by Cathryn Fox
I flash him my fake identification. “See.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay.” He’s conceding but his voice remains dubious. “Whatever you say, Jenna Garridy.” Another pause and then, “So this friend you’re meeting, she lives here?”
“Yeah, it’s Summer Wheeler. I’m buying the old cottage. She was going to meet me here, but she’s tied up at work and can’t make it back after all. I think you’re mixing the two of us up.”
He studies me, his expression cautious, dark. Threatening. The muscles along his jaw tick and he looks behind him, like he’s trying to decide whether to get the hell out of Dodge or invest in my story.
He turns back to me, his gaze raking over my face with intimate recognition. I stand there, my brain buzzing like a fine wine. Do I mention last night or not? Since it was my first one-night stand I’m not versed in morning-after protocol. Deciding it best not to bring it up and forget it ever happened, I say, “If you’ll excuse me,” I show him the Blue Bay Construction card. “I need to find the man who runs this company and see about a few repairs to my cottage.”
His hand closes over my wrist, not tight, but firm enough to hold me still. It brings back heated images from last night, and the way he held me down, used and abused me so thoroughly. My legs wobble as my body comes to life under his touch and it’s all I can do not to confess, tell this man who makes me feel so safe—yet is a danger to me in so many ways—the whole truth, including how much I want him again. Then again the way my nipples are poking against my shirt is confession enough.
“You found him,” he says, his teeth still clenched.
“What? Found who?”
“The man in charge. You found him,” he says, his voice as dark and deep as the Atlantic waters hugging Blue Bay’s coastline.
My toes curl.
Last night, he was definitely the man in charge—of my entire body. I breathe deep and the faint hint of soap and open road wash over me. I revel in it, my body shuddering with awareness.
“I didn’t realize.” I shove the card into my purse. “I’ll find someone else in town.”
“Why would you do that?” he asks, his voice like a rough caress that I feel all the way to the needy spot between my legs.
I take in his hard eyes, the way they’re burning into me. “You look like you want me to.”
He tears his gaze away, and glances out the glass door again, but his thumb continues to brush my hand, a slow, steady sweep over my flesh that is doing the most ridiculous things to my body. Does he even know he’s doing that?
His gaze is murderous when he turns back to me. “It’s like this, my competition are going to see you coming a country mile away.”
I pull my hand back. God, if he keeps touching me like that, I’m going to drop my panties for him again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I spit out.
“A single girl. A Blue Bay cottage in need of repair. Old money.” He rubs the rough pads of his thumb and forefinger together, and I stop breathing, not wanting to remember how I know those big fingers of his are rough. “They’ll eat you alive.”
“I’m on a bit of a tight budget so—”
“Which is why you’re going to hire me.” He steps into me, crowding me, so big and strong and tough, his presence edgy but comforting. I fight the urge to snuggle into him, hand myself over and beg him to make me forget again—just for a few more hours.
“You won’t . . . eat me alive?” What the hell am I doing? He’s not a guy I should tease or tempt. Last night was a one-night shot, and I don’t need the complications of Sean, the way I had so easily lost myself in him. If I want to survive I need to keep all my wits about me, and trust no one.
He grins, that sexy dimple stroking me in places so deep, it physically pains me not to lie down and spread for him. “Not unless you want me to.”
Chapter Four: Sean
Okay, this confirms it.
I’m a masochist. A goddamn motherfucking masochist.
Not unless you want me to.
Why the fuck would I say that?
Yeah, okay so I momentarily forgot I was back in Blue Bay, walking the straight and narrow, and this girl has trouble written all over her. I should stay away from Summer Wheeler—or rather Jenna Garridy—if that’s who she’s pretending to be.
Jenna Garridy, the kid who’d accompanied Summer here a time or two. No way am I getting them mixed up, which begs the question: why is Summer lying to me?
Does she think for one minute that I’d forgotten about the time I pulled her from the water, gave her mouth-to-mouth down by the shore? Her lips were so firm and sweet: spun candy, sugar, and honey all wrapped up into one tasty package. After that incident, she followed me around, and I dodged her at every turn. But fuck, no way could I ever forget about the girl who starred in my first wet dream—and continues to star in them today.
I breathe in her floral scent, take in her freshly scrubbed face, free of makeup, as she squares her shoulders, trying to pull off tough girl. But the act is wasted on me. I know who she really is, and I know underneath her put together appearance and bravado, she’s quaking like a goddamn leaf in a windstorm.
Unable to help myself I sway closer, my body reliving last night. I’d been a little rough, a little greedy with her, but having her in my bed was far too many years in the making. The noises she made, Jesus, they’re still buzzing through my brain, chugging along like a freight train and stirring the need inside me. The moans, the sexy little whimpers, and the way her mouth opened but no sound came when she climaxed.
Fucking perfect.
As my dick swells, she lifts her chin. “If you want to stop by in an hour or so to give me an estimate on the damages, I’d appreciate it.”
My gaze drops to the mouth I ache to ravage again, to lips that are still swollen from my hard kisses. She’s even more beautiful in the afternoon sun, her pretty features no longer masked in the dim light of a grimy hotel. She gathers her bag and makes her way to the door.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, and stare at her jean-clad backside as she exits the store, drops her groceries into the back of her big ass truck, and makes her way across the street to Sugar’s. I give myself a lecture. Run the other way, dude. But I can’t seem to tear my gaze away. Since we’ve already established that I’m a masochist, I step outside and wait for her to emerge so I can watch her lick that ice cream cone the same way I want her to lick my cock.
Motherfucker.
I shove my hands into my pockets, anything to prevent me from whipping out my dick and stroking it. Fuck, why the hell did I agree to work on her place? By rights I should ask one of my brothers, or one of my cousins. I’d do just that, except I’m the only Owens boy who’s made it home so far. Soon enough the guys will all trickle in, just not soon enough for me.
I pace and wipe the moisture from my brow as I bake in the hot afternoon sun. Why did I push for the job?
Because this is Summer Wheeler and she’s walking around with a goddamn lost look on her face. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a guy to turn his back on girl who’s running—from someone or something.
A few people on the streets pass by me, slowing as recognition hits. I nod, and a couple nod back. Most don’t. Guess they’re not too happy to see one of the problematic Owens boys back in town. But they don’t need to worry. I have no intentions of causing trouble, even though it seems to have found me in the name of Summer.
Or rather Jenna.
Speaking of Jenna, she exits the ice cream shop, and her steps slow to a crawl when she finds me watching. I lean against the brick building and cross my legs, in no hurry to go anywhere. I stare. Transfixed. She pulls her gaze away and scurries down the street, to disappear into one of the boutiques. I want to go after her, demand she tell me what the fuck is going on, but every muscle in my body tenses when a black-and-white pulls up to the curb in front of me.
Fuck. Just what I need. I’ve been in town all of a few hours and I’m already get
ting hassled by the cops. I push off the wall and straighten to my full height.
“Walker,” I say, as he climbs from the driver’s seat. In the ten years I’ve been gone he hadn’t changed much, just a little rounder around the gut, but still as mean and spiteful as a hairpin turn on a rainy fucking day.
“Sean.” He saunters around his car, his right hand on his hip, near his gun, a gesture meant to intimidate, I suppose. Some would say I have a death wish when out on the open road with my bike. Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not. Either way, it’s been a long time since I’ve been afraid of anyone or anything. “Heard you were back in town.”
“Miss me?”
He chuckles but it holds no humor. He steps up to me, invades my personal space, close enough that I can smell stale coffee and a cream puff on his breath. I want to push back, it’s a primal reaction, but Grandma Nellie is waiting for her groceries and I’m not interested in finding myself locked up for the night. I have too much shit to do. Plus I’m the oldest Owens, home to put things in order and lead my brothers and cousins by becoming a model citizen.
You need to set an example for the others.
As my father’s words ping around inside my brain, Walker’s nostrils flare. “Listen, pal. Don’t think for one minute I’m going to tolerate you, or any one of your fucking crew tearing up these streets. This is a nice respectable place now and I expect it to stay that way. Understand?”
“Not looking for trouble,” I bite back through clenched teeth. “Just back home to take care of Dad’s funeral arrangements.” I don’t bother to tell him that I’m actually here for good. That will be a nice surprise for later.
At the mention of my dad, he stiffens. The two have a history, which is why Walker has been riding our asses for as long as I can remember. Then again, our rivalry could have less to do with my dad stealing his girl and marrying her back in the day, and more to do with me tearing up the streets on my bike and roughing up the dickless rich boys who summered here and thought they were better than the locals from the other side of the tracks.
He tips his hat. “Yeah, sorry to hear about his passing,” he says, and he looks genuinely apologetic. “Give my blessings to Grandma Nellie.”
I nod and stand over him a moment longer, then his radio goes off and he backs up. I exhale slowly to get rid of my pent-up energy, but it doesn’t work. In times like these I either need a good race or a hard fuck with someone I won’t ever lay eyes on again. Both of which I’ve given up. I give another sweep of the streets before stepping back into Benny’s. The fresh scent of apple pie reaches my nostrils. My olfactory senses kick in, and take me back ten years.
“Hey Benny, how have you been?” I ask, shaking off my encounter with Officer Asshole as I glance at the row of pies cooling on the rack. “I see Judy is still making her fabulous apple pies.”
The old man comes out from around the corner and opens his arms. “Sean,” he says. “So good to see you.” He inches back and his cloudy eyes that see all look me over. “And in one piece.”
“Mostly,” I say, my shoulder taking that moment to pain, a reminder of the break that failed to heal properly. Probably because I’d hopped back on my bike before giving it a chance to. But I had a race to win, something to prove.
He frowns. “Sorry about your dad. He was a good man.”
“Thanks.” I look past his shoulder, unable to take in the deep sadness on his face. If I do, I might fucking sob.
“I see you met the new owner of the Wheeler cottage,” he says, changing the subject, clearly picking up on the shit storm going on inside me. I should have been here. Fuck, I should have been a better son. “I heard you were all coming home, so I gave one of your dad’s cards to her,” he adds, his voice pulling me back.
“Thanks for that. We can use the work.”
“Are you taking the job?” Benny’s eyes narrow, and I get the distinct impression that he’s asking something else entirely. The man is sharp, has been around for years, and I take it he, too, knows Summer is pretending to be someone else. But most probably wouldn’t know her. She’s changed a lot over the years.
“Yeah, I’ll help her,” I say, answering the question he’s really asking.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good boy, Sean.”
I scratch the back of my head. “So, uh, Grandma sent me here to pick up her order.”
He nods. “It’s a big one. I guess she’s preparing for the return of all her grandsons.” He waves toward the row of brown bags piled behind the cash register.
“Looks like she’s cooking for an army.” Then again, I guess, in a way she is. When the Owens brothers and cousins convene, we do form an army, and impenetrable force. Fuck with one Owens, you fuck with them all. It’s always been that way, and we grew even closer with our cousins, Ryan, Carter and Jace when their parents, my aunt and uncle, died in a car crash when they were young. All three moved into the old homestead with us and Dad treated them like they were his own, and yeah, he was just as hard on them, too. “Good thing I brought the truck.”
Benny shuffles his way back to the counter, his leather loafers scratching against the scuffed floor. “Let me help you.”
“No I got this,” I say and follow him to load up the bags. I steal a glance around the mom-and-pop store. Other than the jars of candy he used to keep on the counter, not much has changed in the years I’ve been gone. Back in the day Benny used to slip me a candy whenever I came in. In return, I’d help him with his deliveries. I always liked the old man, but Jesus he should be retired by now.
I finish loading the last bag, and wave. “Talk to you soon, Benny. Give Judy a hug for me.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” he says, and the bell overhead rings as I shut the door and climb into my truck. I turn the ignition over, and pass Summer’s truck when I spin around in the middle of the street and head back to the old homestead.
How the hell am I going to do a walk-through of her place without wanting to put my hands all over her again? My dick throbs in anticipation, and I work to marshal it. I crack my window and suck in a breath of humid air. I really should wait until one of the guys come home and give him the job. Getting tangled up in her mess, whatever it might be, isn’t conducive to walking the straight and narrow. But how the fuck am I supposed to walk away? My late mother and Grandma Nellie raised me better than that.
I drive for a few more miles and my heart squeezes when I pull into the lane leading to the big house built by my great-grandfather when Blue Bay was a whaling village, long before the tourists began flocking here. I slow my speed, and look past my motocross bike in the driveway, to the big house rising up behind it.
Dad was the best carpenter in all of Connecticut but his own place is in need of repair. A wooden swing moves in the summer breeze, and I study the front porch, the sagging roof over it. My gaze slowly moves to the room he added on when I was away.
His office.
My office now, I suppose, now that the old man is gone. Bile punches into my throat as his loss crashes over me, and a blind fist hammers my gut, fierce and punishing.
I can’t believe he’s gone.
Nellie steps outside and hurries to the truck, and I harden myself. I don’t want her to see my pain. “Did you get my shortening?” She begins to peek into all the bags.
“I don’t know. Didn’t look through.”
She gives me that look—the one that could scare the head off a chicken and helped keep us boys in line after we lost our mother during our rebellious teen years. “I can’t bake your favorite pie if you didn’t get my shortening.”
“I’m sure it’s all in there, Gram.”
She picks up two bags and carries them into the house. I shake my head. No matter what she’s been through, she’s still as tough as a tractor. I follow with an armload and she’s already unloading her bags by the time I reach her. I begin to help her, but she swats at me like I’m a nuisance fly.
“Get. You know I don’t lik
e anyone fussing in the kitchen with me.”
I shake my head again. Some things never change. I turn to leave her to her baking, but when I do I feel the heavy emptiness of the place. Hollow silence. Ghosts in every corner. I swallow. Maybe some things do change.
The last time I was home this house was filled with my brothers and cousins, laughing around the table, fighting on the living room floor, or helping dad with one chore or another. I cough down the lump climbing into my throat.
“I’ll be in Dad’s office. Have some paperwork to look over,” I say, trying to inject a lightness in my voice I don’t feel. But right now, if Gram turns to hug me, or console me in any sort of way, I might fucking lose it.
The screen door squeals as I push through it, and I make a mental note to oil it. The heat of the day closes around me as I make my way to Dad’s office. I try the door and it’s open. Of course. I walk in, and my father’s presence slams through me like a physical blow. A spill on my bike followed by full-force trauma to the head would have been less painful. Grief presses down on me, heavy, suffocating, weaving its way around me and sucking the air from my lungs. I try to breathe past it when all I want to do is to lie down and curl around it, let it consume me. I squeeze my eyes shut and work to keep my shit together. When I open them again, I catalog the room. I need to go over the books, but where the hell do I start?
Files and papers are strewn everywhere. Oak bookshelves lining one wall, Dad’s handiwork, overflows with balled-up permits and forms and invoices, some marked paid, others still owing. He was a carpenter, for Christ’s sakes, not an accountant. Why the hell didn’t he hire someone to help?
Because he was waiting for one of his boys to step up and be the man he needed them to be.
Unable to breathe, I sink into the chair. The same one he’d died in. Wide open and vulnerable, I choke back the tears burning behind my eyes, ears, and throat. I pinch my lids shut, and work diligently to refill my lungs. A rumble catches in my throat as my fingers curl around the arms of the chair and squeeze until my knuckles turn white.
