twenty-five years ago, my mother left her husband and twin daughters for a rich tourist. Since then, the Wainwrights tolerated the presence of interlopers in our town, but not in our family.
“Whatever.” Camille’s caustic tone obliterated my ugly memories. “Today is about me, not you.”
A boyish smile lit up her companion’s face, as if Camille’s attitude was simply an amusing diversion. My knees wobbled. Okay, maybe my attraction to him hadn’t completely shriveled up.
“Trust me, Camille.” His gaze intensified on me. “I’ll definitely be back.”
Was he flirting with me? While my pulse indulged in an invisible happy dance, my conscience burned with moral outrage. Clearly this marriage wouldn’t last a year. That didn’t mean, however, that I wanted to be a featured player in their divorce proceedings.
I stepped out from behind the counter and took the sculpted lamp from him. His hands clasped mine, squeezed lightly. Oh, my God. He was flirting with me.
Little jolts of electricity zinged through me. A problem with the wiring in the grapes? Had to be. Which meant I couldn’t put the piece back on the shelf until I’d had a chance to fix whatever was wrong.
Smoothly removing my hand and the sculpture from the man’s grip, I offered an apologetic smile. “Obviously, this one’s not for sale.”
He quirked a brow. “Obviously?”
“Well, yes, there seems to be a short in the wires.”
“Is there?”
What kind of game was he playing? “You didn’t feel that buzz?” Up close, his charming smile melted my kneecaps.
“No.”
Of course he did. He must have. The tingles shot through my nerve endings so strongly, I still experienced aftershocks. I frowned. “Oh, well, maybe it’s because I’m still a little damp from getting caught in the storm outside. Either way, I can’t sell this piece as it is. If the wrong person touches it with wet hands, zap!”
My fingers grasped at the white power cord and my imagination went into overdrive. Sweaty palms, damp clothes, and an electrical short could add up to a life-altering event for me. And not in a good way. Zap. How exactly was I supposed to unplug this thing from a live outlet and not risk electrocution?
My hesitancy must have been obvious.
“Here.” The man’s fingers cupped mine over the cord. “I’ll unplug it.”
He stepped closer, and I quickly withdrew my hand and backed away until my butt hit the edge of the counter behind me.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with this piece.”
He ran his fingers over the globes again, and I nearly sank to the floor in a puddle of goo. What I wouldn’t give to have those fingers touch my bare skin with such tenderness, such total adoration.
“In fact,” he said, “I’d like to order a hundred or so.”
That snapped me to attention. “A hundred?!”
“Umm…excuse me.” Camille’s breathy demand sliced through the bubble I’d created with this delicious man. “Can we get back to my wedding favors, please?”
God, where was my head?
“Of course, I’m so sorry,” I stammered as heat rushed into my cheeks. To avoid scrutiny from these two, I skittered behind the counter again and perched on the stool, the grapes sculpture on the shelf beside me. “If you want wine stoppers, that’s certainly an option. The uniqueness could come in their shape and the fact that each is hand-blown and not mass-produced.” I pulled out an order form and pen from the drawer beneath the counter. “About how man
y do you think you’ll need?”
“Five hundred.”
The pen slipped from my fingers as I gripped the counter edge to remain standing. “Five hun…” I couldn’t finish the thought, couldn’t move. When Aidan picked up the pen and replaced it on the counter, I could barely eke out the words, “Thank you.”
“Well, we’re having five hundred guests,” Camille amended. “Many of those will be couples. So maybe three hundred? Or three-fifty? How long will they take to make?”
I fumbled for the pen, attempted to write something on the pad, wound up with illegible curlicues. “It would depend on the intricacy of the design, of course. When do you need them for?”
“Valentine’s Day.”
February. Less than six months from now. Barely five months from now. I paused, calculating all the hours I’d face with my hands painstakingly swirling around two thousand degree heat. There went my social life. And the grapes? “Would this project run concurrently with the grape lamps?”
“No,” Aidan replied at the same time Camille said, “Yes, of course.”
Camille whirled on him, hands on hips. “Aidan!”
“What?” he retorted. “I need the lamps sooner. And I only need a hundred. I want these lamps, Camille.”
“And I want the wine stoppers. The wedding comes first.”
“The wedding’s not for six months.”
Wow. The more time I spent with these two, the more I knew their relationship was doomed. Couldn’t any of their friends or family members see how incompatible they were? Like a lit match and gasoline?
Whatever. I didn’t want to get involved. On any level. Working with normal tourists was hard enough for me. Working with this pair would probably kill me—or drive me to insanity. My back tightened, a sharp reminder that only a tourist would rear-end me and take off. Because only tourists would assume we locals didn’t matter except to serve their needs.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said to the couple. “But I couldn’t possibly deliver what you both need.” Like a few years in therapy. “Honestly. Thanks for thinking of me, but I don’t have the resources—”
