Summer at Seaside Cove

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “If that’s what it takes, yes. Maybe we can look at getting a beach house in New York and splitting our time between both places. Here, there, as long as we’re together, I don’t care.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I thought Seaside Cove was my home—”

  “I thought New York was my home. But home—”

  “Is where you are,” they said unison.

  Tears filled Jamie’s eyes. “In case you haven’t figured it out, Mr. Smart Guy, Princeton, Ivy League, I’m wildly, crazy in love with you.”

  “Thank God. Because I’m wildly, crazy in love with you.” He settled his mouth on hers and the area surrounding his heart that just a few minutes ago had been empty and aching filled to overflow. His hands impatiently pressed her closer, but an insistent, “Excuse me … excuse me, you two … excuse me,” broke through the haze of love and lust engulfing him. Bemused, he lifted his head, and realized Larry was staring at them.

  “I’m real happy for you folks, but it’s late and I’m tired.”

  “Sure, Larry,” Jamie said. Then she looked at Nick. “Um, you’re happy to see me, right?”

  He nudged her with his pelvis. “You can’t tell?”

  She gave a smothered laugh. “I can. And I’m very glad. Because there’s a slight problem. It, ah, concerns my cab fare. I’m reeeeeally hoping you meant it when you said you weren’t poor.”

  Nick raised his brows, then looked at Larry over her shoulder. “What’s the damage?”

  Larry glanced at the meter. “Five hundred seventy-two dollars and thirty-five cents.” When Nick whistled softly, Larry added, “I’ll have you know I took her off the meter during our lunch break.”

  “That was very nice of you, Larry,” Jamie said.

  Nick returned his gaze to Jamie. “I take it you’re in need of financial assistance in settling your bill.”

  “I’m afraid so. The plaque pretty much maxed out my credit card.”

  “You realize you’ll be in my debt.”

  Her eyes glittered. “Oh, yeah.”

  “For a very long time.”

  “Even better. I’m thinking it’ll take me at least a few weeks to pay you back.”

  “Longer than that, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh yeah? Like how long?”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “I’m thinking about fifty years. At least.”

  Her lips curved slowly upward, until the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen bloomed on her face, and he found himself looking into eyes filled with all the love he could ever hope for.

  “Fifty years,” she repeated. “And once again, we agree.”

  Turn the page for a preview of

  the next contempoary romance featuring

  Seaside Cove

  by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

  Laurel Newman pulled in a steadying breath she wished she didn’t need. Wished she wasn’t wracked with nerves. Plagued with doubts. Wished her palms weren’t sweating, or her heart pounding in hard, uncomfortable knocks. It was crazy to be so nervous, so unsure of herself, but as many times as she’d tried to change it, she always felt this way when faced with the unfamiliar. The best she’d ever been able to accomplish was the ability to hide her jitters—a task she’d mastered. She was an expert at camouflaging her discomfort, of always appearing calm, cool, collected, and confident on the outside. None of her friends or family had ever suspected that her unruffled exterior hid a chronic worrier who, all evidence to the contrary, rarely let down her guard. Not that she needed to worry any longer about her friends discovering her secret.

  Because they weren’t her friends any longer.

  No, they were gone. Just as everything familiar to her was now gone. So much loss, so much pain. Her entire existence lost down a twisting path that had, after much chewing, spit her out here, in Seaside Cove. And brought her to this marina, to this building that overlooked the white-capped bay and grassy marshes of North Carolina. Where she was about to do something she’d never done before.

  Apply for a job.

  “C’mon, Laurel,” she whispered in her best pep-talk mode. “You can do this. People apply for jobs every day. First time for everything. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  Except she was afraid. Because for the first time in her life she needed a job. Needing a job, applying for a job, uncertain about the future, uncertain about … everything. So many firsts.

  God, she hated firsts.

  How had her life changed so drastically in such a short a period of time? Less than a year ago she’d been financially secure, a card-carrying member of New York City’s elite—with the black Amex to prove it.

  And now … now it was all gone. The wealth, the luxury, her home, her security. All gone.

  A breeze ruffled her hair and she wrinkled her nose at the underlying whiff of three-day-old fish—a scent she recognized as one the Seaside Cove locals called “low tide.”

  Chanel it was not.

  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” she muttered.

  Yes, she’d fallen, but she was determined to rise. Not just for her own sake, but for Heather’s. She’d let her daughter down too many times in the past. She wasn’t going to do it again. She hoped.

  So these desperate times called for desperate measures. And God knows she was desperate. A humorless sound escaped her. Desperation. Another damn first. One she really, really disliked.

  Straightening her spine, Laurel knocked on the door whose plain black lettering let her know she was at Griffin’s Marina and Custom Boat Building. Only muffled music reached her ears. She knocked again, and when no one answered, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  The scent of freshly cut wood hung heavy in the air. Light from the weak February sun fighting through the thick cloud cover seeped through the tall paned-glass windows, illuminating the partial wooden hull of a boat. Classic Aerosmith blasted from somewhere near the back of the hull, loud enough to awaken the dead. A pair of dusty jeans and work boots indicated someone stood back there as well. Probably Griffin, the person who’d posted the job ad. Since he couldn’t see her and he’d never hear her entering over the racket of music and whine of some sort of power tool, she headed toward him. Her boot heels tapped against the cement floor, a welcome change to all the wood decking she’d encountered in Seaside Cove. Decks and docks and boardwalks everywhere. Hazard of a coastal town, she supposed.

  In contrast to the rustic outside, the interior of the building was immaculate. Long rows of steel shelving ran the length of one wall, filled with gizmos and tools she couldn’t name, but she recognized the pristine organization. Clearly this Griffin was neat and tidy. Maybe even to the point of being anal. The thought of working for an anal boss didn’t thrill her, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Given that this was off-season in Seaside Cove, jobs weren’t plentiful. In fact, they were just about non-existent. She’d have to take what she could get. So far she’d gotten nothing. So anal boss or not, she wasn’t leaving here without a job. And she certainly wasn’t going to let the fact that she knew zilch about boats stop her.

  She rounded the back of the boat and found herself looking at a broad back covered by a faded plaid flannel shirt. Her gaze drifted down, taking in faded Levi’s hugging long legs that ended in work boots so scuffed they must have traveled the planet. The cacophony created by Aerosmith and the power saw buzzed through her skull, so loud she could feel the reverberations in her chest. She didn’t want to scare the guy—that saw looked like it could take off an arm.

  “Hello,” she shouted.

  Steven Tyler and the saw screamed on.

  She gingerly moved around the table saw so the man could see her and waved her arms. “Excuse me,” she bellowed.

  His gaze flicked up and she saw annoyance flash in his eyes behind the safety goggles he wore. The saw stopped with a fading wheeze, and he reached out to turn off the radio with an impatient flick.

  “Hi.” She smiled, ignoring the ri
nging in her ears. “Are you Griffin?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his tone as impatient and forbidding as his expression. Not to mention his size. She was five-nine in her socks, hitting six foot with her boots, a height many men found intimidating. But not this man. He had a good four inches on her and sported a glower that no doubt would have sent someone less determined than her slinking away. Stubble shaded his square jaw, shadowing features that might have passed for good-looking if they weren’t in the running for the title Mr. Seriously Pissed Off. His ebony hair was thick and rumpled and a few inches too long. Everything about him screamed big, rough, and Get Lost. If she wasn’t desperate, she would have done just that. His dark-eyed gaze flicked down to her boots and his frown grew more pronounced. “Who’re you?”

  Oh, joy. Anal and grumpy. Yippee. Definitely not looking at all happy to see her. Which didn’t bode well for this interview. Which frankly annoyed and confused her. He was the one who’d left the voice mail on her cell setting up this meeting. She swallowed her irritation and offered another smile, along with her hand. “Hi, Griffin. I’m Laurel Newman.”

  The frown he sizzled at her outstretched hand was clearly meant to incinerate it. Instead of shaking her hand, he shoved his safety glasses on top of his head and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not sure how you got in here—”

  “I used the door.”

  “It was closed.”

  “But not locked. I knocked. Twice. You didn’t hear me.”

  “Because I was working.” His tone made it abundantly clear that she’d interrupted him and he wasn’t happy about it—as if his pointed glare hadn’t already made that obvious. “Look, if you’re here to talk to the dockmaster about renting a boat slip—”

  “I’m not,” she broke in, lowering her hand and fighting to keep her voice calm. Anal, grumpy, and insufferably rude. If she wasn’t desperate, she’d tell this hulking buffoon what he could do with his power tools—in an anatomically specific way—then get the hell out of there. “I’m here about the job. Laurel Newman,” she repeated, because he clearly wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. “You scheduled an interview with me at one o’clock.”

  “I didn’t—” His words broke off, then he muttered what sounded like an inventive combination of curses. After dragging his hand down his face, he said, “I didn’t set up an appointment with you.”

  “You said you’re Griffin—”

  “I am. But I’m not the only Griffin. There’s my brother. Evan Griffin. I’m Ryan. Evan must have set up your interview.”

  Hope filled her. Maybe Evan was the sunshine to this guy’s thundercloud. “In that case I apologize for disturbing you. Can you tell me where I might find Evan?”

  “He’s not here.”

  Clearly a man of few words. She knew—and disliked—the type. Getting more than five words out of them required infinite patience, which she currently didn’t have much of, and a nuclear blast, which she was fresh out of. “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “No point. He’s gone for the day.”

  Great. Just freakin’ great. He didn’t look any happier about it than she was. “Will he be back tomorrow?”

  “Don’t know.” He blew out a long breath. “Guess that means I’m stuck with this.” He pinned her with a hard, assessing look. “Did Evan tell you about the job?”

  “We didn’t actually speak—only left messages on each others’ voice mail. According to the ad in the newspaper, you’re looking for an office manager. It’s a position I’m well qualified for.” She opened her oversized purse and pulled out a copy of her resume. Making a resume—another first she could have happily lived without ever experiencing.

  He took the proffered paper without a word and perused its contents. When he looked up from the resume and met her gaze there was no missing his you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Wanna explain how cochairing some debutante shindig, serving on a committee for some artsy-fartsy fund-raiser, and overseeing customer relations for a New York City restaurant qualifies you to work at a marina and boat-building business? There aren’t any debutantes here—except for you.”

  Years of practice dealing with ill-mannered louts allowed Laurel to hold on to her temper. “It’s been many years since I was a debutante, Mr. Griffin,” she pointed out mildly. “And those positions I held required finely honed organizational skills—which I’m sure you’ll agree are important when managing an office. Whether that office is attached to a restaurant, an art museum, or a marina.”

  “What do you know about boats?”

  I know that at this time last year I was sunning myself on the deck of one in the French Riviera owned by a fashion designer who used to call me his muse and who no longer takes my calls. “I know they float and that they’re your business—one that needs an office manager.”

  “There’s a lot of catch-up that needs to be done,” he said, his frown still in place. “Bills to be paid, invoices to send out, supplies to be ordered, filing, checkbook balancing, not to mention handling the phone calls.” As if to prove his point, she heard the muffled sound of a phone ringing.

  “All of which I’m perfectly capable of.” She hoped. Just because her accountant had always paid her bills and she’d never sent out an invoice or balanced her checkbook in her entire life didn’t mean she couldn’t do it. She’d just never had to before. But now she did. So she’d figure it out. She was smart. How hard could it be?

  “Since when do debutantes send out invoices and do filing?”

  “As I said, Mr. Griffin—I haven’t been a debutante for a long time.”

  He glanced down at her resume. “According to this you were working in a New York restaurant until just a few weeks ago. Why’d you leave?”

  A tidal wave of painful memories threatened to swamp her. She forced them back into the dark abyss from which they’d arisen and then said, “The restaurant suffered an economic setback and my position was eliminated.” Not exactly true, but the only explanation he was going to get.

  “Why not stay in New York?”

  “It’s very expensive to live there. I wanted to try somewhere new.”

  “Why Seaside Cove?”

  “I spent some time here last summer and fell in love with the island.”

  “So you moved here? Just like that?”

  “Yes.” I had no where else to go. “My sister’s fiancé owns a rental on the island. I’m staying there until I get a place of my own.” Rent-free, thank God.

  “Which house?”

  “It used to be called Paradise Lost, but they’ve renamed it—”

  “Paradise Found. That’s Nick Trent’s place.”

  “Yes.”

  His frown bunched deeper. “He’s a good man.”

  “I agree. And he’s engaged to my sister.” A fact she didn’t hesitate to reiterate since Mr. Frowny Face apparently liked Nick. She wasn’t above exploiting a connection to get her foot in the door.

  He kept that unwavering narrow-eyed regard on her, clearly trying to read her, as if she were some kind of book—one he hadn’t enjoyed the first chapter of and was debating whether or not to keep turning the pages. Well, he was destined to fail. She didn’t wear her thoughts or emotions on her sleeve—a lesson she’d learned the hard way.

  “The office opens at eight thirty, closes at five, Monday through Friday. Lunch is noon to one.” He mentioned an hourly salary that wouldn’t add up in a week to what she’d normally spent on a single night out in New York. Those days are over, Laurel. “You’d need to go to the bank once, maybe twice a week to make deposits. That a problem?”

  Probably not a good time to mention that she didn’t have a car. Since she’d always had a limo and driver at her disposal, she hadn’t needed one. Especially since she didn’t even know how to drive. “Absolutely not a problem.” Hell, that’s what taxis were for. Or sneakers—if the bank was in walking distance.

  Once again a muted ringing phone sounded and his gaze swiveled to a door at the far
end of the building. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his frown seemed to grow fiercer. He swiveled his gaze back to her and she felt pinned in place by the intensity and obvious frustration brewing in his eyes.

  “When could you start?” he asked.

  In spite of the fact that the prospect of working for Mr. Congeniality here wasn’t appealing, relief rippled through her, and she had the sense that she’d been saved, literally, by the bell. “Right now, if you’d like.”

  He gave a terse nod, muttered, “Follow me,” then headed toward the door behind which the phone continued to ring. His long-legged stride would have left a shorter person in the dust, but she kept pace with him, her boot heels tapping a staccato rhythm on the cement floor. When they reached the door, he paused with his hand on the brass handle.

  “Let’s see what sort of order you can bring and how much you can accomplish in the next four hours.” He winced. “And for God’s sake, handle that phone. Impress me and you’re hired.”

  Oh, she had every intention of impressing him. Even if it killed her. Just to prove to him that she could. Because he clearly didn’t think she’d be able to.

  “Be prepared to be impressed, Mr. Griffin.”

  “If you’re hired, no more fancy high-heeled boots,” he said, shooting her footwear a fierce scowl. “Sneakers or deck shoes or work boots only. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  His only answer was a grunt. She crossed the threshold and the door closed behind her.

  The instant Ryan closed the door, he headed swiftly back toward the saw, but he wasn’t quick enough to miss the debutante’s gasp. Not that he could blame her. He knew damn well what the office looked like—a mess of papers and coffee cups and open files. An inbox that overflowed onto the desk, the windowsill, two chairs, then continued onto the floor. Somewhere hidden in that disaster area was the phone that never seemed to cease ringing. Damn it, he was boat builder, not a secretary. And Griffin’s needed a secretary. Badly. They’d been without one for over a month, and between the mounting administrative stuff, the ongoing dock repairs, and the custom boat he was two weeks behind on, he was ready to lose his mind. Problem was, it was nearly impossible to find anyone during the off-season. Miss Debutante was the first—and only—person to answer the ad.