by Irene Hannon
Adam rose and faced Lexie. Her expression gave him no clue how this was going to play out.
But as he waited for her decision, he sent a silent prayer heavenward—asking not for a positive response but for the right response. Whatever that might be.
And if it was no?
Well, at least he could add a handful of romantic dances to the memories he’d carefully preserved from their impromptu coffee date in the cove.
Which was far beyond anything he’d ever expected—even if it had only whetted his appetite for more.
13
By eleven thirty, they had the dance floor to themselves except for one other dallying couple. Even the bride and groom had departed.
But now the party was over.
As the final song wound down . . . as Lexie rested her forehead against the curve of Adam’s neck . . . as the music swirled around them like an insulating force field keeping the world at bay . . . she sighed. If only this night could go on forever.
“I think we shut the place down.” Adam’s soft words were a whisper of warmth against her ear.
“Mmm.” She closed her eyes, sucking every last drop of pleasure from this night that had started out disappointing and ended up ranking as one of the most memorable of her life.
He didn’t say anything else, just pressed her closer during the wistful, waning notes of the final song. Beneath her ear, his heart beat steady and strong. The woodsy scent of his aftershave teased her nose. Against her temple, the beginning bristle of a five o’clock shadow on his newly shaven chin nuzzled her skin.
For this one moment in time, the world was perfect—and uncomplicated.
But all too soon it ended.
He held her for half a dozen extra beats after the music faded away . . . then eased back an inch or two. Just far enough for her hand to slide from his shoulder to his impressive biceps. The man might be lean, but his muscles were rock hard—a fact that had become crystal clear during the dances she’d spent in his arms.
Fingers entwined with hers, he remained where he was while the band began to put away instruments and music books. As if he too hated for this magical night to end.
“I guess we need to leave.” She had to force out the words.
“I guess we do.” His throat worked. “I had a great time tonight. Maybe the best time of my life.”
The raw honesty in his hoarse voice and the intensity in his dark brown eyes short-circuited her lungs.
“Me too.”
The lights blinked, and one corner of his mouth twitched. “A not-so-subtle hint for us to leave.”
“Let me get my purse and shawl.”
He followed her to her table, draping the shawl over her shoulders when she fumbled her own attempt while juggling her purse.
“Thanks.”
“Happy to help—though I hate to cover up that dress. You look ama . . .” He cleared his throat. “It’s beautiful.”
A warm rush of pleasure surged through her. “My mom convinced me to buy it.”
“Thank her for me.” The lights blinked again, and he took her arm. “We better go or we’ll be stumbling around in the dark.”
He guided her out of the tent and across the lawn, toward the street. Overhead, the full moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds. In the distance, a buoy bell gave a sonorous bong. Tendrils of fog swirled through the air.
It was a typical night in Hope Harbor.
Yet the electrified air around them made it feel anything but typical.
And for a woman whose last brush with romance had been more than five years ago, it was heady stuff.
Too heady.
She needed to get a grip on her emotions and focus on lighter, less personal topics . . . like tonight’s event.
“BJ and Eric did a great job with the wedding, didn’t they? I love all the small touches they incorporated, like those.” She motioned to the votive candles in raffia-ribboned mason jars that lined the drive, striving for a bright, perky tone. “And the miniature loaves of Harbor Point cranberry nut cake at each place were perfect favors. Tracy was so sweet to provide them.”
Ugh.
Too gushy.
She needed to tone down the artificial animation.
“It was a first-class wedding—not that I have anything to compare it to.”
Lexie jolted to a stop. “You’ve never been to a wedding?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I experienced a lot of firsts tonight.” He urged her forward again before she could dwell on his husky comment, stopping at the end of the drive. “I was the last to arrive, and the closest parking spot I could find was a couple of blocks away. It might be a hike in those high heels. Would you like to wait here while I get the car?”
And give up five or ten extra minutes in his company?
Not a chance.
“If I can dance for hours, I can walk to your car.”
“Okay—but the pavement may be uneven and the overhead lighting isn’t great. Why don’t you take my arm?”
A fine suggestion.
She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow—and held on tight.
Although he shortened his stride to match hers and their pace was unhurried, his Kia came into sight much too soon. And once they got into it, she’d be home in five minutes.
She was so not ready for this evening to end.
Could she convince him to come in for a while when he dropped her off? Matt and her mom would have gone to bed long ago. Why not reciprocate his offer of coffee—and throw in an invitation for some food? The back porch would be a great spot for a late-night snack if she turned on the gas logs in the chiminea.
“How did your feet hold up?” Adam stopped beside the car and pulled out his keys.
“Fine.” Sort of. Her protesting toes definitely preferred her comfy uniform shoes over fancy pumps.
He held the door while she slid inside, then circled the hood and took his place behind the wheel.
If she wanted to postpone their parting, this was the moment to make her pitch.
Her pulse picked up as a wave of doubt assailed her. Maybe this was a bad idea. Being alone on a porch was a lot different than swaying on a crowded dance floor. What if he . . .
“I don’t know about you, but after all that dancing I’m hungry. Dinner was hours ago. Are you up for some food?”
Well . . . how about that? They were on the same wavelength.
Yet the tiny ripple in his question suggested he too was nervous about extending their evening.
Good.
If they were both a bit on edge, they’d proceed with caution as they tested the waters. Nothing would get out of hand.
Decision made.
“Food sounds fine.”
“Great.” He started the engine. “I don’t think anything is open this late in Hope Harbor, but we could try Bandon.”
“I know a spot closer to home where we could have omelets—unless you’re after heartier fare.”
“An omelet would be perfect. What’s the name of the restaurant?”
“When I said closer to home, I meant that literally.” Her heart began banging against her rib cage, and she clenched her fingers around her purse. “My house. I don’t cook much these days, since my mom loves to putter around in the kitchen. But I make a mean omelet. Even Matt likes them—and he’s a picky eater. Of course, it won’t be world-class cuisine. I can’t top tonight’s meal.” Her words came out in a staccato, pell-mell rush. Like she was flustered.
Which she was.
Stop talking, Lexie, before you make a total fool of yourself.
Sound advice.
She clamped her lips together.
Several beats ticked by, the silence broken only by the hum of the engine. It was too dark to read Adam’s shadowed profile, and after several futile attempts she quit trying.
At last he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. “I’m not used to world-class food, anyway. Omelets are more my style. Your place sounds fine.”
Slowly she exhaled. One hurdle cleared.
But who knew how many more might rear up before this night was over?
Banishing that unsettling worry, she chitchatted during the short drive, asking about his woodworking and Clyde’s recovery and Tracy and Michael’s construction project at the cranberry farm. Not until they pulled up in front of her house did she pause for breath.
“That was quick.” She adjusted her shawl and picked up her purse.
He killed the engine and angled toward her. “Lexie.”
Some nuance in his inflection put her on alert. “Yes?”
“If you want to change your mind about me staying, it’s okay.”
What?
Was he having second thoughts?
Her stomach bottomed out.
“Why would I want to do that?” She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“You seem nervous—and I totally get that. The two of us . . . we live in different worlds. The reception tonight was a party. This is real life. You’re well-educated, well-grounded, well-adjusted. I’m an ex-con. Aside from the dances we shared, we don’t have much in common. I’m flattered by your invitation, but if it was just a polite gesture, you won’t hurt my feelings if you retract it.”
“You think I was just being polite?” She squinted at him in the darkness, his features too dim to decipher.
“I think good manners are in your DNA. I brought up food. Offering a snack could be a way to repay me for the ride home. If that’s the case, I appreciate the thought—but it’s not necessary.”
A few of the kinks in her stomach loosened. As usual, her mom had nailed it. Adam’s self-esteem needed a serious boost.
If that meant she needed to step out of her comfort zone—so be it.
“Can I be honest with you?”
She could sense his slight stiffening—as if he was bracing for rejection.
“Yes.”
“Before you asked me about food, I was planning to offer some. I enjoyed our evening and didn’t want it to end. Am I nervous? Yes—but it has nothing to do with you. It’s all about me. I’ve been out of the dating game so long I’m not even sure I remember how to play it—or if I should. With anyone. But I’m not retracting my offer.”
There. She couldn’t be much more direct than that. If he had any doubts about how she viewed this after-reception get-together, the D-word should take care of them.
This time he didn’t hesitate.
“Then I’m staying. Let me get your door.”
She waited as he circled the car, the buzz of attraction vibrating in her fingertips. Like it used to around Joe.
But look where that had led her.
Another wave of panic swept over her. Was she being foolish? Setting herself up for more heartache and . . .
Her door opened, and Adam extended his hand. She hesitated for a second, but once she took it, her trepidation vanished. There was strength in his lean, firm fingers . . . and warmth . . . and a surprising gentleness.
All of which set off a flutter in her stomach as they walked toward her front door—and it had nothing to do with panic.
Inside the foyer, she shrugged out of her shawl and lowered her voice. “This house has been around for decades. They built them sturdy back in the day, with thick walls. Once we’re in the kitchen, we won’t have to worry about our conversation waking anyone up.”
Taking her cue, he remained silent while he followed her to the back of the house. Only after she flipped on the light did he speak, keeping his volume low despite her reassurance.
“Can I help with anything?”
“Omelets don’t require a lot of effort—but you can start a pot of coffee, if you like.” She pulled an apron out of a drawer and slipped it over her dress. Not very chic, but this baby deserved protecting. “I do have one favor to ask, though.”
“Name it.”
“Do you mind if I ditch these shoes? My toes are threatening anarchy.”
“No—as long as you don’t mind if I ditch this tie. I haven’t worn one in . . . maybe never. Whoever invented these things should be strung up by his thumbs.”
“Shoes for tie . . . sounds like a fair trade.” She stepped out of her heels, pulled a bag of coffee from the fridge, and handed it to him. “My husband hated ties too.”
As the casual comment spilled out of her mouth, the floor seemed to shift slightly beneath her feet.
Where had that come from?
She never talked about Joe. On the few occasions his name had surfaced in conversation, she’d changed the subject as fast as possible, before a fresh wave of sorrow could swamp her.
But tonight she’d brought him up. And instead of the usual debilitating grief, she felt only a vague, melancholy sadness.
Strange.
“Smart man.” Adam loosened his tie, unclasped the top button on his shirt, and went about making the coffee. If he thought the mention of her late husband odd, he gave no indication of it.
“Uh-huh.” The less said the better until she figured out what was going on.
In silence, she removed some eggs from the fridge and began cracking them into a bowl.
“So what did he do for a living?”
The egg in her hand shattered as her fingers compressed.
Great.
Dumping the gooey mess in the sink, she nudged the faucet on with her elbow.
Calm down, Lexie. It’s a logical follow-up question. Adam doesn’t know this is an off-limits topic.
She dried her hands and began whipping the eggs already in the bowl into a froth. “He worked in security.”
Keeping her back to him, she chopped some ham. Pulled a bag of grated cheese from the fridge. Sliced a few mushrooms and tossed them into a pan of sizzling butter.
The kitchen remained silent.
As the minutes ticked by, some of her tension evaporated. Her terse answer and body language had obviously communicated that this was not a subject she wanted to discuss.
But maybe you should.
Lexie froze at the out-of-the-blue prompt. It was the same advice the counselor she’d been forced to talk to after the incident had offered. Sharing the memories would help her find closure, the woman had said.
Back then, she’d blown her off. Talking wouldn’t bring Joe back.
It still wouldn’t.
Yet with the perspective of distance, she could see how the counselor might be right. How giving voice to the grief and guilt she’d been carrying all these years could help her put it to rest and move on.
But why the sudden realization? And why wasn’t the thought of sharing the story—the whole story—with someone other than the official government debriefers twisting her stomach into a knot, as usual?
As the eggs firmed and solidified from the steady warmth of the stove, she peeked at Adam. He was leaning against the counter by the coffeemaker, gazing out the window into the darkness, brow furrowed.
He was the reason she’d reached this point. The impetus to open up had come not from the mother she loved or the professional counselor who was paid to help people deal with feelings, but from a man she’d met less than two weeks ago.
Based on his posture and expression, however, he wasn’t going to broach the subject again. If she wanted to talk about Joe, it would be up to her to reintroduce the topic.
Did she?
Could she trust her secrets with this man who’d known plenty of trauma himself—or would she regret taking such a risk?
The butter spattered, and she turned back to the task at hand, layering the filling over the eggs. Soon she’d fold the omelet over, hiding what was inside . . . as she’d carefully hidden what was in her heart after Joe died.
But you couldn’t appreciate an omelet until you poked around under the surface.
And maybe that was true for people too. Like Adam. You had to dig a little, get past the biker-dude image he’d sported since arriving in town, to discover there was a lot more to the ex-con
than a prison record.
Just as there was a lot more to her than the competent police chief image she projected around town.
“Coffee’s ready.”
Her fingers spasmed, and she almost dropped the spatula.
“The food is too. Let’s eat on the porch. There’s a lamp outside the door, on the left. I’ll join you in a minute.”
While he found mugs and poured the coffee, she cut the omelet in half. Slid it onto two plates. Added some fresh fruit.
Behind her, the door opened. Closed.
He was waiting for her.
Fingers trembling, she took off her apron . . . picked up the plates . . . walked toward the porch.
And made her decision.
14
He was lucky she hadn’t thrown him out.
Adam set Lexie’s coffee on the low-slung table in front of a wicker sofa and took a fortifying sip of his own.
Asking about her husband had been a huge mistake. He’d heard the town scuttlebutt, knew she didn’t talk about the man she’d married . . . or her past. The locals might be curious and chat about it among themselves, but they respected her privacy—as he should have.
All he could do was hope she wouldn’t hold his nosiness against him, since he hadn’t been a local for long.
She pushed the door open with her shoulder, juggling two plates, and he moved across the room to hold it for her.
“Thanks.” She gave him a strained smile.
Not a positive sign.
“I put your coffee over there.” He indicated the table. “I didn’t know where you’d want to sit.”
“That’s fine.” She set their plates down and crossed to a contraption that looked kind of like the wood stove he relied on for most of his winter heat . . . but fancier. A flip of a switch set gas logs burning, chasing away the late-night coolness and adding instant warmth to the cozy porch. From a wicker basket beside the stove, she pulled out a pair of fuzzy slippers and a sweater. “Not very stylish, but these will keep me warm.”
He could think of better ways to do that—but squelched the inappropriate thought. “Sometimes practical is better than stylish.”
“Not according to the fashion world—but who cares?” She slid her arms into the sleeves of the sweater, sat on the settee, and pulled on the slippers. “Make yourself comfortable.”
