Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove)

by Donna Kauffman

  He hooted out a surprised laugh at that, and she laughed too. He was . . . infectious. And pretty damn easy on the eyes. Another time, another place, maybe she’d have reconsidered. Or at least been more open to his playful, flirty banter. But her plate was full enough, and more confusing emotions she did not need.

  “A woman who speaks plain and direct,” he said, when his laughter subsided. “You have my full admiration, lass, that you do.” He picked up her hand and gave the back of her fingerless glove a loud kiss. Then looked up through thick lashes and winked. “And ye’d have been right about that list, too. But that doesn’t mean I’m no’ up for being reformed.” He straightened, let his fingers trail lightly over her bare ones, before letting her hand drop. “If there was a woman alive who could do it, my money would be on you.”

  She laughed again. “Thanks, but I already have a full-time job.”

  That set him off again and they both laughed until she had to put her hand to her waist to help catch her breath. “Go on with ye now,” she said in perfect imitation of her grandfather’s brogue. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He clutched his heart in dramatic fashion, then gave her a smart salute, and thankfully did as she asked. The floodlights came on as he was pulling out. She framed her forehead with her hand and blinked a few times to adjust her vision, then lowered it in time to see Hank, Wade, and Scotty headed across the drive as well.

  “I’ll have some information for you by beginning of next week,” Hank said, then handed her a sheet of paper. “I’ll need to make some calls, get some numbers, but that’s a base list of the work that needs to be done. Let me know if you’re interested in continuing.”

  “Logan said he wanted to hire local where we can, and I couldn’t agree more. We do have a few other quotes to discuss and there may be some overlap we’d have to work out, but if you all are open to working with me on that, then I know I’m interested.”

  Wade and Scotty shared a quick grin and Wade handed her a sheaf of papers, too. “Same as Hank. We need to crunch some numbers, but that’s the outline. Let us know when you want to talk schedules and money.” Scotty elbowed him at that last part, but Wade just grinned. “She’s okay. She gets business talk.”

  “I do,” she assured them. “I’ll be in touch in the next day or two. Thanks, you guys, for coming out and getting going on this. I appreciate it.”

  “Oh, our pleasure. This being one of the oldest places on Pelican Bay, it’s an honor and privilege to get to work on it. I imagine anyone else you get out here from the area will tell you the same. It matters to us, seeing this place preserved,” Scotty said. “Please tell the chief thanks for considering us.”

  “I will. I know it means a lot to him, too. I should warn you, I’m not sure if that will be the case with the lighthouse. Hiring local, I mean,” she told them, figuring it best to get the word out on that sooner than later. “Some of that work is specialized and I’m not sure we can find the right experts locally.”

  Hank lifted his hand. “We understand that. Wouldn’t know the first thing about what to tell you to do with that monstrosity. Wish you the best with it, though. If you need anything basic—wiring, electric, plumbing, what have you—well, we can help you with that.”

  She smiled, relieved that they already seemed to know that part of the job wasn’t likely to be up for grabs. “Good to know. And thanks.” She shook hands with each of them, then waved as they climbed in their trucks and headed out.

  She walked back up to the house and paused to look up at the looming shadow of the lighthouse tower on the far side of the cottage. She felt immense relief at how well things were going so far. She was very grateful to Logan for making it clear to the local contractors that she was heading up the job and had the power to hire—and fire. That he’d given her his blessing had clearly held major sway. Any issues she feared might crop up, either because of her gender or her being the new face in town, hadn’t happened. So far, anyway. She was hopeful that the project would continue on as it had begun.

  She went in through the mudroom door, thinking she’d heat up some of the spaghetti and meatballs she’d made two days before, which reminded her she needed to e-mail Delia her dad’s meatball recipe. She smiled, thinking of the trim, outspoken, forty-something redhead who ran the local diner. Delia served locals, tourists, dockworkers, and fisherman alike with the same direct, no-nonsense flair that almost always included her opinion on all manner of things personal and professional. The first time Alex had eaten there, she’d had to hide her constantly climbing eyebrows behind the monitor of her laptop, but Delia, of course, had noticed anyway, and called her straight out on it.

  Blushing to her roots, Alex had stammered an apology, then complimented her on making the best seafood omelet she’d ever tasted—which had been the truth—after which Delia had laughed, then parked herself in the booth across from Alex and proceeded to grill her like a hard-boiled police detective from one of those late-night cable shows. Since then, Alex had been welcomed like a native—which also made her fair game for any of Delia’s observations or advice.

  Alex had taken in stride the wiggled eyebrows Delia had served up along with her world famous chowder, laughing along as she’d been teased about the exact nature of the work she’d been doing for Brodie Monaghan. At the time, she’d figured it couldn’t hurt if the town was thinking there was something there as it would keep the attention off what was actually going on out at the Point. Except nothing had been going on there, either. She wondered if perhaps the teasing had spawned talk of an entirely different and far less flattering nature.

  It wasn’t until she was seated at the small kitchen table, laptop open, notepad by its side as she worked through a bowl of spaghetti, that it struck her that Logan hadn’t been wearing his uniform when he’d left. He must have gone in and changed right after she’d left him, before being called away. Conveniently keeping them apart for yet another evening.

  Of course, if there was chatter making the rounds about her and Brodie, then surely he’d have heard about it. She’d like to think he had more sense than to believe idle gossip, or at least come out and ask, but she honestly didn’t know him well enough to know how he’d handle it. She supposed it depended on who had told him what. Nor, she reasoned, did he know her well enough to know what kinds of choices she would make. Not really.

  However, they had an agreement, so she hoped he’d expect her, at the very least, to terminate what was between them decisively and directly and not just let him assume she’d done so simply because he’d gone out of his way to steer clear of her for the past week. She propped her elbows on the table, pressed her face against her hands, and groaned. “Why does this have to be so complicated?”

  “It doesn’t. Or it shouldn’t be.”

  She startled, then clutched her heart and grabbed her glass of wine before she sent it flying to the linoleum covered floor. “Holy—you scared me half to death. I didn’t hear you come in.” She steadied the wineglass, then looked over to where he was leaning in the doorframe. He was wearing a soft blue button-up shirt tucked into jeans that had long since made themselves perfectly at home on his long, lean, larger-than-life frame. Add to that a pair of worn leather hiking boots and a worn leather bomber jacket, and she wanted him so badly it made her teeth ache. “I thought you got called back into work.”

  “I lied.”

  That surprised a wide-eyed look from her. “Why? Where did you go?”

  “I promised Fergus I’d get into town more often. Get a life he thinks I don’t have. With good reason, I suppose.”

  “So you were at the Puffin? Why didn’t you just say—never mind. It’s not my business.”

  “You didn’t go to dinner.”

  “No, I never planned to.” She gestured to her plate. “I’m a good cook. Apparently the whole town knows.”

  “Delia mentioned you owed her a recipe. I’m guessing that’s the source of the rumor.” At Alex’s questioning look, he added,
“She stopped in the pub as I was leaving.”

  “You didn’t stay long.”

  “It wasn’t where I wanted to be.”

  She was still annoyed with him about the weird tension with Brodie and about the one-eighty his interest had taken since the beginning of the week. She didn’t owe him an explanation, and yet she heard herself say, “An evening out with Brodie Monaghan wasn’t where I wanted to be, either.” A little of the irritated edge crept in as she added, “I’m having enough trouble with one boss as it is.”

  “I’m not your boss. Not in any way that matters. No one questions your expertise. If you do this project, it’s because you’re qualified.”

  She lifted her wine glass toward him. “Thanks.” Then another thought struck her. “Is that why you’ve been hiding out? Because you think folks will assume I earned this job some other way? If they’re going to talk, they’re going to talk. I’ll earn respect for the work from those who matter, and the rest, well, they can bite me. But your mileage apparently varies on that.”

  He eased off the doorframe and walked into the kitchen, leaning against the end of the counter a few feet from where she sat. When he crossed his legs at the ankles and folded his arms, she had to work not to squirm in her seat.

  By any measure, Brodie was a good-looking guy with an easy charm and a confident manner that said he probably knew his way around a woman’s body. At the moment, there was nothing easy or particularly charming about the man standing before her. Yet, with nothing more than a brooding look, he managed to short-circuit every nerve ending in her body to the point where she could barely sit still. It took more effort than she wanted to admit to casually turn her gaze away from his and back to her monitor. She would have sipped her wine again, but she was afraid she’d snap the stem in half.

  The silence grew; then he said, “I don’t know what to do about you.”

  She went still, then set her wine down and put her trembling hands in her lap, twisting her fingers together so he wouldn’t see. “You don’t have to do anything with me. Other than let me do my job.”

  “Oh, I know what I want to do with you.”

  Dear . . . God. Did he know how easily he was dismantling every brick she’d so carefully laid in that protective wall she’d spent all week building?

  “And yet, you’ve gone out of your way to have nothing to do with me.” She made herself look directly at him, shoulders level, chin straight. “I thought you said you were done with being frustrated.”

  “Turns out there are different kinds of frustration.”

  “Such as?” She turned, folded her arms, crossed her legs, mirroring his closed-off posture. And thought she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. His throat might have worked a little, too.

  Ah. So she wasn’t the only one being affected. Good to know.

  She held his gaze, then wished she felt more triumphant when he was the one to look away first. With his gaze on the toes of his boots, he finally said, “You make me want more.”

  That wonderfully deep voice of his, with that rough edge to it, was like a live wire, stroking every inch of her skin. Add in that hint of confusion, and she lost any hope of maintaining her brief hold on the upper hand. “You could have had more. I wasn’t the one hiding in my study all week and leaving before the crack of dawn so you wouldn’t have to risk being in the same room with me for breakfast. If this is about some perceived—whatever it is you think I’m having, or want to have, with Brodie—I’ve told you, even though I don’t owe you any explanation, it’s professional. Nothing more. Not for me.”

  His gaze flicked up to hers and the hanging light over the kitchen table caught and reflected the heat in those golden eyes. It made her pulse twitch and her heart pound as if she’d suddenly come upon a wolf in the woods. She wasn’t too sure she hadn’t done just that.

  He shook his head. “I’m not talking about sex. With me or anyone else.”

  That caught her by surprise. “Then what are we talking about?”

  He held her gaze for another long, intense moment. Then, just when she thought her skin might start to sizzle, he shifted his gaze toward the ceiling, and abruptly pushed off the counter and walked to the door. “That’s just it. We’re not.”

  “Logan. What the—” Swearing under her breath, she stood. “Wait.”

  He paused, then looked back.

  “If you’re not talking about wanting sex, then what is it you do want?”

  “I wish to hell I knew.” He smacked his palms on the door frame, then walked through. As he was crossing the living room, he added, “That’s what’s so damn frustrating.”

  Acting on impulse, before she could think better of it—why start now?—she went after him. She caught up to him at the bottom of the stairs and grabbed his wrist.

  By the stunned look on his face, he’d been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t known she was behind him. “Alex, don’t—”

  “Too late.” She let his wrist go, but didn’t step back. “I’m done with all this enigmatic bullshit. I’m also done watching you hide in your own damn house. How do you think that makes me feel? I don’t want that. Not for you. Not for me. If you want a strictly professional relationship, then just say so. We’re grown adults. We can certainly behave accordingly. Just because we had sex, it’s not like we can’t respect each other’s boundaries and keep our hands to ourselves.”

  She’d forgotten about his lightning-fast reflexes. One second she’d been standing behind him, giving him a piece of her mind. A split second later, she was pinned against the wall of the stairwell without so much as a breath of room between her body and his.

  “That’s just it. Maybe I can keep my hands to myself. But I know I don’t want to.” She’d never heard his voice that low, that heated.

  She could barely hear her own voice above the echo of her pulse thrumming in her ears. “Then why are you?”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth as she spoke, and there was no hiding the trembling. And it wasn’t from fear. Far from it.

  “I told you. You make me want more.”

  More. And then she realized. More than sex. She’d been caught up in being so sure that’s all he wanted, so worried that she’d be the one wanting more, that it hadn’t occurred to her . . . She looked into his eyes, and feeling as if her heart was going to pound straight out of her chest, did the scariest thing she’d ever done. She said, “So?”

  If she’d thought his eyes were molten before, they were nothing short of volcanic now. He took her face in one broad palm, cupping his hand around her chin, his fingertips brushing the pulse in her temple. He drew his thumb over her lips, then guided her mouth to within a breath of his. “So, if I take more . . . I’m not sure I’ll want to stop.”

  She was shaking with need, with the knowledge that the promise in his words, the intent in his eyes, the possession in the way he held her, sent a dark thrill through her that no amount of rationalizing would enable her to deny she wanted . . . badly. And yet her defense mechanisms, shaky as they were, kicked in, anyway. “I’m not . . . here to stay.”

  “Well aware.” He pressed his thumb on her bottom lip and the shudder of pleasure that rocked her had her pressing her thighs tightly together.

  Her voice was raw, needy, even to her own ears. “We—we don’t need more loss. In our lives.”

  She saw the frustration, the flicker of pain, of regret. The idea that he was struggling as much as she was only made her feel closer to him.

  “That’s why I’ve become a hermit in my own damn house.”

  She was locked in his heated gaze, wanted his mouth on hers, his hands all over her. She wanted him to peel her clothes off, feel those hands on her bare skin, that mouth, his tongue, caressing her, electrifying her. She knew what he felt like—warm, big, strong—moving over her, pushing into her. She’d never wanted to feel anything so badly as she wanted to feel that, to feel him, inside her again.

  But then what?

  “I could—move out,” s
he whispered, the very idea making her throat ache. “I . . . was thinking about it earlier.” She felt the tremble in his fingertips, unsure whether it was truly him, or her. “To help us keep . . . a professional distance. I-I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “Is it what you want?”

  She reached up then, her own fingers trembling as she stroked them along the side of his face, feeling his body jerk against hers as she traced the outline of his ear and brushed through his hair. He shuddered as she drew them across his bottom lip; she saw his throat work. His jaw was so set, she thought his teeth would grind to dust. His body was hard and unyielding, pressed up against hers.

  But what she saw in his eyes, past the desire, past the frustration . . . the confusion and the vulnerability . . . made her own throat tighten with an emotion she couldn’t put a name to, didn’t dare to. She couldn’t speak, so she just shook her head.

  “Then what do we do, Alex?”

  What he wanted was clear, but it was that thread of real confusion, of . . . fear . . . that undid her. “I wish there was an easy answer. I really do.”

  Chapter 12

  He wanted to be angry . . . at something, at someone . . . for putting him in the last place he wanted to be—wanting something that came with the very risk he’d done his best to avoid.

  Alex understood. We don’t need more loss.

  Perversely, it was because she understood his frustration that he was being drawn in even more deeply. He wanted to discover all he didn’t know about her. What he did know, that elemental connection they shared, had created a bond that had been instant, specific, mutual. It rendered the element of time completely meaningless. The connection felt so . . . certain. It made wanting to know more about her feel exciting, the thrill of discovery, something to look forward to. Trusting that everything else was the proverbial icing on the cake. Icing he wanted to lick off slowly and over a great deal of time . . . layer by delectable layer.