“There’s also the matter of making sure you have someone who knows about the new advancements that have been made in restoring homes and buildings like yours, which will bear lifelong exposure to extreme elements. You can do what’s been done before, then keep doing it over and over again, or you can look at new options that might reduce the need for constant heavy maintenance. You can also take a significant chunk of time you don’t have and educate yourself on all that, or you can hire someone who’s already an expert and move on without delay and without making costly mistakes—which I promise will happen. Because no amount of off-the-cuff research is going to double for the information someone who has spent a lifetime in the industry already knows.”
He waited a beat to make sure she was finished, wishing he wasn’t as impressed as he was irritated. “You’re saying you’re willing to give me the benefit of all of this hard-earned knowledge free of charge?”
“Does your original offer still stand? The one you made when you fired me?”
He assumed she meant a roof over her head while she figured out her next move. Knowing what he did now, he could imagine her financial situation was likely not very secure, and he hadn’t forgotten that part of Fergus’s original offer had been a roof over her head, albeit the sagging one of the keeper’s cottage. “It’s not open-ended, but for a reasonable amount of time, yes.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He tried to ignore the weight of every single gaze in the place. “What’s in it for you?”
“Worst case? Time to secure my next contract.”
“How do you plan to support yourself while you’re doing all that free project reporting and contract negotiating?”
She sent a glance down the bar. “Some people find my skill set more valuable than you do.”
Logan followed her gaze to find a grinning Brodie Monaghan hoisting a beer in her direction to the hoots and catcalls of everyone else in the place. More surprising, he spied Eula March seated alone at a small two-top by the front door. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her in the pub before. His gaze snagged briefly on hers, and while he couldn’t have said she smiled, there was something . . . knowing . . . about the look she sent him.
Her words from the day before came back to him once again. Change is coming. Be open to it.
He looked back at Alex and felt that little ripple sneak up his spine and lift every single hair along the back of his neck. Damn it, Eula.
Before he could find the words to tactfully shut down Alex’s little scheme, she smiled. “And best case? I can take care of myself long enough to provide you with the opportunity to realize why you should have hired me in the first place.”
Chapter 6
She was an even bigger idiot than she’d thought. In the course of a single day, she’d managed to do the two things she’d sworn not to do. She’d put the weight of the expectations of an entire town on her admittedly less-than-stable shoulders . . . and she’d pissed off the only guy she needed on her side: the one she wanted to hire her. “Oh yeah, you’re totally ready to take on a new job. Handled that like a real pro.”
The thing was . . . she had to be ready whether she truly was or not. Her other options were that there weren’t any other options. Her bluster and bravado in the pub the night before aside, doing a loft conversion on an old boathouse for Brodie Monaghan did not a side career make. She was hopeful that would lead to other small jobs around town, enough to keep food in her belly and gas in her truck while she did her prospectus for Logan, but since she was fairly certain Brodie was a somewhat controversial new resident, she wasn’t sure his hiring her was going to help her street cred with the longtime locals.
Alex sank down in the overstuffed chair in the corner of Logan’s guest room, which was her room for the next few weeks or so, and dragged her duffel bag over to her feet. It was barely past seven in the morning and she could already hear the wind howling outside the bedroom window. She rummaged in the bag and dug out a freshly laundered pair of faded old work jeans, a long-sleeved tee, a plaid wool lumberjack shirt, then tossed another long-sleeved tee on top for good measure. Two thick pairs of socks, cotton bra, and clean underwear completed the stack. She eyed her closed bedroom door, wondering if her host was up and about.
The night before, he’d informed her the door to the house was unlocked, then left the pub for parts unknown. She hadn’t seen him since and had headed back to Pelican Point shortly thereafter.
After spending the better part of an hour unhitching and parking her trailer with only the moonlight to guide her, fingers and nose numb from the steady winds, then carting in the bare minimum of personal stuff, she’d gone straight to the guest room. She had no idea when he’d come in. Or if he had.
That led her to wondering whether he was involved with anyone. No one had mentioned it to her during her mini-tour of Blueberry the day before. Considering that every last person she’d come across knew she’d stayed with their police chief the night before, it seemed like something that might have come up. He had to be, if not the most eligible bachelor in town, certainly one of the most visible ones.
Not that it mattered. Not that she cared. It was just . . . well, it would be good to know if she might be inadvertently pissing off some significant other just by being present in the police chief’s personal orbit. At least, that rationale sounded pretty plausible to her, so she was sticking with it.
She’d been awake since before dawn, but, for once, not for the usual reasons. In fact, for the second night running she’d gotten a decent amount of sleep. The previous night wasn’t too much of a surprise given how the day had gone, and she’d still woken the previous morning feeling raw, achy, and emotionally wrung out. But this morning . . . well, her throat wasn’t raw for the first time in as long as she could remember, so she hadn’t cried in her sleep or worse. Her head wasn’t all cottony, and she almost felt . . . rested.
As a lighthouse restorer, she’d spent more nights in places with the hum of a steady wind rattling the windowpanes and the sounds of waves crashing on rocks than not, so it wasn’t the setting. Maybe her collapse had been her body’s way of saying that it simply couldn’t sustain that protracted level of grief any longer. Maybe she’d finally, literally wrung herself out. If that meant no more nightmares, too, then hallelujah, strike up the chorus.
Maybe the fact that she was finally taking a personal step forward, officially putting the year of tragedy, pain, and transition behind her with actions instead of wishful thinking was part of it, too. She sure hoped so.
“Maybe tonight I’ll go back to the Sex-god Voice dreams.” She smiled at the thought. Not that she had any designs on her potential future boss other than to get him to hire her . . . but the dreams she’d had about him sure beat the hell out of the nightmares she’d been dealing with. At least she knew her libido wasn’t totally disconnected from utter lack of use. She zipped up her duffel and shoved it between the nightstand and the chair, thinking at some point she needed to unpack and get a few more of her things from the truck, but she would work up to that.
Her thoughts drifted to her other boss, the one who was actually going to pay her. Brodie Monaghan was a testosterone-fueled, walking testament to just how beautifully packaged the male of the species could be. Always grinning, he was an innate charmer, ready with a laugh, a wink, and the kind of constant flirting she suspected came so naturally to him, he wasn’t even aware of doing it. His fresh-off-the-boat Irish brogue didn’t hurt him any, either.
He was completely at odds with the dark-haired, brooding, tough guy she was rooming with. Of course, truth be told, nothing, not even Brodie’s charming lilt and infectious laugh, affected her like Logan’s reverberating baritone had. Even when he wasn’t all that happy with her, the sound of his voice was like a velvet caress, stroking every one of her libidinal nerve endings. Brodie Monaghan might make her blush . . . but Logan McCrae made her wet.
“Aaaand, we’re all done thinking about that,” she stated
, pushing out of the chair and heading resolutely to the bathroom down the hall. The same one that had given her the chilling wake-up call the morning before. She’d come prepared. She put her stack of clothes and zipper tote with her shampoo and other essentials on top of the old wicker hamper, then turned to face what she suspected would be one of the easier Pelican Point challenges. She’d already parked her tool belt and a few other odds and ends she’d picked up in town the day before in the small tiled room when she’d come in the night before.
Owen Hartley, at the hardware store, had been quite helpful, and she’d already made a note about setting up a time with him to go over cost projections. Walking into his hardware store had been like stepping back in time. She could have spent hours there, days even, and not been able to fully catalog and appreciate all of the myriad bits and bobs he had tucked in every nook and cranny of the old clapboard building. While one of the larger local suppliers might be able to beat him on price, nothing was as valuable as a shop owner who knew his customer base and the kinds of things they were likely to need. Quite probably, he would be a perfect source for the vintage pieces of hardware she would otherwise have to hunt down from her Internet and other business contacts.
He’d already proven his worth on that score with the replacement pieces for the old pipe coupling and antique spigot contraption attached to the claw-foot tub. What Logan really needed was to have the shower wall torn out and all the pipes completely redone. She could see water spots and other issues with the tile and the ceiling. But that would have to go in her project report. For now, all she had to do was make it functional so she could take a shower without fear of being coldcocked by a flying faucet.
Still wearing flannel pajama pants and her dad’s old Packers jersey a half hour later, Alex had used up her go-to list of swearwords and was getting creative as the old pipes continued to create a new issue for every one she solved. “I just want a hot shower, you ancient copper, crumbling piece of patina-crusted—”
“You could have just asked,” came that velvet baritone from the doorway behind her. “I’d have let you use mine.”
Her first thought was that yet again she was not showing him her best side. It wasn’t just her choice of colorful vocabulary, but also the fact that his present view was of her pajama-covered backside. Yeah, at some point, her karma really needed to swing the other way.
“If I’m going to be staying here”—she gritted her teeth as she tightened what she hoped was the last copper fitting, silently praying the pipe she was attaching it to didn’t crumble under the pressure—“it seemed to make more sense to go ahead and get this one working.”
With one final turn of the wrench, it was on. She clambered to her feet, brushed her hands on her pj’s, then sent up another prayer as she turned on the water spigot. The pipes shook, they shimmied, they groaned, and she was about a half second away from covering her face with her hands, just in case . . . when a steady stream of water came shooting out of the tap. “Aha! And ha again!” She danced a little jig, then pointed her wrench at the pipes. “See, you’re not the boss of me. Told ya.”
The deep chuckle behind her made her close her eyes tight. In her glee, she’d forgotten he was watching.
“Do you always make it so personal?”
“The pipes started it,” she said, but couldn’t help the little smile that kicked at the corner of her mouth. She turned to face him. “But I ended it.”
“Only after the pipes won a few rounds, from the looks of it,” he said, his gaze taking in her wet hair and the soaked front of her jersey.
“Hence the trash talk and end zone dance,” she said, as if that was a perfectly reasonable reaction.
He shook his head, but that mouth of his still had more upward curve than frown, and the very idea of him laughing and smiling made the only dry parts of her start to get completely different ideas.
“Well, you might want to take advantage of what hot water there is. I’m making coffee.”
“Black for me.” She smiled as she stepped forward to close the door. “No toast.”
“Suit yourself.”
She closed the door behind him, then leaned against it. She could blame the shaky legs on having been stuck in a crouch position for the better part of the last thirty minutes, but she knew that for the lie it was. Damn but the man was potent. And she hadn’t missed that little wry glint in his eye at her toast jab. He had a sense of humor in there somewhere.
He hadn’t been kidding about the hot water time frame. Luckily she’d gotten the suds out of her hair because she barely got the chance to do a quick scrub over the rest of her before hot went directly to icy cold. She was soapsuds free when she got out, but one giant goose bump as she pulled on fresh clothes. So, a new water heater goes to the top of the list.
Even the steam from the mirror had cleared before she got her shoes on. She groaned inwardly at the loveliness that was her towel-dried hair and pale face. She might have felt somewhat refreshed, or at least less exhausted, after the past two nights in Logan’s guest room bed, but it wasn’t really showing up in her face as yet.
“A hot meal or ten would probably help out a little,” she muttered at her reflection, realizing she was actually hungry. Starving, in fact. She’d gone to Delia’s the morning before, as Fergus had recommended, and while it had smelled heavenly, her stomach had been too jumpy to do justice to more than a bowl of oatmeal and some unburnt toast and jam. But it had been a start. And a good one. She’d been so busy roaming around the town, she hadn’t grabbed anything else until later that afternoon. And though the half a ham sandwich Brodie had offered had been good, part of it was still wrapped up on the passenger seat of her truck. She’d felt better by then, but had still been too nervous at the thought of the pending confrontation with the police chief to be able to eat much.
Now that that was over and she was still in Blueberry Cove, and with another night’s sleep under her belt she felt . . . well, not invincible by any means . . . but pretty sure she could do breakfast some serious justice. That meant going back into town to Delia’s, she supposed.
She tugged a comb through her hair, thankful she had enough natural wave to keep it somewhere between stringy and springy, and brushed her teeth, but there was little point in doing anything else. Not that it mattered what she did or didn’t do with her hair and face. Her reluctant host might make her lady parts sit up and beg for a little attention, but she sincerely doubted that any part of her had come even close to having the same effect on him. So, no point in being tempted to girly herself up. She’d tried that the day she’d arrived, and everyone knew how that had turned out. Scary, streaky clown face.
She left her toiletries on the sink, then wrapped her damp pajama bottoms and jersey up in the bath towels and headed to the kitchen and the mudroom beyond, where she’d spied the washer and dryer when she’d come in the night before, only to stop when the most heavenly scent filled the air. “I’ll throw in free breakfast prep if you’ll show me how you make your coffee.”
“Won’t be necessary. I make it every morning anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder, then did a double take.
“What now?” she asked, looking down at herself.
“Nothing.” Toast popped up and he dropped the randomly burnt squares onto a plate. “Sure you don’t want any, Mrs. Bunyan?”
She smirked at the crisply pressed uniform covering his back and tried not to notice the breadth of the shoulders it covered. Or the narrow hips where the shirt was tucked into pants that showed off a pretty fine looking butt. “No thanks, Mr. Chief of Police. I have to head into town, so I’ll grab something at Delia’s. I figure I’ll pick up a few things at the grocery while I’m there. You don’t mind if I put them in your fridge, do you? I’m assuming there’s plenty of room.”
“Knock yourself out,” was all he said.
She watched him move between coffeemaker, toaster, sink, and fridge for another couple seconds, wishing like hell he looked more troll-
like, like his attitude that morning, and less godlike, like his voice. “Listen, I know how it looked last night at the pub. I honestly didn’t plan for the whole town to be in on our conversation. In fact, it was the last thing I wanted. Fergus asked—”
“It’s done, right?” He turned to face her, cradling a heavy coffee mug in one broad hand. “No point in rehashing it.”
“Okay.” So, he wasn’t going to sulk about it, but he wasn’t going to pretend he was happy about it, either. That was fair.
“How long will it take?”
“What, my report? A few weeks, weather permitting, three probably, to get all the inspections done and the information for the estimates I’ll need after that.”
“And if you weren’t also tied up with whatever Monaghan has you doing, then how long?”
Her eyes widened at that. “Listen, if you don’t want me here, I can find somewhere else to stay while I put it all together.”
“I didn’t say that. You’ll be tromping all over the place, anyway.”
“Yes, there is all that tromping. I can pitch in for water, electricity, coffee—”
“Also not necessary. Like I said before, we dragged you cross-country, the least we can do is house you while you get your next project lined up. How long will it take if you just focus on the one thing?” He lifted a hand to stall her response. “I can pick up some groceries and if you need gas—”
“I can handle gas and I can feed myself,” she said, trying not to grind her jaw too tightly.
“How long then?”
“Ten days to two weeks minimum. I won’t know until I start looking. I could give you a better estimate by the end of today or tomorrow. The work I’m doing for Brodie is on a flexible schedule. If you’re in that big a hurry to—”
“You’ve got seven.”
“Seven what?”
“Days.” He pushed off the counter, snagged the keys he’d offered her the morning before from where they still sat on the counter and tossed them to her. “After that, you’re on your own.”
Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove) Page 10
