Brodie chuckled at that, not even trying to refute the assessment, self-aware enough to know the truth in it. He folded his arms and tucked his hands under them as his awareness of the morning chill returned to the point of being beyond ignorable, the action having the unintentional result of pulling her gaze to his chest and arms, and on down over the rest of him, where it appeared she got a bit hung up as well. He grinned, liking that she wasn’t as impervious to him as she pretended to be. Fair’s fair, he thought. And just like that, he wasn’t in quite so much of a hurry to find the nearest shower. Not alone, anyway. “What brings you down to my docks?”
Her gaze jerked up to his and the smile blinked away as if it had never been. “Your—?” She looked momentarily confused; then her expression cleared. “Oh, do you live on one of the boats in the harbor here?”
“At one point, I did, indeed. Now I reside in my boathouse. Converted boathouse,” he amended, though not sure why it mattered that she know that.
The confusion returned with a frown for added measure. “Your boathouse? Which would be . . . ?”
“All of them, actually, but I live in that one.” He nodded to the building he’d just come around at the far end of the lower pier, the smallest of the four main boathouses. His grin began to fade as her frown continued to deepen. “What is it, exactly, that brings you to my docks this fine spring morning?”
“Who are you?” she countered.
“Brodie Monaghan.” He sketched a quick, formal bow, despite being half naked and smelling of dead fish, then grinned once more when Whomper barked in approval. “Seventh-generation builder of boats and current owner of Monaghan’s Shipbuilders. Such as it is.” He nodded to the largest of the boathouses, built by his ancestors’ own hands, stationed several piers down, hugging the gentle slope of the land that curved up behind it and the heavy pilings that marched out into the water in front. It had been the first of what had gone on to become the Monaghan family heritage in the Americas.
Due to fire, flood, and the ravages of time, it had been rebuilt from the pilings up several times since its inception in the early 1600s, with timely modifications made each time. But the current structure was still more than a century old, close to two, and showed its age and neglect, as did the weather-beaten company name painted on the side. After decades of disuse and utter lack of maintenance, the proud company logo was barely distinguishable. One of the many things he aimed to change, in due time.
“And you, Grace Maddox . . . who might you be?”
She nodded toward the last in the row of the four main boathouses, nestled at the opposite end of the Monaghan waterfront property from where they were standing. “Owner of that boathouse.” She pulled a sheaf of paperwork out of her leather satchel. “As of this morning.”
Chapter 2
Grace watched with careful attention as Brodie took the papers from her hand. Careful because she should be paying attention to this potential new headache, but she was having the devil of a time keeping her gaze on the papers and not the exquisitely sculpted chest and fantasy abs directly behind them.
That dilemma was helped not at all by the fact that she was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten those muscles by spending time in a fancy gym, but by working with those rough and tough, wide-palmed, workman’s hands of his—which she also took care not to ogle. Along with his equally gifted face.
His green-as-emeralds eyes and that clever little cleft in his chin easily put him in the ranks of the drool-worthy. But because the gene pool fairies had apparently been drunk off their collective asses the day they created him and didn’t know when to say stop, that pretty, oh so pretty face had to go and be matched with ridiculously sexy dimples that winked out when he smiled. And don’t even get her started on that delicious brogue of his.
The ogle avoidance wasn’t because she was shy. Far from it. She was quite certain he was well used to turning heads, most of them female, so catching her staring would likely just be yet another casual confirmation of his studliness. That was precisely the point. She wasn’t interested in being yet another ogler in what had to be a long line of oglers. Anyone who’d been around her for even a short time would realize that she wasn’t much of a joiner. God knows her life would have been much easier if she’d had that mind-set. But those same gene pool fairies who had blessed the Monaghans, or at least this one, with all that natural, gregarious charm had skipped the Maddox family tree entirely when the team player gene had come up for distribution. Her branch had been blessed with an overabundance of the fiercely independent gene, though she wasn’t sure blessing was the word she’d always have used to describe that particular trait.
True, it had come in more than a little handy during her formative years, but there had been distinct disadvantages, as well. She was trying to rectify that now. Her thoughts drifted to her brother, Ford, but she purposely pulled them back to the matter at hand. Those manly, manly hands . . .
Grace supposed, given the surprising news of her rescuer’s name and ancestry, and the fact that it matched the one painted on the side of the main boathouse, she should be grateful he hadn’t snatched the mortgage papers away, or ordered her off his docks, or both. It appeared that Cami Weathersby, her Realtor, had some explaining to do, as did a few folks down at the county tax and property offices. Not that Grace was worried that the sale of the boathouse was anything other than legitimate. She’d known from the moment Cami had led her onto the property last week that it was perfect for what she had in mind. Grace was nothing if not focused when she had a goal in her crosshairs, but her excitement hadn’t kept her from doing her due diligence on the place. Being an estate attorney came in handy like that.
A former estate attorney.
Grace held her hand out. “I think you’ll find all the paperwork in order, but please feel free to check with the county offices. I’d recommend you start with the tax assessor.” She slipped the strap of her slim leather messenger bag over her shoulder and tucked her hand in the exterior pocket, wincing as the splinters still embedded in her palm brushed against the stitched leather trim. She handed him her banker’s business card. “You can also call my loan officer. Sue—Mrs. Clemmons—seemed really pleased that the place was going to get some attention and was more than happy to work with me on my new business loan.”
Privately, Grace was beyond thrilled she’d been able to purchase the property outright, and for what amounted to a steal. It had allowed her to think much more broadly about her plans for the place, which was a good thing since she’d initially planned on buying either an old inn or an older home she could turn into one. She definitely hadn’t planned on renovating and completely repurposing a boathouse into an inn. But, based on the outright purchase and her relatively healthy personal portfolio, she’d secured a small business loan. Instead of moving in small stages as her previous, somewhat conservative estimated budget would have allowed, she could more or less leap straight into the deep end and really get moving on the renovation. She couldn’t wait to get started. But she didn’t think Mr. Monaghan really wanted to hear all about that.
Brodie was still scowling, and it was either a testament to those drunken gene pool fairies or the embarrassing length of time that had passed since her last serious relationship that the expression served to make his strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones stand out more handsomely than before. If that were possible. He was like a walking billboard for steaming hot, up-against-the-nearest-wall fantasy sex. The kind you only saw in movies. Her gaze briefly dipped to his chest again, and it was possible his lilting brogue played through her mind as her little voice added down and dirty, steaming hot, up-against-the-nearest-wall fantasy sex. Yeah. She’d buy a ticket to that show. Hell, she wanted to be in that show.
He handed the papers back, but didn’t reach for the business card. Instead, he took her hand in his, the surprise of his touch making her draw in a quick breath, which, from his glance into her eyes, he’d heard.
He turned his attention to
the angry red welt on her palm and the sliver of his dock that was jammed into the center of it, along with several smaller slivers embedded on either side. “Och, but that doesn’t look like much fun. You need to get these taken out.” He cradled the back of her hand in his wide palm and bent his head to take a closer look. He gently bent her fingers back a bit to better expose the splinters to view and absently rubbed his fingers along hers in a consoling gesture that seemed so natural, she wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it. But of course, a man who looked like he did, who exuded over-the-top sex appeal from every last pore, was likely quite well aware of the effect his touch had on members of the opposite sex.
It took great restraint not to jerk her hand free. The contrast of the gentle strokes and the work-roughened skin of his fingers shot zings of awareness to points front and south, making her want to shift on her feet, maybe press her thighs together a little—or a lot—and wish the soft silk of her bra wasn’t clinging quite so snugly to her now-taut nipples.
“I-I plan on doing just that. As soon as I’m near a pair of tweezers.”
He lifted his gaze to hers. Up close and real personal, all that deep, sparkling green was every bit as disconcerting to her freshly reawakened erogenous zones as was his touch. And the two together, well . . . She carefully slid her hand free and tucked Sue’s business card away.
“Good,” he said, making no attempt at all to move back out of her personal space. “As for Monaghan’s, as happy as I am to know that the lovely Mrs. Clemmons is smilin’ upon ye, as hers is a delightful smile indeed, this place is already getting the attention it needs.”
Grace wondered how much money Brodie had charmed out of the older loan officer. She imagined, given the lethal levels of charm he possessed, that the sky had probably been the limit. In an effort to get her equilibrium back, she shifted her gaze and did a slow scan of the waterfront property. Even in its dilapidated condition, it was not insignificant in scope. Monaghan Shipbuilders sat centrally, right in the pocket of the gentle inward curve that had given the harbor its name, and accounted for at least a third of the waterfront real estate. The deep harbor edged into a naturally upward sloping open area of timber-free land, and it was that precise combination, Grace understood from Mrs. Clemmons, who was as proud of the heritage of Blueberry Cove as Brodie appeared to be, that had led the eighteenth-century shipbuilders and town founders to choose the place as their new homestead.
Back then they were building, among other things, magnificent two-masted schooners and three-masted clipper ships, each of significant length and scope, and therefore needed to construct them on land that had to be just the right angle so that, when completed, the ships could slide straight into the deep waters of the harbor and be sailed out into the bay. Personally, she wasn’t sure how any of that had been accomplished, especially given the rudimentary equipment they’d had at their disposal at that time, but she didn’t doubt Mrs. Clemmons knew what she was talking about.
In fact, as someone who spent a significant amount of time on the water, albeit in a rowing scull, Grace had taken the history to heart, realizing that it was her turn to stake her claim in Half Moon Harbor and build what she hoped would become the future Maddox family heritage. Granted, there wasn’t much Maddox family left, but heritage had to start somewhere, right? She’d honor the generations of Monaghans who had poured their hearts and souls into the property, be respectful of those who had come before her, and learn from them where she could. But she planned to stake her claim as well, and hoped they, in the form of the current generation landholder, would respect that.
It was in that moment that the enormity of what she’d done suddenly became very real, in a way it hadn’t—or couldn’t have—before. She didn’t know Brodie well—or at all, actually—but she understood, given his ties to the land, and the people, that she’d need to present a solid front to him when revealing her plans. And she felt anything but solid at the moment.
She anchored her gaze to the waterfront and held it there. The main boathouse was built half on land, half on the substantial pilings that extended into the harbor, creating a wide, heavy pier. From that pier ran a series of smaller docks, anchored and floating. Brodie’s smaller boathouse was on the near side of the main building, situated mostly on land and slightly edged out over the water. A smaller dock extended from the side and a wider one where they stood connected to the main dock. The two other boathouses were situated on the far side of the main building. The third in the row, of moderate size and scope, was completely on land, though its condition was the poorest of the four.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, lass, and I’m but one man,” he said, the slight defensive edge to his tone making it clear he’d taken her studied appraisal as a judgment before she had voiced a single word.
If he only knew, she thought as her gaze shifted and stayed on the last boathouse in the row. The one that was now all hers. A shot of pure adrenaline—or maybe it was sheer terror—made her heart race. She’d plotted, she’d planned, she’d tried to be methodical and smart . . . mostly because she knew her new life decision was anything but rational. Still, she couldn’t truly believe she’d really gone and done it.
Her boathouse hugged land and water and was second in size only to the main boathouse, and then, not by much. A smaller version of the main pier extended directly from the rear decking and was separate from the other docks. On learning from Cami that her ownership included that pier, she’d immediately envisioned sailboat rentals, along with dockage for her guests who traveled by boat. The vision of her future seaside inn teased a smile from the corners of her mouth, and brought a particularly sharp tug near her heart. She was already falling, heart and soul, for the place and its possibilities. She wanted the chance for them to grow into something new together.
Feeling his scrutiny, she continued her visual scan to the rest of the boatyard situated to the side of the open grassy slope that extended up to Harbor Street. It was a long, fenced-in gravel and dirt lot that contained a number of buildings, equipment sheds, a garage or two, and property for dry dock storage. The lot was the only land-based access to the docks and boathouses. Her own car was parked there. She wondered how Brodie would take it when he found out that her purchase had also secured her access to that lot, at least in terms of parking.
She tried to imagine what it had been like, back in the day when the Monaghans had actively been building those big clippers and schooners. It would have been quite an impressive operation, big and bold and proud. Dominant. Run by a powerful family, or one that had surely gained power as the town and their industry took hold and grew. But now . . . well, now it was barely a shadow of its former glory, and only in property size at that; a tax burden to the county and apparently every kind of burden to the lone Monaghan tasked with taking care of it. She’d have been overwhelmed at the mere thought of tackling such an undertaking. As it was, she was more than a little freaked out by the tiny part she’d signed on for.
“Half Moon Harbor and all of Blueberry Cove that surrounds it were forged from the sweat, bent backs, and hard labor that began with its founders, most of whom were my ancestors,” he said as if reading her mind.
She wasn’t too sure those green eyes of his couldn’t see deep down into the depths of her soul and the hunger there that she’d so recently, finally decided to feed. The problem was, looking back into his green eyes created a whole new kind of hunger. . . .
“They each, to a family, suffered great losses and exhilarating triumphs,” he went on, looking at her so intently, so earnestly, she couldn’t look away. At least that was her excuse. “It took loss and triumph, I think, for them to continue onward, undeterred and determined. The harbor exists to this day because my greats, men and women both, poured their hearts and souls into creating it, sustaining it.”
“And yet, from your accent, I guess I’m safe in assuming you weren’t born here in Blueberry Cove.”
“I am a direct descendant—”
> “Who has lived here for . . . ?”
He folded his arms, clearly annoyed. “Longer than you.”
Unfair, really, drawing her attention to those shoulders, those biceps.
“That may be true,” she said, trying to keep her eyes on his face. Admittedly, it didn’t help all that much. Dear Lord, he was a lot to take in. And she was feeling so very greedy. “However, though my last name might not be Monaghan, the deed”—she lifted the sheaf of papers—“has been done. I can assure you I will be completely respectful of your heritage. I’m not here to destroy anything. Quite the opposite. In fact, given the scope of the place and the amount of work you have in front of you, you might even be grateful for the help in restoring it.”
“Restoring it now, are you? Are you a shipbuilder, then? Who are your people? Where have they established their legacy?”
“I meant restoring the property to something functional, giving it renewed purpose. You certainly didn’t mean to bring all of it back to the same size enterprise it once was. There isn’t the economic demand for something on that scale, is there?”
“How is it that you’re here at all?” he said by way of response.
But she hadn’t missed the flicker of something that looked a lot like the same kind of hunger she felt, the need to build, create, and sustain something important. And dammit, she couldn’t ignore the responding twinge of guilt it made her feel, either.
“You mean in Blueberry Cove? I have family here. My only family.” Why had she added that last part? She didn’t want to talk about Ford . . . to this man, or anyone else, for that matter. At least, not until she’d found her brother and talked to him first.
Half Moon Harbor Page 2
