Sea Glass Sunrise

by Donna Kauffman

  “And if the purpose is deemed without merit? Or worse?”

  She looked directly at him now. “Then we close ranks. And you don’t stand a chance.”

  “Another point to the counselor,” he said, a wry smile on his handsome face. “So . . . what do you do when the problem is within the ranks of the already established? Generations of established? Employs a good percentage of the other established folks of the town?”

  She turned her attention back to the road. “All towns, all places, go through internal conflict. It would be a highly unusual place if it didn’t.” They walked on in silence a few moments, and then she said, “In this case, it’s not a matter of whether the club is coming. Winstock has the property and from what I understand, all the proper paperwork in order to see it through.”

  “You checked on that, did you? I thought it wasn’t any of your concern?”

  “I live here. Of course it’s my concern. And I didn’t have to check on it. All I had to do was spend five minutes with my brother, and any one of my neighbors, to be brought pretty thoroughly up to speed.”

  “I see,” he said, sounding thoughtful.

  She shot him a sideways glance, but didn’t ask him to clarify. “My point is, the tall ship is here, the lighthouse has been renovated. Those are done deals. Now the yacht club will happen, and, all combined, it will make us something of a destination for outsiders. Not just the new club members, either, but businesses who will want to cater to the needs of folks with that kind of money. Those being very different needs from most of the folks who live here. The question before us now isn’t should we or shouldn’t we. The question now is what we’re going to do about what’s definitely coming. The conflict is coming from different people having different ideas on how they want to handle that new reality.”

  “Owen said much the same thing. Change is always happening. If it isn’t, then things wither and die, either from neglect or lack of energy pushing it forward. So, Hannah McCrae of the founding McCraes and defender of justice . . . how do you want to see this newest change handled?”

  She lifted a shoulder, stifled a wince when she belatedly realized it was her bad one. The pain meds were wearing off. A moment later, his broad palm, warm and gentle, pressed to her lower back, then slid up to her neck. She started to shrug him off, but he stepped behind her, and gently slid his thumb under her hair, and up the back of her scalp.

  “Just accept some help, okay?”

  “I’ve been accepting your help all day. I can’t seem to get away from accepting your help,” she said, only the words didn’t come out as sharply as she’d intended, because his hands were on her. Again. His breath was warm on the nape of her neck as he moved her hair aside. His body was big and broad, and blocked the breeze coming off the water, making her feel warmer, protected.

  But who’s going to protect me from him? She started to step to the side and move away, but he brought his other hand up and pressed both thumbs gently against spots on either side of her spinal column, right at the base of her skull. She groaned as the tension in her neck and shoulder released, and the pain abated. “Calder—”

  “Shh. Just let me.” He moved his fingers to another spot, this time lower on her neck, and pressed again.

  She might have groaned again. Just a little. The relief made her want to weep. She was just so tired of hurting. Her head . . . her heart.

  Then he moved his hands up under her hair, massaging fingertips against her scalp, letting her hair cascade over the backs of his hands and run through his fingers, creating that delicious tingling feeling you get when someone plays with your hair. She should move away. And she would have. But then he very gently massaged her temples, and it felt too good—so damn good—she decided she might be persuaded to let him work his magic. For another minute. Or two. He wasn’t seducing her, after all. He was just . . . helping.

  She might have possibly been leaning a little back against him when he lifted his hands. She all but had to swallow her tongue to stifle the moan of disappointment that rose in her throat. But then he was moving her hair aside again, and he leaned down so she could feel his warm breath on her neck.

  He’d tasted sweet when he’d kissed her, a little spicy, and she shouldn’t be remembering that, thinking about that. Only instead of pressing his fingers to those delicious, tension-relieving spots, he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck. Now what’s that if not seduction?

  Any other time, she’d have jerked away, made it clear that he couldn’t just . . . invade her personal space. So casually, so confidently. She wasn’t easy, she wasn’t . . . what they said she was. Far from. You’re a stone-cold bitch.

  Only she wasn’t that either. She was just a woman who’d fallen in love with the wrong man. A woman who’d had her heart shattered into a million pieces and handed back to her on a platter of public humiliation. She wasn’t ready for kisses, confident, casual, or otherwise. Not even if they felt like . . . oh, they felt so good.

  His lips were warm, firm, and tender all at the same time. He smelled good, he felt good. She wanted to sink in, to drown, to let everything fall away and simply float along on the lovely tingling sensations he was eliciting from her body. She was teetering, so close to that edge . . . then he pressed a kiss just below her ear, and her hair was swinging back into place, his jacket once again nudged up onto her shoulders. She didn’t—couldn’t—resume her casual stroll. She wasn’t sure her legs would function properly. She felt . . . wobbly. And not just in the knees.

  “Is, ah—” She had to pause, clear the hoarseness from her throat. “Is that what they teach you in humanitarian school?”

  “Acupressure school, actually,” he said. “I learned it to help the horses. They weren’t in great shape.”

  She melted, there was no help for it. She turned to face him. “Seriously, stop it.”

  “You have something against using acupressure on livestock?”

  No. I have something against you being wonderful, against the things you’re making me feel. She turned away again, thinking she needed to simply walk back to the pub, snag the first set of keys she could find, drive out to the Point, and not leave again until Calder Blue had left Blueberry Cove and headed back home to his river and his farm. She had so much to figure out. She needed a clear head for that. Phone calls from jerks like Garrison made it hard enough, but Calder . . . he made clear thinking close to impossible. Okay, all the way impossible.

  “No,” she managed finally. “Of course not. It sounds like those horses won the lottery jackpot.” Time to go home, Hannah. Wherever the hell that’s going to be. She slid his jacket off her shoulders and turned to hand it back to him. “Thank you. For . . . everything. Good luck with your meeting. I need to get back to my family.”

  To his credit, he seemed to know when it was time to stop pushing. He didn’t follow her. In fact, she made it halfway up the steep road leading back to the Rusty Puffin before he called out, “Miz Scarlett?”

  She shouldn’t have smiled. She shouldn’t have had even that brief moment of thinking, Yes! She shouldn’t have. But she did. She turned. “Yes, Mr. Blue?” she replied, a bit of Southern accent sliding into the words to match his. So unwise.

  “You ever have a hankering to ride a horse?”

  “I try not to hanker, Mr. Blue.” Liar. You’re hankering something fierce at the moment. “I’m learning life is simpler that way.” Or will be. Just as soon as you cut that out.

  “I’m talking about the kind that come with four shoes and a saddle, not a gas pedal and a stick shift,” he added, as if she hadn’t said anything. “In case there was some confusion on that point.” She could see his grin flash, even in the dim glow of the pier lights.

  “I’m afraid I’m quite busy with a wedding at the moment. And don’t you have a little yacht club or something you need to build?”

  “Wedding will be over in a few days. Ground won’t be broken on the club until Winstock and I haggle out the details.”

/>   “I wasn’t aware there was haggling yet to be done.”

  “Until there are signatures on the dotted line, there’s always haggling to be done.”

  “Hope you have a good attorney then.”

  He walked up the hill toward her, his long legs eating up the distance more quickly than his casual stride made it seem possible. He stopped in front of her. “Don’t think I need one.” He smiled. “But in case I do . . . know any good ones?”

  “Contract law isn’t my forte.”

  “Right. You take down the bad guys.”

  “I make sure my clients get as fair a deal as possible.”

  His expression shifted to one of surprise. “You represent the bad guys?”

  “I represent folks who pay my law firm to secure the best legal representation they can get. In my line of work, it’s not about guilt or innocence. It’s about achieving justice as defined by the letter of the law. You try and screw over one of my clients, I will do everything in my power to yank the screw free, and find a nice tender spot in which to return it.”

  He let out a low whistle, but otherwise said nothing.

  She smiled, but felt the chill return. The internal one. “Rethinking your opinion on how cold my stones are?”

  He let out a bark of laughter at that. “No. In the courtroom, I have no doubt you could strike fear into the slimiest of corporate snakes.” He surprised her and stepped in, not aggressively, but as smoothly and easily, as if deep in her personal space was the most natural spot in the world for him. He didn’t touch her, he just moved his body close enough that she had to tip up her chin to see his eyes. It was as intimate a position as two people could be in without actually touching. She couldn’t help it; she liked how his superior height and breadth of frame—well, those shoulders anyway—made her feel sheltered. And not just from the harbor breeze. Don’t romanticize him. Or this. Any of this. He parried, and you thrusted. Now it’s time to end this little flirtship. Go home, Hannah.

  “Outside the courtroom,” he said, “I’m betting that’s another story.”

  The comment wasn’t delivered in the way sleazy Garrison had said it. Calder didn’t even know about that, about what had happened. Still, her thoughts went there, and she stiffened, she couldn’t help it. It was an ingrained response by now. She stepped back, but he took her elbow—gently, but with intent.

  “Hey. I’m sorry. I—that sounded—” He stopped, swore under his breath. “I was going to say I’m not an asshole like that jerk on the phone. But that’s exactly what it sounded like to you, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know how else I could have taken it.” She didn’t say it stiffly, but there was distance now. And a coolness in her tone. She couldn’t help that either. Her self-defense mechanisms had taken some time to kick in back in D.C., but once they had, she shored them up as fast as she could. It didn’t make it hurt any less, but it did help ensure nothing could hurt her anymore. Nothing. And no one.

  “When I said that, I wasn’t thinking about the way you tasted, or the look in your eyes when I kissed you,” he said, and her gaze flew back to his, but there wasn’t anything aggressive or even suggestive in his gaze. It was simply direct, open. Honest.

  Like you’d know an honest man if you tripped over one.

  “I was thinking about how you defended your sister, the honest love you have for her, even though she clearly drives you crazy. I was thinking about the clear affection in your eyes when I mentioned Owen Hartley’s comments about you. And just now, the way you came to the defense of your hometown, your neighbors, their way of life. What used to be your way of life.” He lifted a hand, caught a wayward strand of hair the breeze had kicked up, tucked it behind her ear, barely brushing his fingertips over the sensitive curve.

  Her body wanted to get all wobbly again, wanted to lean toward him, but he’d already dropped his hand away.

  “That’s what I meant. You might be aggressive and all powerful when you’re on the clock, fighting for your clients. But to do that, you have to have passion, and not just for the job, or justice. You have to care about . . . something. Deeply.”

  She looked at him, studied him, but she’d be damned if she could read him. “You don’t know me.”

  “Am I wrong? About any of that?”

  She paused, then said, “So what, did they also teach you people-whisperer skills in humanitarian school?”

  He grinned at that. It was slow and wide, and made him even more attractive, but there was nothing overtly seductive about it, or even flirtatious. She knew that much; she’d seen that look from him, too. It was . . . potent. Turned out so was this one. It was . . . friendly. Honest. Like a man enjoying a good conversation with someone he liked. Someone whose pants he wants to get into.

  She wanted to shove that thought aside, reject it out of hand. It seemed wrong. Unfair. Don’t blame all men for the sins of one, she reminded herself. Only . . . that didn’t mean that only one man was capable of committing that particular sin. In her work, she’d learned to listen to her gut, trust her instincts. Tim had taken that ability away from her, too, shattered it. It was, she’d realized, the cruelest twist of all. Losing faith in herself.

  He tapped a fingertip to her temple, gently, then ran it softly along her cheekbone. “So much going on in there,” he murmured. “Do you ever take a break?”

  She felt wobbly again. She needed to go home. She needed to get away from him. Far, far away from him. Because this, him, all of it . . . felt good. Easy. Helpful. Nice. She couldn’t afford to accept any of those things from him. Stick with what you know, and who you know. That’s the only way you’ll relearn the ability to trust in yourself again.

  “That’s why I’m here,” she said, finally looking away, moving back a step.

  He smiled. “And how’s that working out for you so far?”

  What was it about him that made it impossible for her to get a decent mad on and hang on to it for more than ten seconds? “Can I get back to you on that?”

  He chuckled. “Sure.”

  She held his gaze a moment longer, then gave him a brief nod. “Good night, Mr. Blue.”

  “Night, Miz Scarlett.”

  She turned then, but he didn’t let her get even five feet this time.

  “Hannah.”

  He’d said it quietly, all teasing gone from his voice.

  And because she apparently couldn’t stop herself from responding to him, she turned. She’d intended to simply look at him, but, just as quietly, she said, “Calder.”

  His eyes did flare, just for a brief second, but it made something flare inside of her. He was the one to look away then, a brief glance down the hill, toward the harbor, out across the water. She didn’t know what he was seeing in his mind’s eye, but she doubted he was seeing anything in that harbor.

  “How long are you here?” he asked quietly. “And—don’t evade, just . . . how long?”

  “What does it matter?” she replied, not defensively, simply asking.

  “I—” He broke off, let out a self-deprecating laugh and looked skyward as he shook his head. “I have no idea.” He shifted his gaze back to hers, his own eyes intent, searching hers. For what, she didn’t know. “It just does.”

  Then she was searching his gaze, wishing she didn’t understand, wishing his interest in her was the complete mystery it should be. But it wasn’t, because she felt drawn to him in that exact same, nonsensical, why-can’t-I-just-walk-away-I’ve-got-too-many-things-going-on-and-you’re- a-complete-stranger kind of way.

  “Calder, I—” But she never got the chance to finish the sentence, because at that exact moment, a small boathouse at the end of one of Blue’s smaller piers exploded into a ball of flames.

  Chapter Nine

  Calder whipped his head around in the exact same instant he instinctively pulled Hannah into his arms and shielded her with his body. “What the—”

  She squirmed in his arms. “Calder, let go. I need to—”

  He set h
er away from him. “You okay? Call nine-one-one, or you probably know the entire fire crew by name. Get them here. Then stay here. I’ll be back.”

  She’d already been trying to dig her phone out of her jeans pocket. “I’m on it, but—”

  He leaned in, eyes right on hers, and kissed her, banged-up lip and all. “Stay here. Please.” Then he turned and took off at a run toward the docks.

  “Calder!” she shouted after him. “What are you—don’t go down there! You don’t know what else might—”

  He looked over his shoulder just long enough to make sure she wasn’t running after him, saw that she had the phone to her ear and was talking into it, presumably to the dispatcher, and let out a sigh of relief.

  Then he turned back and focused on the burning boathouse, which looked like nothing more than a Norse effigy at this point, as parts of it sank into the still, dark waters of the harbor. Please let everyone be safe. It was past midnight now, so hopefully the boathouse had been empty. Things could be replaced. People could not. Family could not.

  He heard the wail of sirens just as his work boots hit the main pier. It was a maze getting out to the smaller piers, but the blaze lighting up the night sky illuminated everything in a wash of flickering gold. “Jonah!” he shouted as he closed in on the main boathouse, the one Jonah had walked back to after their conversation. “Fire!” he shouted. “Jonah!” He banged a flat palm on the heavy wood panel door that closed off the end of the boathouse. He had no idea if the old man lived out here or if it was just the business part of the operation, but he couldn’t take any chances. The explosion should have woken up anyone within a mile of the place, but—his thoughts broke off when a light came blazing on in the upper level of the boathouse. Thank God.