Sea Glass Sunrise (30 page)

She looked at Hannah again. “Because I hate, with every fiber of my being, the kind of work I have to do in New York, for the most stuck-up, god-awful, ungrateful, bitchy, entitled pains in the asses I’ve ever had the gross misfortune of thinking I wanted to design for.” She sighed. “There. I said it. God help me. I’m now officially the most ungrateful bitch on the planet.”

Hannah lay there, dumbstruck for a moment, then burst out in a howl of laughter.

“I’m not sure how to take that,” Fiona said, frowning.

Hannah pushed herself upright to a sitting position, groaning when it made her champagne-loaded brain spin just a little. She tugged on Fiona’s hand until she sat up, too, and she groaned and pressed a hand to her stomach.

“So, I’m an idiot, right?” Fi demanded. “I worked so hard to live my dream, and unlike ninety-nine-point-nine percent of those who try to do that exact same thing, I actually, somehow, pulled it off. And now I don’t want it. I want to come back to Blueberry Cove, and be broke and starving, and figure out how to make things that make me happy and also make other people happy, except I don’t have a freaking clue how to do it.” She looked at her sister. “Did I mention there’s this big magazine spread? About my design firm? That I want to close?”

“Shit,” Hannah said.

“At the very least.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Hannah asked her.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. What are you going to do?”

Hannah shrugged. “Well, I’ve already sublet my place. All the rest of my stuff is in storage. All I have, literally, is what’s in my suitcase. And I even hate most of that.”

“So, you’re here then.”

Hannah nodded, then looked down at her bridesmaid dress, then at Fi’s. “For better or for worse.”

Fi snickered, then Hannah snickered. Then they both laughed, and kept laughing until they fell back on the bed, gasping for air.

“I know one thing you should do,” Fiona said.

“Good. Guide me, oh Obi-Wan.”

“Oh no, that’s still your job.” She rolled to her side. “You’re staying here. In Blueberry. Which is what, like an hour from Calais? Ninety minutes tops?”

“Fiona—”

“Hannah,” she mimicked. “You might not know what kind of lawyer you’re going to be here, but you do know a guy you’d like to have hanging around while you figure it out. I saw how he hugged you out there on that pier. Just . . . figure that out. Then the rest will fall into place.”

“Says the woman who hasn’t been in a relationship longer than what, six months?”

“I’ve been busy. And I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you.” She squeezed Hannah’s hand. “Go to Calais. Figure that out. Then decide on the rest.”

Hannah stared at the ceiling, and thought about what Fiona was saying. It seemed so simple. Obvious, even. But the very concept of reaching for Calder, of reaching for something . . .
more
, when it came down to actually doing it, was terrifying. What if she failed? Now that his life was even more upside down, what if he didn’t want her in it? She wanted to be happy. She was so very ready to be happy, and she was pretty damned sure she could be very happy with Calder. But only if he thought he could be happy with her.

Could she handle heartbreak again? What Tim had done had leveled her. But having Calder look at her and tell her he didn’t want her in his life after all . . . she didn’t know how she’d come back from that.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You’re doing great,” Calder murmured, leaning forward so he could run his hand along the side of Vixen’s neck. The mare’s ears flicked back, then forward again, but she didn’t break stride. They were ambling more than striding, making slow circles around the ring. Nothing major, as she still wasn’t up to that. “You’re going to live up to your name yet,” he said, smiling as he steered her toward the fence, then stopped and dismounted. “Come on, let’s go in and get you gussied up.”

He was actually looking forward to the next hour, to the grooming, raking the stalls, bringing the other horses in for the night. The chores provided a routine that he found soothing, calming. Which was something he’d needed more and more over the past two weeks. They’d helped to take his mind off his father, the family situation.
Who are you kidding? It’s Hannah you can’t get out of your head. Family you’re dealing with. One day at a time. Hannah, on the other hand . . .
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Hard to take care of something that isn’t there.”

The thing was, he understood. He truly did. His life was upside down at the moment, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. All he had to offer her was chaos and uncertainty, and that was the last thing she needed. She was trying to figure out her life, so no big surprise that figuring it out, for her, meant not getting involved in the crazy that was his world at the moment. Hell, if he had a choice,
he
wouldn’t get involved in his own life. Not as it was, anyway. She’d come back to Maine because she wanted peace, she wanted a quieter life. Thinking back on the scene in the hospital just that morning, between him and Eli, coming almost to blows over what they thought was the best course of action for their father’s care . . . yeah, that had been anything but peaceful.

But understanding didn’t make it any easier. He told himself it was crazy to miss someone he’d only known such a short time. Sure, they’d experienced a lot in that short time, but it had been twelve days since he’d left the Cove for good. He’d known her what, five? “Yeah, you’re a damn fool to think she’d want you with the baggage you have, after such a short time.”

A damn fool who missed her sharp mind. The way she gave as good as she got. That she could roll her eyes at him one moment, then blush the next. That she had the best laugh, and an even better giggle. That she made this noise, like a half gasp, half moan, and said his name like it was both prayer and plea when she came.
Jesus, you really need to stop this.

He had spoken to her. Sort of. He’d texted her that first night to let her know that his dad had indeed had a stroke, that the extent of his recovery was still being determined. She’d replied and had been exactly who she was, comforting, compassionate. She’d offered to come to the hospital, but he’d declined. That was the last place he’d want her right now. He’d texted her the following day when the scans Thaddeus had undergone had revealed that the cause of the stroke was a brain tumor. A fairly sizable one he’d apparently been carrying around for quite some time. So long, in fact, it had finally tried to kill him. The surgeon had confirmed that, given its location, it could have been a factor in his mood swings and over-the-top behavior. It had been the first time he’d been thankful that his father was one stubborn son of a bitch. Too stubborn to let a tumor kill him. So far, anyway. Now they had to figure out how to get the damn thing out of him without killing him in the process.

Calder had debated even telling Hannah. Technically, he was out of her life. But, frankly, the news had terrified him, and with his family leaning on him, he’d needed someone to confide in. Even then, he’d texted rather than called, only giving her the bare bones of it. She didn’t need to know all the details, though she was smart enough to realize there was more going on than he was saying. But she was sensitive enough, compassionate enough, not to press. And she probably felt it wasn’t her place. He so wished that were not the case; he wished it were exactly her place. And yet, how selfish was that?

He led Vixen into the barn and put her into the cross ties, patting and stroking the side of her neck. “Pampering time,” he told her, then took his time taking off the saddle, the saddle pad. She hadn’t worked enough to sweat, but he took the currycomb, smoothed her out where the saddle had been on her back, then used a hoof pick to clean her feet.

He hefted the saddle and the pad and strode down the short, dirt-packed aisle to the tack room to stow it. He stepped inside and lifted the saddle onto the rack and laid the pad on the stack on the floor, glancing out the single, small octagonal window on the far wall to gauge how much daylight he had left. He turned to head back to Vixen, then stopped, frozen.

He straightened, turned, and looked back through the window again. For a split second, he wondered if tumors were genetic, or if he was the one having some kind of a stroke. Because he hadn’t imagined it. He could swear that was the big blue beast parked outside his rambling, falling-apart farmhouse, about a hundred yards away from where he currently stood.

Only one person he knew drove a car like that. “Mustang Scarlett.”

His heart was beating a rapid tattoo as he went back to Vixen, murmuring his apologies for not spoiling her a little longer. He led her to her stall, hung a feed bucket of oats inside, then tried really hard not to head to the house in a dead run.

A million questions ran through his mind as he crossed the packed-dirt path that led from the stables to the house. Why was she here? Had something else happened back in the Cove that involved him somehow? Wouldn’t she have just called him if that was the case? And if that wasn’t the case, then what had brought her all the way out here without advance word?

She wasn’t in the car, or on the front porch, which was a good thing, since there were parts of it he was fairly certain wouldn’t support even her weight. He went in the back way, through the mudroom, and shucked his boots since he hadn’t bothered to brush them off before leaving the stables.

“Hannah?” Maybe his mind was playing some kind of weird trick on him. Maybe he was more stressed out than he thought, seeing things that he only wished were there.

He found her in the kitchen, which was big, and ran across most of the back of the house. It was one of the reasons he’d bought the place. Not that he cooked, per se, but it just seemed . . . homey. Friendly. Warm. Like a family should live in it, cooking meals, kids doing homework at the table, stuff tacked up on the old pull-handle fridge. Someday.

“Hannah?”

She jumped, then turned and looked at him guiltily. “Calder.” Her smile was slow, and tentative, and he realized he must be looking at her like she had two heads. “Sorry. I didn’t see you out around the paddocks, so I knocked, then stuck my head inside, and then I was kind of already in, so I figured I’d just sit here and wait. I—probably shouldn’t have done that.” She started to stand.

“No,” he said, almost swallowing his tongue in his haste to keep her from getting up, from going anywhere. Praying she hadn’t come on business. “Stay,” he managed.

“You’re mad. I should have called. I’m really sorry. You have so much going on, I don’t know what I was—” She did stand then, and he finally snapped out of the almost out-of-body experience he was having, because she sounded almost exactly like he felt.

Nervous. Uncertain. Hopeful. But, hoping for what?

“Stay,” he said again, less urgently. “Please.” He couldn’t stop drinking her in. Right there. In his kitchen. He could smell the lavender scent she used on her hair; he noticed the scar was healing really well on the bridge of her nose, hardly noticeable, and any other remaining traces of the accident were gone completely. And not hidden under layers of makeup. Because if he wasn’t mistaken, and he wasn’t missing a single speck of her, she wasn’t wearing any makeup. “You look so . . .”
Beautiful. Delicious. God, I’m so hungry for you.
“. . . good
,”
he finally got out.

Then his gaze fell on the legal folder she was clutching in her hands. And his heart sank so hard, so fast, he leaned against the frame.
See? Told ya.
So, she was here on business. Though he couldn’t fathom what on earth it would be. Surely Winstock wasn’t holding the club contract over his head.

He cleared his throat, and finally managed to get his act together. Though he kept his weight on the door frame, because he was pretty sure if he took a single step toward her, he’d have her hauled up against him half a second later. “What brings you all the way out here?” When she just continued to stare at him, seemingly as hamstrung by the moment as he was, he nodded toward the folder. “Business, I take it?”

She looked dumbly down at the folder in her hand, then back up at him. “Oh! Right. Yes.” Then her gaze got tangled up in his again and he started to think maybe they’d both lost their minds, because she was just as tongue-tied as he apparently was.

Only, in her case, it was probably because he was staring at her like a feral animal left in the wild too long without food. She was probably worried he was going to pounce on her and fill himself right back up again. And he wished he could reassure her she was wrong. “Is it something with the yacht club?”

“What?” She dragged her gaze away from his, and looked back at the folder. “Right. Yes.” She took a visible breath and he saw her try to regain her professional demeanor.

He wanted to tell her that if she wanted to go back to being the cool, elegant woman who had almost T-boned him in the intersection a few weeks ago, leaving her hair down and all wild like that, and wearing soft floral sundresses he wanted to peel off of her . . . with his teeth . . . was not the way to go about it.

“Yes, it is. Well, sort of, it is. I was going to call you about it, but then I thought maybe it would be better if I showed you.”

There were a lot of things, a very long list of things, he wanted her to show him. And not one of them would be located in that folder. “Okay.” He gestured to the table. “Here you are, then. And here I am. We should sit down.”

“Yes. Of course.” She pulled the chair back out and tried to sit, all while still looking at him as he walked into the room.

He pulled out a chair across from her and had to dig his fingers deeply into his palms to keep from reaching for her and finding her a far better seat. In his lap. “What’s going on with the club? Do I need to sign off on something so Winstock can get another builder? Because I never signed anything to begin with—”

“There’s not going to be a yacht club,” she said, her gaze dropping from his face, to his hands, and then almost desperately back to the folder, which she all but slapped open. “A lot has happened in the past few weeks.”

That was an understatement, and at the same time, it felt as if his whole world had been standing still since the day he’d driven away from her as she stood beside that damn blue muscle car, looking like a stiff wind would tilt her right over. And he wasn’t going to be there to catch her. She’d hate it if he thought she needed catching. But she did. Everybody did. Sometimes. Right now he damn well did.
And here you thought she’d be the high-maintenance, needy one.

He ignored his little voice. “Such as?” he prodded.

“Well, the whole thing with Ted, and then the divorce news, and Brooks coming off like he was somehow bullying Ted into taking desperate measures to stay in the family fold—though I have to tell you, I’ve spoken to Brooks personally and he was leveled by this whole thing. He did not see any of it coming. He didn’t know about the divorce, either.”

She’d gone from being tongue-tied to talking almost too fast.

“I’m surprised,” Calder said. “Because it seemed as if Cami had moved back home the morning I was there, and Brooks made a comment that she’d made the right decision.”

“Well, I don’t know what that was all about. Maybe he thought they were having a spat, or that they were both moving in, with Ted not working. But I can guarantee you he didn’t know Cami had asked Ted for a divorce. I think she planned to tell him that day, but then everything happened.” She shook her head, seemed to take another breath, but her nerves were still apparent.

And he couldn’t stand it another second. He reached across the table and trapped her hand under his. “Hannah, stop.” When she laughed self-consciously and tried to slip her hand free, he held it more firmly. “What’s going on? You’re like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof. I’m not upset you’re here. It’s—is something else wrong?” He groaned, and felt like an idiot for assuming her nervousness had to do with him. Without thinking, he slid his fingers through hers and something in him instantly relaxed at the connection. He didn’t know how to take care of himself these days, but taking care of her, that felt like something he could do blindfolded. Every day. For the rest of his life. “What happened?”

She went still, her gaze dropping to their joined hands, then lifting slowly back to his. “Nothing,” she whispered. “I mean, nothing bad. Winstock isn’t going to build the yacht club.” She fished around for the folder with her free hand, but gave up and just looked at him, as if she were drinking her fill of him, too, as if she might not get the chance, ever again. “He couldn’t get the investors he needed.”

“Investors?” Calder frowned. “Why did he need investors? He could build ten yacht clubs with his pocket change.”

“I think the whole point of the club was to show off to his friends, make them see what a vital business opportunity his little private mecca would become. Only they apparently weren’t buying it. That was why he was putting you off. He was trying to convince them it was a good deal, but frankly, they knew what we all knew. Blueberry Cove is too far north to be practical for most people, even wealthy people. Boat tours and a restored, historic lighthouse weren’t enough to attract their interest, and a working harbor wasn’t exactly the elite spot they were hoping for. He’d apparently let his anger about that slip to Cami, and she’d told Ted, which was why he made the desperate grab for Jonah’s property. He thought the harbor would be more attractive to investors without Blue’s in business.”