by Tara Sheets
“It’s just one of those things. There’ll be food and dancing and drinking. Lots of drinking. Some people bring their homemade beers. Tommy Jenkins has a small brewery in his garage, and he brings all his weird creations for everyone to try. Stay far away, if you want my opinion. There be dragons, I promise you.”
“Dragons?”
“Lavender pumpernickel bacon beer,” Emma said with a grimace.
Hunter blinked. “Thanks for the warning.”
Molly poked her head out of the back kitchen. “I’m going next door to check on Buddy and make sure Bonbon hasn’t eaten him. Oh, hi, Hunter.” Molly beamed. “Good to see you.”
Was Molly batting her eyelashes? Jeez, no one was immune.
He waved as she shut the door, then turned back to Emma. “You named your dog Buddy?”
“He’s not my dog. And it’s just a placeholder,” Emma assured him. “He’ll get a better name once he has a real home.”
“It’s a good name for a dog. I had a dog named Buddy when I was a kid.”
Emma tried to imagine Hunter as a child. He seemed so grown-up and in charge, it was weird to think of him being small and vulnerable. “What kind of dog?”
“He was a mutt, and a complete nuisance. He chewed everything in sight, barked at shadows—even his own—and regularly peed in my dad’s shoes.”
“Sounds like an honest dog,” Emma laughed.
Hunter grinned and she had to look away. Watching him smile was like staring into a roaring fire on a cold winter night. Mesmerizing, but dangerous.
“He was a great dog,” he said.
“How old were you?”
“I was around nine.” He traced a pattern on the bistro table with one large hand. “That was my favorite year.”
“Why? What happened after?”
He shrugged. “Oh, you know. The usual stuff. Parents got divorced, dog had to go.”
Emma felt her heart squeeze. “That’s terrible.”
“It was a blessing in disguise. Not losing my dog, but my parents splitting up. There was always so much tension in our house, and I never realized it until it ended. Not that growing up with my mom was a cakewalk, or anything. She was in advertising, so pretty much never home. Her idea of parenting was Post-it notes stuck to the fridge and a string of nannies.”
It couldn’t have been easy for him. Even though she had her grandmother and Juliette growing up, nothing had ever filled the void of not having parents in her life. She wanted to tell him she understood, but how? “Um, I was raised by my grandmother because my mom has wanderlust.” Okay, that had to sound weird.
“So, she travels a lot?”
“More like, she never stops traveling. It’s just how she’s wired. She only comes around”—Emma corrected herself because, who was she kidding?—“came around once every few years. I was seventeen the last time I saw her.”
After her grandmother died, Emma received a postcard from her mother, who had been in Kenya and hadn’t known about the funeral until it was too late. Emma felt an old twinge of melancholy, but it didn’t last. She loved her mother, but in the way one loves a distant relation. It was her grandmother who had truly been there for her.
She brushed the memory aside and glanced at Hunter. An awkward silence passed between them, and she wondered if she should’ve kept her mouth shut.
“What about your dad?” Hunter asked.
“Oh,” she said, trying for breezy and throwing his own words back at him, “the usual stuff.”
He remained quiet, but gave her an understanding nod.
Emma swallowed. It was crazy, because she never talked about this to anyone. Maybe Juliette was right and Mother Nature had done some tricky bonding thing on them with the jasmine the other night. “I never knew my father,” she found herself saying. “Wandering hippie moms aren’t great at keeping track of things like that. He was in the Peace Corps. My mom only knew him for a short time.”
“I’m . . .” He looked like he was going to say he was sorry, and Emma didn’t want to hear it. All her life people told her they were sorry her mom was gone. Sorry she didn’t have a dad. Who cared about “sorry”? It didn’t mean anything coming from random people who could never understand.
He slapped his hand on the table. “Well, lucky us. Some kids get all the excitement.”
A delicious warmth rolled softly over her skin. It was like slipping into a beam of sunshine after standing too long in the shade. Emma smiled. “Lucky us.”
Hunter braced his forearms on the little table. He glanced down at her mouth and her breath hitched in her chest. There was an odd, swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach. The air felt supercharged, like they were standing in the eye of a storm and it was moving fast, roaring closer with each passing second.
She licked her dry lips.
His eyes narrowed dangerously and he began to lean closer.
The front door flew open. “We’re back,” Molly called. “Buddy wanted to come say hi.”
The puppy let out a happy bark and scampered toward them.
Emma stood quickly and scooped him up.
“I should get going,” Hunter said. “My contractors are down at the restaurant right now, so I’m heading over.”
He stood and reached out to scratch Buddy under the chin. Their eyes met over the top of the puppy’s head. Emma felt caught in an ocean swell, as if she were rising up, up, gaining momentum to crest the tip of a wave and then hover there, right before the fall.
She tore her gaze away. She was not falling. They were not bound.
He picked up the box of files. “See you at the Spring Fling.”
Molly followed him out and waved good-bye. When he was gone, she shut the door and sagged against it. “Oh my God, Emma. That man is a hundred million degrees of hot. How can you sit there calmly like it’s nothing?”
“It’s just business.” Nothing calm about it.
Molly glanced out the window at Hunter’s retreating back. “Did you see his hair? So glossy and thick. Gertie said she’d offer to cut it, but it was hard to improve upon perfection.”
“That’s high praise, coming from Gertie.”
“As for you.” Molly turned and pursed her lips. “She said to tell you to be at Dazzle at three o’clock, sharp. She has plans for your hair.”
Emma tucked a stray curl into the ponytail at the nape of her neck. “I don’t really want to change it.”
“She says you’re getting balayage.”
“What the holy heck is balayage?”
“Highlights,” Molly said in exasperation. “But way cooler. It’s a French thing.”
It sounded like an expensive thing, but Gertie never charged her much. And a small change might be nice. Not that there was any reason she needed to look especially good for the party.
See you at the Spring Fling.
No reason at all.
Chapter Fourteen
Hunter dropped the box of files in the trunk of his car and headed down toward the wharf. It was late morning, and he had contractors to meet in just under an hour. They were installing the booths along the back of the restaurant today. The staffing manager was already finished hiring servers, and at two o’clock, Hunter had a conference call with his publicist in Seattle to go over plans for advertising the grand opening. He was swamped.
And yet, his mind kept wandering back to Emma.
Since that moment on the running trail, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Hell, if he was being honest with himself, he’d been thinking about her even before that. There was just something so alluring about her. When she smiled, it was as if her whole being radiated warmth, and it made him want to move closer and bask in it. When she was angry, her eyes flashed fire and even though he knew he was screwed, there was a part of him that didn’t care. Being near her was exhilarating, and that was a problem.
He stopped at the top of the grassy clearing overlooking the north side of the shoreline. A path wound down to the little beach and h
e took it. Maybe the cool breeze would help clear his head.
He really needed to get a grip. Haven was opening in a few weeks and he didn’t have the bandwidth to be thinking about a woman. He needed to stay sharp. Focused. Especially now that he was working with Creese on acquiring the entire waterfront. This would be the biggest real estate investment Hunter had ever made. He couldn’t afford to get distracted, no matter how alluring that distraction was.
At the edge of the small beach, someone sat on a bench tossing breadcrumbs to a flock of enthusiastic seagulls. Hunter recognized the back of Sam Norton’s head. The old man was feeding the birds as he watched a fishing boat troll along the shoreline.
Just that morning, Creese had called Hunter to relay Sam’s message about their anonymous offer. His exact response had been, “A man wants to talk about buying my property, that’s one thing, but I ain’t dealing with no faceless coward hiding behind his agent.”
Hunter wanted to laugh. He should have known someone like Sam wouldn’t go for the typical approach. This was his home, and the home of his family before him. A man like this would never sell to someone he didn’t know.
“Good morning,” Hunter said.
Sam glanced up. “Ah, it’s you. Have a seat, son.”
Hunter moved to the front of the bench and sat down. It was almost as if Sam were expecting him.
A few minutes passed in silence. Hunter studied the waves and tried to find the best way to approach the subject of real estate.
“You ever feed the birds?” Sam asked.
Hell, no, he never fed the birds. Who had time for that? “Not really.”
Sam handed Hunter a piece of bread and gestured to the seagulls. The birds crowded around one another, taking flight and landing closer to the bench, then farther away. All of them eyed the bread in Hunter’s hand.
“Good for the mind,” Sam said. “Helps a person think.”
Hunter tossed the bread to the rocky shore and watched the seagulls swarm.
“Not like that,” Sam chuckled. “Piece at a time. You have to slow down.” He handed Hunter another slice of bread.
Hunter decided to humor him. He tore off pieces, watching as the birds picked them off, one by one. Sometimes they fought over a piece. Sometimes they were fast enough to grab it and fly away. There was a type of cadence to the way they hovered and swooped, vying for the prize. It was oddly satisfying. Maybe Sam had a point.
“So,” Sam finally said. “You’re that investor who made the anonymous offer?”
Hunter glanced up in surprise. “How did you know?”
Sam tossed a piece of bread at the seagulls and stared out at the water. “You don’t get to be eighty-six without learning a thing or two about people.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “The way their minds spin.”
Hunter waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. The silence stretched out between them until it grew uncomfortable. He needed to explain.
“I’m not hiding behind my agent,” Hunter said.
“You aren’t, now?” Sam was still staring out at the waves.
“It’s how the business is done. You extend offers through brokers.”
Sam nodded. “And what business do you think this is?”
“Real estate,” Hunter said, searching for a way to connect. “Investing.”
“Oh, I see.”
Sam said nothing more and Hunter tried to find another angle. Any angle. He had no idea how to deal with the old man. He tried again. “I’ve got investment properties in Seattle, and my current goal is to expand—”
“—Your current goals.” Sam turned to face him. “What do you think that wharf is, son?” He gestured behind them. “You think it’s just a bunch of buildings? Just some automatic teller that dispenses dollars so you can live high on the hog? Real estate. Huh.” Sam tossed the last of his bread at the seagulls. “So you send your man to try to get me to sell, like pushing a button.”
Hunter shook his head. Sam needed to understand his vision for the wharf. It could be so much better. So much more profitable for everyone. “Of course I don’t think it’s just an ATM. Look, I’m sorry if you were offended because I had my agent extend you an offer. That’s my fault; I should have approached you myself. But I know it’s more than just a way to make money. Pine Cove Island is only going to get bigger, and more people will come. The wharf isn’t ready for it, but I want to make it ready.”
“Why?”
“Because it has so much potential and I want to watch it grow and thrive. Not just for me, but for the people.”
Sam smoothed the remaining strands of hair on his bald head. “The people. That’s what I want you to understand, son. This property doesn’t make me tons of money. Oh, enough to get by on, of course.” He waved his hand. “But there are families depending on it. This is their livelihood.” He shot Hunter a knowing glance. “Let’s take Emma Holloway, for instance.”
Hunter’s heart stumbled at the thought of her.
“Her grandmother rented that shop from me, and my father before me. Now Emma’s taken over. She’s struggling, as you may or may not know.”
“I don’t imagine it’s been easy for her.”
“It hasn’t. But she’s trying, and I’ll do whatever I can to help her. The board was divided on allowing you to share the contract. Most wanted to give her the whole thing again, you know. There were a few who proposed that you could cater the whole event yourself, with your fancy new restaurant and all your fancy success. But I made it so you and Emma would have to share. She needs the profits. I couldn’t rule her out.”
Hunter said nothing, because he didn’t know what to say. The truth is, he didn’t need the income that the festival would provide. He was only in it for the publicity. If Emma’s livelihood hinged on that festival, then he was glad Sam proposed that they share the contract. Sam was a good man.
“Fact is,” Sam said, “that girl could be a year late on her rent and I’d still let her stay. Do you get what I’m saying? Now, you might say that’s a bad business decision. Kick her out, you’d say. But these merchants have contributed to my own family’s success. They’ve kept bread on my table for generations. I knew Emma’s grandmother very well. It would be wrong to turn Emma out now. It’s wrong to turn any of the merchants out, no matter how bad the economy gets. I’ll do everything I can to make sure they’re okay. We all have a history together, do you get what I’m saying?” Sam’s blue eyes were watery under his thick white brows.
Hunter recognized Sam’s deep-seated love for the people. It wasn’t something he came across very often when negotiating for commercial real estate. He needed to find a way to make Sam understand that his offer would benefit the people.
“I understand what you’re saying,” Hunter said quietly. “But the people would all benefit from the changes I would implement. This place has so much potential. It’s not about turning people out, it’s about turning this place around.”
Sam grunted. “And what makes you different from any other real estate investor who’s approached me in the past?”
“That I can’t answer,” Hunter said. “All I can ask is that you consider my offer and trust that I could make this place prosper. For the benefit of everyone here. My vision is to preserve the nostalgia, but add improvements that will clean everything up and draw more traffic to the area.”
Sam was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “See, this is how business should be. People talking honestly, face-to-face.”
“Will you at least consider my offer?” Hunter asked.
“I’m not making any promises, son. But I’m awfully glad you came to feed the birds with me this morning. You should try it more often. It helps with the thinking. Almost as good as bourbon.” The old man cracked himself up. He tucked the empty bread bag in his jacket pocket.
“I’ll try and do that,” Hunter said. He could tell their conversation was over, and it frustrated him. He liked to move fast, get things accomplished. This slow islan
d way of doing business was inefficient, but he knew when to stop pressing.
He smiled and stood. “I have to get to my meetings, Sam. It was good talking to you.”
“You have a great day, Mr. Kane.”
Hunter paused, then held out his hand. “Call me Hunter.”
Sam eyed him for a long moment, then nodded and shook hands. “I’ll do that.”
Chapter Fifteen
Emma sipped coffee from her travel mug as she turned her car off the highway toward her cousin’s cottage. This morning, Buddy sat in her lap, trying to hang his head out the window.
“You’re not big enough, yet,” Emma told him, stifling a yawn. She had given up trying to keep him on the passenger seat. If he insisted on helping her drive, she wasn’t going to argue.
Juliette’s mailbox stood at the end of a dusty path near the road. Vines and flowers wound around the post, covering the box in bright yellow blooms. If anyone knew Juliette, they could tell where she lived just by looking at it. When Emma was a little girl, she used to imagine her cousin was the goddess of the spring, and everywhere she stepped, flowers bloomed. While that wasn’t quite true, it was close enough. Juliette could make anything grow and thrive.
Rosebushes lined the road that led up to Juliette’s house. Even for early June, the bushes overflowed with a profusion of colorful blooms that dazzled the eyes.
Emma parked her car in the drive next to a few other cars. It was only eight o’clock in the morning, but Juliette rose with the sun and she liked to start the planting early. Every year, right before the summer festival, Juliette held a flower-planting party. She was in charge of the two dozen potted flowerpots that would line Front Street during the festival. The pots of flowers would be placed at intervals near shop fronts to help add an air of festivity to the event.
While this might have seemed like a small thing to most passersby, it was a big deal to Juliette and the merchants. Of course, a larger maintenance crew would swoop in and add hanging baskets to all the lampposts, but this tradition of planting flowers with Juliette had gone on for years. The flowers were always gorgeous, never wilted in the hot sun, and were guaranteed to bloom and thrive throughout the summer.
