The Truest Thing: Hart's Boardwalk #4

by Samantha Young

  “I’m still sorry.”

  After a few seconds of studying Jack, she asked, “Have you and Cooper—”

  The bell above her store stopped her in her tracks, and she turned to look at the incoming customer.

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, annoyed by the interruption and even more so by who’d caused it.

  Dana.

  Tall, slim, and tanned with an athletic body and sweet tits, Dana walked with a confidence that would’ve been sexy on any other woman. Jack understood from a purely visual perspective what Cooper saw in his wife. She had lots of silky, light brown hair and ice-blue eyes that tilted like a cat’s. Perfect little nose and full, luscious lips. High cheekbones. Great skin.

  She strutted across the store, her icy gaze flicking between Emery and Jack. He barely noticed what she was wearing. She was always showing off her figure in a summer dress that looked the same to him, if not for the variation in color.

  “I thought it was you I saw as I was passing.” She came to a stop at the counter, eyeing him and Emery with a narrow smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m Dana Lawson.”

  Emery shifted uncomfortably but nodded.

  Dana raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Do you speak?”

  “Dana,” Jack warned.

  “It was just a question.” She smirked at him. “I actually came in to ask if you like brisket, Jack. We bought a slow cooker and Cooper was thinking of trying brisket for dinner this Thursday. He wanted to invite you.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Dana made no move to leave, even though Jack’s look was pointed.

  She pushed up off the counter. “I’ll walk you to Coop’s.”

  Realizing his progress with Emery had been well and truly blocked by his buddy’s annoying wife, Jack sighed. He looked at Emery who watched them both with those intelligent eyes of hers. He handed her the money for the coffees.

  “You have a great day, Emery.” He gave her a small smile.

  She returned it as she took the cash. “You too, Jack.”

  It was the first time she’d said his name.

  And he would not lie—he felt it in his gut and his dick and in the sudden increase of his pulse.

  The urge to shout “Fuck it!” and grab her by the nape so he could kiss the hell out of her was an almost uncontrollable itch beneath his skin. Instead, Jack swallowed the impulse, raised his coffee to her in salute, and walked out of the store with Dana trailing behind.

  As soon as they were out on the boardwalk, Dana snorted. “Please tell me you weren’t flirting with her.”

  At his silence, she huffed. “Jack, you can do so much better than a shy bookworm.”

  “I’m not going after Emery Saunders,” he bit out as he yanked open the door to Cooper’s. “You know I’m not the settling-down type.”

  Dana seemed satisfied. Too satisfied.

  Lately, she’d been a little too concerned about who Jack had in his bed. It worried him.

  The sight of Cooper coming around the bar to accept the coffee Jack held out, while wrapping an arm around Dana’s waist, soothed him somewhat.

  Dana snuggled into Cooper’s side, smiling up at him like she actually did love him.

  Maybe Jack was being paranoid about her.

  He could blame growing up with Ian Devlin for that.

  Cooper took a sip from his cup and sighed. “That girl can certainly make a good cup of coffee.”

  Dana snorted. “That’s about all she can do. People think it’s shyness, but I think maybe she’s a little dumb.”

  Cooper rolled his eyes. “I doubt it.”

  “C’mon. I said hello and she just looked right through me.”

  “I think that’s because she’s the opposite of dumb.” Jack turned heel and walked out before either of them could call him on his sly insult.

  No one would say shit about Emery Saunders around him.

  Ever.

  4

  Emery

  Seven years ago

  After weeks of Iris’s not-so-subtle hinting about Hartwell’s annual, midsummer music festival, I gave in and agreed to go.

  I’d closed the store for the afternoon and walked along the boards toward Main Street. Passing Cooper’s Bar, the building next to mine, I saw it was open, which probably meant the bar staff were running it. According to Iris, Cooper wasn’t the type to miss out on town events.

  Beside Cooper’s was the Old Boardwalk Hotel, the largest and tallest building on the boardwalk. Built at the turn of the century, it was a red-brick building with small, white-framed windows. Every time I passed it, I marveled at its history but also thought it was sad there was no vantage point from any of the rooms to enjoy the spectacular ocean view.

  The owner didn’t live in Hartwell. He was a real estate mogul from Florida and relied on his staff to take care of the place. I’d been inside out of curiosity, and the slightly musty-smelling hotel needed a revamp.

  Iris said Bailey’s place, Hart’s Inn, at the north end of the boards, was always fully booked because people would rather stay at her establishment before choosing the Old Boardwalk. I didn’t blame them. The inn was a stunning New England–style home with white shingles, a wrap-around porch, and a widow’s walk overlooking the water.

  Next to the Old Boardwalk Hotel was George Beckwith’s gift shop where he sold tacky souvenirs the vacationers loved. Beside his store sat Antonio’s, which was open and would be managed by Ira today, since I was supposed to meet Iris on Main Street in ten minutes.

  I passed the pizzeria, the surf shop, and Mr. Shickle’s Ice Cream Shack and approached the bandstand at the top of Main.

  A band was setting up under the covered stage. The town had hired several musical groups for the day while businesses set up stalls to sell everything from music memorabilia to jewelry.

  A plaque on the bandstand spoke of the legend of Hartwell and explained to tourists why locals called it Hart’s Boardwalk. Back in 1909, Bailey Hartwell’s great-grandmother’s sister Eliza was the darling of Hartwell. The founding family still had money and power, and Eliza, being the eldest, was expected to marry well. Instead, she crossed paths and fell in love with a steelworker from the Station Railroad Company based outside of town. Jonas Kellerman, Dana Kellerman Lawson’s ancestor, was considered beneath Eliza—and a noted con artist. They were forbidden to marry.

  Instead, Eliza was betrothed to the son of a wealthy businessman. On the eve of her wedding, a devastated Eliza walked into the ocean. By chance, Jonas was up on the boardwalk with friends, saw Eliza, and went in after her. Legend said he reached her, but the waves took them under, and they were never seen again. Jonas’s sacrifice for his love was said to have created magic. For generations since the deaths of Eliza and Jonas, people born in Hartwell who met their husbands or wives on the boards stayed in love their whole lives. It told tourists that if they walked the boardwalk together and they were truly in love, it would last forever, no matter the odds.

  As tragic as it was, I loved that the town was built on such a legend. It spoke to my romantic soul … and may have factored into my decision to stay in Hartwell.

  Staring out at bustling Main Street, at the crowds gathered around stalls, mingling and talking, I again wondered about my decision. Two years I’d been in Hartwell, and I’d still not made any progress in forming relationships with anyone beyond Iris Green.

  And even then, I gave her only what I was comfortable with. Which wasn’t a whole heck of a lot. Melancholy suffused me.

  Time and perspective had taught me that my shyness no doubt originated from my parents’ behavior. As a child, when I spoke to them, they ignored me, were obviously bored by me, or sometimes even belittled me. It got to the point where I didn’t want to speak for fear of being mocked or considered insignificant. It was easier to be invisible than to have them make me feel invisible. I was shy with them because I cared what they thought of me.

  At the opposite end of this behavior was the way I’d acted
with the house staff, including my nanny. I was not shy with them. I was angry. In fact, sometimes I wasn’t an amiable child at all. That happened when you were given everything you could ever want—except your parents’ love and attention.

  Neglected and ignored by the two people who were supposed to love me most, I took out my anger and frustration on the staff they’d surrounded me with.

  I flinched.

  They must have hated me.

  Living with my grandmother changed all that. She wasn’t the warmest person in the world, and she believed in class, status, and staying within your own station. While she thought our family superior over others, she also believed in treating everyone, including her staff, with the utmost respect. The first time she heard me snap at her housekeeper, my grandmother not only made me apologize in front of the entire estate staff but she made me stay in a guest room devoid of all entertainment. When I came home from school, I was allowed to do my homework and eat, but then I was sent to that room to languish from boredom for two weeks.

  Strangely, I appreciated that my grandmother cared enough to teach me some manners.

  I never spoke to a member of our household like that again. I grew shy with them instead as I began to care what they thought of me. And I cared what my grandmother thought of me.

  As much as I loved my grandmother, she had not been an easy woman to live with. Beneath her hard exterior was a broken heart, and she was terrified of losing the only family she had left. So, I was protected. I wasn’t permitted to do any extracurricular activities unless the lessons took place at the estate. No boyfriends, no school trips, no plans for college unless it was somewhere in New York State. She didn’t even allow me to attend my debutante ball, something I knew my father had attended as an escort for my mother on her debut into society.

  Being excluded from any semblance of a normal teen life made me an outsider with the kids at my private school. The mocking and bullying started, and, just like it’d been with my parents, I found it difficult to speak for fear of the response. So I withdrew into myself. I made no plans to attend college. No plans for any future at all.

  Tripp Van Der Byl had only made things worse.

  I threw him from my mind as soon as he entered it.

  It had been three years since my grandmother’s death, and I still didn’t know how to break free of the wall of defense I’d built around myself when I was twelve.

  The urge to turn around was strong, but I’d promised Iris I would meet her. Scanning the crowds, I finally spotted her by a stall, talking to two women I recognized.

  Damn.

  Behind the stall was a stunning brunette with smooth olive skin. She was short in stature with a beautiful, curvy figure.

  Dahlia McGuire.

  She’d smiled and said hello whenever we passed on the street, but I didn’t know much about the young woman other than that she owned Hart’s Gift Store next to Bailey’s inn. Unlike George’s place, Iris said Dahlia sold unique pieces, including the jewelry she crafted. I thought it was wonderful that Dahlia was a silversmith, and if I hadn’t been avoiding townspeople and all their inevitable questions, I’d have investigated her store long before now.

  I didn’t want anyone to find out who my family was.

  People treated you differently when they knew you were worth billions of dollars.

  That’s why I went by Emery Saunders. Emery was my middle name and Saunders was my mother’s maiden name. Yes, it wouldn’t take a genius to find out who I was (as proven by Ian Devlin), but the name Paxton would definitely draw attention.

  If it had been up to me, I’d have sold the majority shares in the company back to the other shareholders, but I’d promised my grandmother I wouldn’t. That promise weighed on me.

  I didn’t want the responsibility.

  Moreover, the legacy of the Paxton Group had taken so much from me. The company had always been more important to my parents and grandfather. It meant a lot to my grandmother, but not as much as I did. Still, out of respect for her husband’s hard work, my grandmother made me promise.

  Feeling a flutter of nerves in my belly, I made my way to Iris once she caught sight of me and waved me over. Standing at Dahlia’s stall with them was Bailey Hartwell.

  Bailey was this larger-than-life character everyone seemed to adore. Her parents had recently retired and left the running of the inn to her, and according to Iris, Bailey was in seventh heaven.

  The slender redhead was one of those women who became infinitely more attractive as you conversed with her. At first, she seemed like the girl next door with her peaches-and-cream complexion and the smattering of golden freckles across her nose and cheeks. However, once you spent time with Bailey, the “hometown girl” description seemed entirely too mundane. She was charismatic, friendly, outspoken, and had the most glamorous smile.

  She was so outgoing, I found her more than a little intimidating. Mostly because Bailey had no filter and asked all the personal questions I wanted to avoid answering.

  So, I avoided Bailey.

  Until Iris coerced me into situations like these.

  Dammit.

  Muttering under my breath, I forced myself to keep walking.

  “There you are!” Iris called out as I approached.

  I gave her a pained smile, and she chuckled knowingly.

  “Emery, hey!” Bailey peered past Iris’s shoulder and beamed at me. “You came!”

  I offered another pained smile. The wink of metal at the stall drew my eyes, however, and the jewelry on Dahlia’s table monopolized my interest.

  I stepped closer.

  “Hey, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

  I looked up from the jewelry. Dahlia held her hand out to me. I noted she had an accent and remembered Iris telling me Dahlia was originally from Boston. I shook her hand. “Hello.”

  “I’m Dahlia.”

  “Emery.” My attention returned to her jewelry.

  She was very talented. I saw at least five pairs of earrings I wanted.

  And I wanted all the rings.

  “You like your silver, huh?”

  Said silver bangles jangled on my wrist as I tucked my hair behind my ear.

  My jewelry had been my only rebellion against my grandmother. She believed in pearls and diamond-stud earrings. Simple elegance.

  I believed you could never wear too much jewelry. And when I turned eighteen, I embraced my own style.

  Grandma used to curse the sound of my bangles jangling as I walked around the house, but secretly I think she appreciated my stubborn refusal to give up this stamp of identity. It was the one thing that was all mine.

  I nodded.

  “I thought we’d lose her to your jewelry as soon as she got here,” Iris joked at my side.

  “It’s beautiful.” I glanced shyly up at the gorgeous brunette. “You’re very talented.”

  Dahlia beamed. “Hey, thanks.”

  “I’ll take those.” I pointed to a pair of long silver earrings sculpted like a teardrop with an amethyst stone clutched between silver prongs. And then the same design, but with jade. “Those too. And those. And … those. And all of these.” I gestured to a row of beautifully hammered bangles that would look great as a set.

  “Are you serious?” Dahlia asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But … but that’s like a thousand bucks’ worth of stuff.”

  “Dahlia, why are you trying to talk the girl out of buying your jewelry?” Iris teased.

  “Fine, fine. Thank you.” Dahlia held out her hand to me again and I shook it, even though I was sure my skin was the color of a lobster.

  “I had a feeling Emery would make a great customer.” Bailey leaned against the table at my side as Dahlia gift wrapped all my selections. “You have a wonderful sense of style.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. I wasn’t very adept at accepting compliments either.

  Frustration bubbled inside me at my inability to converse like a normal p
erson. At my inability to feel comfortable in social situations.

  I wanted to leave.

  I wanted to take my new jewelry and leave so badly, it was a physical pain.

  “Hey, Coop!”

  I flinched at Bailey’s loud yell and kept my eyes trained on Dahlia as she worked.

  Cooper Lawson made me nervous. Not as much as Jack did, but Jack made me nervous in a different way. Bizarrely, I actually liked the way Jack made me feel.

  Cooper just made me want to hide behind my bookshelves.

  He grimaced every time I blushed, which just made me blush harder out of sheer self-directed frustration.

  I made him uncomfortable. He made me uncomfortable. Therefore, I preferred avoiding him.

  And his catty little wife.

  I did not like how Dana Lawson stared at Jack when she’d interrupted us in my store a few weeks ago. She’d looked at him with the possessiveness of a girlfriend, and that made me uneasy, considering she was his best friend’s wife.

  Handing my credit card to Dahlia, I hoped to keep my back to Cooper but hearing his voice grow closer, I knew it would be unforgivably rude for me to do so.

  Clasping tightly to the bag now weighed down by my exciting purchases, I stepped to the side of the stall and turned to look at the new additions.

  Cooper was holding his nephew Joseph in his arms while his sister Cat stood at his side. I hadn’t been around for the gossip that spread through town when Catriona Lawson got pregnant. Iris told me all about it and what a tough time Cat had dealing with it. She’d been in college and returned home for summer vacation her junior year. Rumor was, she had a one-night stand with a tourist whose name she couldn’t even remember, and nine months later, Joseph “Joey” Cooper Lawson came along.

  Watching Cooper dote on his three-year-old nephew was one reason I wished I could act like a normal person around him. Everyone seemed to love the guy, which meant he was probably a wonderful man.

  But he was the kind of handsome that flustered me.

  Cat shared Cooper’s coloring, and there was no denying the relation. She seemed equally uncomfortable in my presence.