Sea Glass Sunrise (13 page)

Calder Blue lifted a hand and snagged the phone from the air mid-descent as easily as an outfielder shagging a pop fly. He handed it back to her. “Sorry. I was trying not to startle you.”

“Epic fail.” Heart pounding now in addition to her head, Hannah tried to steady herself—again—but she was simply wrung out. In every possible way a person could be. She took the phone from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

She had nothing left, and certainly wasn’t up for yet another encounter with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Everywhere. Now more than ever, all she wanted to be was alone. She moved around him and started walking back toward the shipyard. Now she did want to go home, only she wondered if she’d feel safe anywhere. She felt . . . betrayed, that the ugliness of her past had reached out and so easily invaded—poisoned—her one haven. Her one safe place.

Maybe she wouldn’t be able to leave the past behind after all. Maybe it would haunt her forever. But dammit, if she was going to be remembered for something, needed for something, what the hell did it say about her that propositions like Garrison’s were going to be the legacy she’d be leaving behind?

“Scarlett—”

She stopped, whirled around to find him a few feet behind her. “Don’t. Just . . . don’t.”

In response, he slid off the jacket he was wearing and handed it to her. When she didn’t reach for it, he said, “You’re shivering.”

She realized then she was clutching her elbows, arms folded across her middle. She could have told him the shaking was caused by something much deeper, and far colder, than a simple harbor breeze, but she didn’t have the energy. “I’m good. Just heading back to the pub. Good evening, Mr. Blue.” She turned and continued walking.

“You’re not, you know.”

She dipped her chin, sighed, then swore under her breath.
Keep walking.
She did, but she also spoke.
Dammit. What was it about this guy?
“Not what, heading to the pub? I assure you I am. It was a mistake to leave. Or did you mean I’m not cold? Is that some kind of mind-over-matter suggestion?”

When he next spoke, he was once again just behind her, at her elbow. “No, I know you’re cold. You’re not a stone-cold bitch, though. Who was that asshole, anyway?”

It was surprising she didn’t trip and stumble, that somehow, for once around this man, she remained upright. He walked casually enough, spoke even more casually, as if they strolled together often, chatted together often. She didn’t look at him, kept her focus forward, but couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut around him. “How on earth would you know that?”

“That he’s an asshole? It’s a quiet night, you held the phone away from your ear. Voices carried. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to hear.”

“What
were
you trying to do? I know Blueberry Cove is a small town, but even as small towns go, our paths have crossed an inordinate number of times in the past twenty-four hours.”

She wasn’t looking at him, but she could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “My meeting was postponed. Again. So, since I was here, I was walking the harbor, trying to get a sense of what Winstock sees in his mind’s eye, what his future plans are, how he might go about implementing them.”

“It’s close to midnight. Wouldn’t it make more sense to do that in the daylight hours?”

“Lots of people out during the day, followed by lots more speculation if they spied me wandering about.”

“Pretty self-important, assuming everyone knows who you are.”

He chuckled, apparently not stung by her waspish tone. “I live in a small town, too. Given my surname, and who brought me here, it seems naïve to think folks don’t know who I am. And I’m not naïve.”

She thought about the smooth, easy—far too easy—way he’d slid in and round and past all her carefully constructed defenses earlier that day. She’d wasted thirty whole minutes after driving away from him the last time, convincing herself it was the combination of the accident, the exhaustion, the pain, and the wedding craziness, not the least of which was the getup she’d had on, that had caused her to lose her mind for five seconds and beg him to run off with her. To do what, exactly, she’d had no idea, then, or now. But he’d made it clear he had a few ideas of what they could have been doing.
No, he definitely isn’t naïve.

She shivered from the memory of his touch, his taste . . . his kiss. Even a half kiss from him had been enough to knock the sense right out of her. If a kiss to the corner of her mouth and a light stroke along her collarbone could turn her into a puddle of needy—

His coat landed on her shoulders, jerking her thoughts mercifully away from that dangerous path. She didn’t bother shrugging it off and flinging it at him. Her little rant on the phone had zapped whatever defiant posturing she had left straight out of her. Instead, she pulled it closed in front of her, and tried not to breathe in the smell of him. Tried to make herself believe she hadn’t thought about that very scent well past the time she’d convinced herself that the whole scene in front of Hartley’s had just been an unfortunately timed chance meeting. Sort of like smashing into Beanie’s sign. Only less painful. Maybe.

“So you graciously spared the town more needless gossip,” she said, struggling to pick up the thread of the conversation . . . and ignore his scent, which was literally wrapped around her. “A Good Samaritan and a thoughtful humanitarian.”

“But humble. Don’t forget humble.” The humor was still there in his deep voice. “I figured this town has had enough gossip where the St. Croix River Blues are concerned, so why contribute more where I don’t have to?”

Hannah was surprised to hear the laugh—her laugh—as she said, “First of all, if you wanted to spare us that, you should have stayed back on your farm. Not that it would matter. This town thrives on speculation. It will never have enough. If not about you, then it would be about something else. And if you think for one second that no one knows you’re skulking around down here after dark, well . . . you don’t know small towns as well as you think you do.”

“I don’t skulk. And the only person I’ve seen is you.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m the only person who has seen you.”

He dipped his chin for a moment, smiling. “Point to you, Counselor.”

She shouldn’t smile at that, either. In fact, she shouldn’t be doing anything with him. And yet, she seemed to be doing something with him with alarming regularity. “Why do you care what Winstock’s future plans are? You said this was just a job.”

“It is a job. But the job is not the only reason I’m here. Well, that’s not entirely true. I wouldn’t have come except for this job offer, but it wasn’t the job itself, but the offer, that drew me here.”

“That hard up for work in Calais?”

“That hard up to find a way to mend my family.”

She did slow her steps then, and she did, finally, look at him. There were no streetlights on the harbor road, but there were lights dotting the larger piers that stretched out into the water, and they provided enough ambient glow for her to see his face. “Do you think it can be? After all this time?”

“Has anyone ever tried?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, thinking. Finally, she said, “I don’t know. Not that I’m aware of. At least, no one from your side has actually shown up here. I’d know that. I can’t say if anyone from here has tried to come to your neck of the woods.”

“How would you know? You don’t live here.”

“Everyone would know that. Owen would have told you. He’d definitely have known. Besides, once a part of the Cove, always a part of the Cove.”

“You’re about as much a part of the Cove as one could be, from what I understand. Descendant of the founding family.”

“One of them. But that wouldn’t matter in this instance. Blueberry has a way of claiming you, of making you part of it, no matter how you got here or at what point in your life you show up. In return, the Cove has a way of holding on to its own, whether born here, or adopted. I think that’s part of the larger concern, about the new development on the harbor.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“This isn’t a transient community. People don’t just come and go from here. We’re not a tourist destination. We’re a village, a tightly knit one that has survived a lengthy and somewhat colorful history by sticking together, making us a self-supporting community, in every sense of the word. If you come here, it’s not to visit or to see the sights, it’s for a purpose, and if that purpose has merit and you respect those who are already established here, then our arms are open, and you won’t find better allies to your cause.”

“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.