by Donna Alward
He opened the door and guided her outside again, then put a set of keys in her hand. “Where did you get the boat?”
She cleared her throat, and the awkwardness dissipated as they were back on topic. “Cummins’s, about a mile from the resort.”
He knew the location. “Take my car and drive there. I’ll take the boat back. Then I’ll drop you at the resort and that’s that.”
“Branson, I...”
His gaze snapped to her. “How do you know who I am?”
She didn’t answer, and he held back a sigh of frustration. It had to have been Tori or Jeremy. “It doesn’t matter. Take the car.”
He stalked off to the dock again. Damn woman was nothing but trouble.
It took thirty minutes to get to Cummins’s boat rentals, and Jessica was already there, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Bran held on to his anger as he turned the boat over to John Cummins, then followed Jessica back to where she’d parked his car. He got in the driver’s side and immediately hit his knees on the steering wheel; she’d moved the seat forward. Held back another curse word as he adjusted it, and turned onto the road leading back to the Sandpiper.
He never spoke to her once.
She never spoke to him, either.
The drive was short, and he dropped her in front of reception. Then, and only then, did she speak.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, and backed away from the door, as if afraid to say more.
He didn’t answer. She shut the door, and he put the car in gear and steered back onto the main road.
But a hundred yards up the road, he pulled over to the side and gulped for air as the shakes finally set in.
The shakes had held on for a long time, part of an anxiety attack that had been utterly debilitating. When he’d been good to drive again, he’d eased his way home, parked the car and had stood at his front door for ten solid minutes, knowing he should go inside, unsure of what he wanted to do when he was in there. The urge for Scotch was strong, so it was just as well he didn’t have any. He didn’t want to be alone, but the idea of having company was repulsive. The adrenaline in his body told him to pace; the idea of lying down on his long sofa and avoiding everything held similar attraction.
She could have died. Died! For being utterly foolish.
It was just a damned lighthouse. There were dozens along the coast. She could pick another one.
If he’d let her keep her pictures yesterday, this never would have happened. And if she’d been hurt, or worse, today, that would have been his fault.
Like he didn’t already have enough guilt. It was bad enough he had Jennie and Owen on his conscience. The last thing he wanted was to add to the tally of people he’d failed.
In the end he went inside and sat on the sofa, staring at the unlit fireplace. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that his fear and anger were all tied up in Jennie and Owen, and how he hadn’t been able to save them. Or how his selfishness was responsible for them being on the road in the first place. Jennie hated driving from their place in Connecticut into the city, but he’d been too busy to drive home to see them.
All his life he’d promised himself he’d be different from his father, who had always been too busy working to spend time with his wife and son. He’d promised himself he’d be there, and present, and cherish every moment so his kid would never feel alone or unloved. And he’d failed spectacularly.
Since he was too busy to go home, Jennie had been going to surprise him with a midweek visit while he was doing promo for his latest book.
And they’d never made it.
Jessica probably hated him. He certainly wasn’t overly keen on her at the moment. But she was alive, and he’d take that as a win.
And hopefully that would be the last he’d see of her. Surely, after today, she’d learned her lesson.
* * *
Jessica felt like a complete and utter fool.
An online course and a few fun rides on the lake years ago, and she’d considered herself suitably experienced to be piloting a boat on rough waters. To Cummins’s credit, he hadn’t been keen on renting her the boat, but she’d assured him it was a short trip and she’d be fine. And she had been, at first. Until she got near the point at Bran’s place.
She’d wanted to get the pictures and get gone. But the waves had been bigger than she’d expected, and more than once she’d hung over the side and retched. The crosscurrent had made everything more difficult, and one particular roll had knocked her down, her shoulder ramming against the fiberglass side.
It still hurt, but not as much as her pride.
She looked at the bruise forming on her shoulder and sighed, then gently put her arms in a soft sweater and pulled it over her head. The moment she’d seen Branson coming toward her, she’d been relieved and then embarrassed all at once. She didn’t need rescuing, for Pete’s sake. She’d never needed rescuing. She was very good at picking up when things went wrong and starting over. She’d done it when her adoptive parents had divorced. When her mom had died. When she’d lost jobs in the days before she could make a living with her art. After her horrible breakup. Even Ana hadn’t rescued her...not really. She’d just appeared, ready to be a friend, a confidant, a professional mentor. She had made Jessica’s life richer, but she hadn’t saved it.
Today Jessica felt as if Branson Black had literally saved her life. She’d been reckless—not unlike her. But she’d got in over her head, and he’d come to her rescue. He hadn’t been pleased about it, either. He hadn’t even grunted when she said thank you when he dropped her off.
Twice now she’d got off on the wrong foot with him. Instead of sneaking photos from the water and never having to deal with him again, she’d made it more obvious than ever that she was a pain in his neck.
And for that, she needed to apologize.
She had no idea how to do that, but she’d come up with something. And kill him with kindness if she had to.
Room service sounded like a perfect idea, so she ordered and then took the memory card from her camera and popped it into her laptop. When she opened up the directory and brought up the first picture, she sighed. It was out of focus, but not too bad. But there were only two or three that were even close to being useful. Then the lens got wet and every single picture was blurred and smudged.
All of that for nothing. She’d only accomplished making him hate her even more. Tomorrow she would apologize. And then she’d find another lighthouse. Or something else that sparked her creativity and gave her the burn to create again. In the meantime she’d keep working, because nothing helped get the muse back in business like being ready for her.
CHAPTER THREE
BRAN WAS DRINKING coffee on his deck when he saw someone coming through the stand of trees toward his driveway. He shifted over to the side so he’d be less conspicuous. Maybe it was Tori, or Jeremy, though they usually called first. It took only ten seconds for him to realize it was Jessica. Again? Frustration burned with the coffee in his mouth. Hadn’t she caused enough trouble? What the heck was it about his lighthouse that was so intriguing, anyway?
But instead of turning toward the lighthouse, she headed straight for his front door.
Something twisted in his gut. He watched as she drew closer, carrying a paper sack in her arms, her sunshiny hair glinting in the morning sun. There was something so pure about her, so bright and light. He waited out of sight for her to go to the door; heard the knock echo both below him and through the house.
He should answer. Yesterday he’d been so angry and hopped up on adrenaline and fear that he hadn’t said anything to her other than snapping at her to take his car to the boat rental. Both their encounters had been antagonistic, but last night, as he’d sat in the twilight, he’d realized that yesterday’s foolish actions could have been avoided if he’d been nicer at the start and let her keep her photos.
Because he felt that responsibility, he was trying not to be too angry with her. Letting go of his anger left room for other feelings, though. Ones he truly wasn’t ready for nor desired. At the very least, discomfort at the sheer amount of time she was in his thoughts at all.
She knocked again. He should go down. And yet the idea of company, of small talk...what would he say? It was different when it was Jeremy or Cole or even Tori. And when he was out in public and didn’t have to actually have conversations of any consequence. It was a hello and thank you to the cashier at the market. A thank you to the lady at the post office. What would they say...especially after yesterday?
In the end, he hesitated long enough that she abandoned the door and started back down the drive, only without the paper bag.
Whatever she’d brought with her, she’d left for him. An olive branch? And he was up here like a coward. While he wasn’t feeling social, he didn’t like that idea. There was nothing to be afraid of. At least today, no one was in any danger.
He stepped to the railing. “Miss Blundon.”
She turned around and looked up, shading her eyes with her hand. “Oh! You’re up there!”
Did she have to sound so delighted by the discovery? Surely seeing him wasn’t exactly a pleasure. Not after the way he’d treated her.
“If you’ll wait a few moments, I’ll be right down.”
“Of course.” She smiled at him, a bright reward in his otherwise bleak day.
The whole way down the stairs he wondered what he was doing. He’d moved here to get away from people. To...work through his feelings without any burden of expectation. And now he was going to open the door to a redheaded sprite with eyes that snapped and a bright smile. As if yesterday had never even happened.
He’d say thank you for whatever was in the bag and send her on her way.
When he reached the door, she’d retrieved the bag and held it in her arms again, and met him with the same bright smile.
“Good morning!” she said, holding out the bag. “A peace offering for getting off on the wrong foot. Feet. Whatever. Twice.”
Her babbling shouldn’t have been charming. He instinctively reached for the bag, then regretted it because it meant automatic acceptance. He couched it in the crook of his arm, aimed a level stare at her and said, “Peace offering, or repentance for yesterday’s shenanigans?”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, making her look adorable. “Both.” She lifted an eyebrow, just a little. “But yes, peace offering. Because you were also mean, Branson Black.”
He chuckled, the sound unfamiliar to him, and he fought to take it back but it was too late. Her grin widened.
“Mean?”
“Yes,” she asserted firmly. “Mean. So I brought you some things to maybe help with that.”
He looked in the bag. He could see a bottle of wine, a few packages of snacks, a pound of coffee and a mug. “What’s all this?”
With a pleased expression, she said, “I figured you’re either stressed and need a drink, are grouchy from hunger, or undercaffeinated.” She hesitated, then added, “Yesterday notwithstanding. That was terrible judgment on my part, and I’m sorry.”
He was charmed. He couldn’t help it. Particularly because she was blunt and right. He had been mean. And yesterday she had shown terrible judgment.
“You’re still after my lighthouse.”
She sobered. “There are no strings attached to this gift. I didn’t listen to you, and yesterday I acted impulsively. I could have been in danger, and you went to great trouble to make sure I was okay. This really is just a thank you.”
He didn’t want to like her, but he did. She was so upfront. And she didn’t tiptoe around him, like anyone else who knew who he really was. He stepped back and opened the door wider, a silent invitation. He didn’t always have to be rude. And she’d apologized, which he appreciated.
Truthfully, his ogre status was getting hard to maintain. It wasn’t his normal way. It was just his way of punishing himself.
She stepped inside and halted in the foyer. “Now that’s something. I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday, but this—” she swept her arm out wide “—this makes a statement.”
A table sat in the middle of the open space, while the hardwood staircase wound around it, forming a column that went to the top of the house. A skylight there beamed sunlight into the entry, a natural spotlight on the flower arrangement on the pedestal table.
“It does give some wow factor,” Bran admitted.
“It sure does. This is a gorgeous place. Airy and roomy.”
“Since you’ve only been three feet inside the foyer, would you like the twenty-five-cent tour?”
Did he really just say that?
“Sure. I promise to keep my camera in my tote bag this time.”
He looked over, and her face held an impish expression that made his lips twitch. “Ha ha. Come on. I’ll put this in the kitchen first.”
He led her through the expansive downstairs. The kitchen was spacious and modern, and while he’d furnished one of the large living rooms, he’d left the other, the one closer to the den, unfurnished. She made appropriate sounds of approval at his den, and then they went upstairs, where she gave a cursory glance at the bedrooms and then sighed at the ensuite bath, which had a stunning view of the water. “Oh, man,” she murmured, stepping inside. “A Jacuzzi tub with an ocean view. All you’d need is a book and a glass of wine and you’d be in heaven.”
He was treated to a vision of what that might look like; her pale skin surrounded by bubbles and damp tendrils of hair down her neck...a long, wet leg and flushed cheeks from the heat of the bath. He tried, unsuccessfully, to shake the image from his mind. A better idea would be to get her out of his house. Or at least out of the upstairs.
She turned to him then and put a hand on his arm. “I have a confession to make. I figured out who you were after my first visit here. Now I kind of understand why you were so angry. I know I violated your privacy. I really did just come to say that I’m sorry. For everything, Mr. Black.”
He hated being called Mr. Black. It reminded him of his father, who had insisted on it from nearly everyone. The only person he’d ever heard call him Peter was his mother. And it had always been Peter, and never Pete. “Branson,” he replied, taken aback by her honest little speech. “And I was rude. You’re right. I didn’t have to be such an ass.”
She laughed. “Thanks for the tour, but I should probably get going.”
She slid by him, trailing a scent of something that reminded him of lily of the valley.
It really had been a peace offering, then. She hadn’t pressed her case about the lighthouse. Hadn’t asked him a thing about his books or his family...and what happened was no secret. It had been all over the internet and made it to several print publications. The one good thing about being an author was that his face was less recognizable than other celebrities. Clearly it hadn’t escaped her notice, though.
Then again, she was somewhat of a celebrity herself, at least in the art world. Or so it would seem.
“Miss Blundon?”
She turned around and smiled. “If I have to call you Branson, you have to call me Jess.”
“Jess.” It suited her. “About yesterday... I own part of the blame. If I hadn’t been such a jerk, you wouldn’t have had to rent a boat. What I’m saying is...if you want to take some pics of the lighthouse, that would be okay.”
The way her face lit up made him glad he’d said it. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile was wide and free and full of joy. How long had it been since he’d felt such an unfettered, positive emotion?
Not even at Jeremy and Tori’s wedding had he felt so light. Their wedding had been a happy, wonderful occasion, but bittersweet for Bran. He’d been remembering his own wedding day years earlier.
Bu
t this was simpler. Granting a small favor, really, and it felt good.
“Really? I’d love that! Would it be possible to do a few sketches while I’m here?”
How could he say no now? Suddenly he realized he’d put himself in an awkward position. He’d thought a few pictures wouldn’t hurt. But he wasn’t sure he wanted her hanging around.
Her smile faded, and she put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. If it’s too much, just say so.”
The warmth of her hand seeped into his skin. Her fingers were strong, elegant and slim, like a pianist’s, and unadorned with any rings or nail polish. Was he enjoying the contact a little too much?
“A few sketches would be okay,” he answered, then cleared his throat. “I won’t jump down your throat if I see you at the lighthouse, okay?”
She squeezed his arm. “You mean I have permission to access it?”
He had no idea why he was going along with this, other than the fact that he knew he’d been horribly grouchy the day before, and he didn’t like that about himself. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”
Her gaze softened. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’ve had such a hard time lately, and this is the first place that’s really fired up my creativity. It means more than you know.”
He could relate. He hadn’t written a word in nearly two years. But he merely nodded as she turned away and started down the stairs. He followed closely behind, not too closely, though. And wondered at the strange feeling settling in the middle of his chest. It was pleasure mixed with anxiety, an odd combination of enjoying the contact while feeling like it was a foreign sensation.
Had he been hiding away too long?
He walked her to the door, feeling more unsure of himself with each step. When they reached the threshold, she opened the door and stepped outside, then turned around to face him.
“I know this probably sounds presumptuous and odd, but do you think we could be friends?”
He chuckled dryly. “That is not what I expected you to say.”
She shrugged. “Just to clear the air, I read the news. I’m very sorry for your loss, and I understand that it takes time to recover from something like that. I lost someone very special to me around the same time.”
