Summer at Seaside Cove (23 page)

“Exactly what I'm doing now—owning a fixer-upper at the beach and renovating it.”

“Are you planning to sell it once it's done?”

“Not Southern Comfort. That's . . . home. I think I'll probably keep Paradise Lost as well and rent it—
after
it's renovated.”

“After renovation—good idea,” she said dryly. When he fell silent, she prodded, “So keep going. What brought you to Seaside Cove?”

“A situation pretty similar to yours. Eldest son, heavy expectations to follow in my dad's footsteps—who followed in his dad's—to join the family business.”

“Which is what?”

He hesitated. “They own a bed-and-breakfast in the Chicago area.”

“And it was expected that you'd work there?”

“More like demanded.”

Jamie nodded. “That pressure—it's hard to live up to.”

“Especially when it's not what you want, when it's just what everyone wants you to want. And expects you to want. So, like you, I did what was expected of me, but I hated it. Hated being cooped up in an office, with meetings—”

“Oh, the meetings are the worst,” Jamie agreed, tossing away a broken piece of sand dollar. “And the paperwork—yikes. Who taught you how do to carpentry work? Your dad?”

Nick barely managed to swallow the bark of laughter that rose in his throat. The thought of his father doing any sort of manual task other than raising a Cuban cigar or a cut crystal glass of one-hundred-year-old brandy to his lips was unimaginable. “A school buddy. I loved it from the first moment I held a hammer in my hand.”

“And you moved to Seaside Cove to follow your dream.”

“Yes. And I'm not going back. I've been happier here for the past three months, felt freer, than I have my entire life.”

“And you're how old?”

“Thirty. It seemed a good time to reevaluate and make changes. You?”

“Twenty-six. And soon to be a big sister for the first time in my life—unbelievable. You said you're the eldest son?”

Nick nodded. “I have a younger brother.” Who, in spite of them growing up together, he barely knew.

“He works at the B and B?”

“Yes. But as the oldest, it was expected of me to work there. But my brother's much better suited to it. He has the same killer instincts as our father.”

Her brows rose. “I wouldn't normally associate killer instincts with a bed-and-breakfast. Must be a competitive field.”

Guilt pricked him, but he shoved it aside. “More so than you'd think.”

“What about your mom?”

“She died when I was nine. I have a stepmother.” He didn't add that he'd actually had three of them and this latest one was only two years older than him. “I don't see my family much.”

“I wish I could say the same about my family.” They'd reached their beach access and they stopped to look out at the ocean. “I really like it here. I just wish all my uninvited guests would go home.”

“I like it here, too.” He turned his head to look at her. “Especially since I found out my renter is an excellent cook.”

She smiled and turned to walk down the path leading back to the house. “And you haven't even tasted my cookies yet.”

Desire hit him low and hard. “Is that an offer?”

Color flooded her cheeks. “No. Well, yes—but only for cookies.”

Hoping to coax her skin to turn another fascinating shade, he teased, “Do you mean actual cookies or is that a code word for something else?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Nipples?”

She laughed—and he noticed that hers hardened. “No. Just cookies.”

“Okay. Since I love cookies, I accept.”

She blew out a long breath. “Now if I could only figure out what to do about my family, everything would be perfect.”

“There's nothing to figure out—you just have to decide if—and then when—you're going to stop being a puppet.”

She halted as if she'd walked into a wall of glass. “Excuse me? A
puppet
?”

He nodded. “You're allowing all these other people to pull your strings, dictate what you do.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

A humorless sound escaped him. “No. I'm actually trying to get you naked.”

“You're not on the right track, my friend.”

“I can see that. I guess I'm out of practice. It's been a while.”

“How long?”

“Long enough to forget that while women always say they want honesty, they don't necessarily appreciate it.”

“I can't think of anyone who'd like being called a puppet.” They'd reached Paradise Lost. She looked at the house and sighed. “I really don't want to go in there.”

“That's exactly what I'm talking about. It's
your
house—at least for the summer. Stop letting other people pull your strings. As long as you allow it, they're going to do it. You're the only one who can stop it.”

She shot him a withering look. “I meant I didn't want to interrupt.”

“Fine. You can come to my place. I'll show you my renovations.”

“Do you mean actual renovations or is that a code word for something else?”

Nick grinned. “One way to find out.”

S
everal minutes later Jamie turned in a slow circle in Nick's new kitchen, taking in the washed-oak cabinets—several of which had glass doors—speckled granite countertop, and stainless steel appliances. The hardwood floor gleamed beneath her feet. No doubt about it, he did very nice work.

“It's beautiful,” she said, running her fingers over the glossy granite. She eyed the glass mosaic tile backsplash done in shades of blue from the palest arctic to the deepest azure. “That's gorgeous—it looks like the sea.”

“Thanks. Took a long time for those tiles to come in, but I think they were worth the wait.”

She nodded toward the living area, which looked like a construction zone. “What are you going to do in there?”

“Remove that old paneling from the walls and put up new sheetrock. Paint, extend the hardwood floor throughout. New furniture. After that I'll tackle the bedrooms and baths. Last I want to extend the screened porch.”

“Sounds great. Are you planning to do the same for Paradise Lost?”

“That's the plan.”

She nodded and turned her attention back to the kitchen. “I love the sink—nice and big, and the high arc on the faucet is great. Makes it much easier to wash big pots and pans.”

“Not that I have any pots and pans, but I liked it, too.”

“No pots and pans? Are you kidding?”

She opened a cabinet and indeed found it empty except for a lone coffee mug. The sight of that single cup gave her a sensation she called a “heart owie”—a hollow feeling that invaded her chest for the span of a single heartbeat. That mug looked very forlorn and sad to her, and she vividly recalled Dorothy saying she believed Nick was lonely. Which was completely different than alone. People could choose to be alone (and in her case, choose it and fail to achieve it), but no one would ever choose to be lonely. Lonely was what happened when you had no one. And that cup somehow represented lonely.

“Nope. I tossed the ones that came with the house—they were either rusted or dented or stained with crud. Not that I ever used them. I'm a bachelor. Who needs pots and pans when there's take-out?”

“Don't you even cook eggs?”

“I don't really like the taste of charred eggs, so no.”

“Boil water?”

“I don't really like the taste of boiled water, either.”

“I mean to cook something. Like pasta.”

“Nope. Never made pasta.”

Jamie shook her head. “Unless you've had a personal chef at your disposal your entire life, that's just ridiculous. And even then, you're an adult—you should know at least how to cook eggs and make pasta.”

“If that's an offer to teach me, I'm willing to learn.”

“Well, even
I
can't cook without some pots and pans.”

“You have any suggestions as to what I should buy?”

“Definitely. You tell me your budget and I'll help you outfit your kitchen.”

“Deal. Since you're avoiding your company, how about I get my laptop and we go online shopping?”

“Picking out kitchen supplies while spending someone else's money is my favorite thing to do.”

His gaze dipped to her mouth. “Can't say it's
my
favorite.” When his eyes met hers again, her breath caught at the fire burning in the glittering green depths. “But I'll play along.”

He entered the bedroom and returned a moment later with a laptop that he set on the granite snack bar. Jamie settled herself on a stool and started pulling up several of her favorite kitchen supply sites.

“Would you like a drink?” Nick asked. “ 'Fraid I can only offer you bottled water. I would offer you vodka, but someone stole my only bottle.”

“Water's fine.”

He handed her a cold bottle, then straddled the stool beside her. “Whatcha got here?”

“Any of these three sets will do nicely for you—they all contain the basics and are good, dependable brands. You just need to decide how much you want to spend.”

“Which one would you get?”

She clicked on the photo of the All-Clad set. “This is what I have. It's absolutely top of the line, and what most professional chefs and restaurants use. It's the most expensive option, but it's the only set of pots and pans you'll ever need. You'll be able to pass these on to your grandkids and they'll still be perfect.”

“Then that's what I'll order. Done. What else do I need?”

“Don't you want to see the cheaper versions?”

He reached out and brushed a single fingertip over her cheek. “I only want the best.”

Jamie's heart stuttered. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

In that smoldering, I-want-to-eat-you-up way. In that way that could easily make a girl's panties fall off
. Darn it, how was it that only moments ago she'd been thoroughly irritated with him and now she wanted nothing more than to take him up on that look? He thought she was a puppet, an assessment she didn't like one bit. Just as she didn't like
him
.

Oh, for God's sake, Jamie,
her inner voice whispered.
You do like him—you just don't want to. And that puppet thing? Maybe that's a lot closer to the truth than you want to admit as well.

She didn't like that stupid voice, either.

Or the fact that Nick confused her. Because God knows she didn't need any more confusion. But the way he was looking at her . . .
Whew!
It made her feel as if her skin had shrunk.

A car door slamming broke through the lust-filled fog surrounding her. “That sounded like it came from next door.” She scooted off the stool and walked to Nick's screen porch and looked down.

“Oh, God, that's not good.”

“What's wrong?” Nick asked, coming up behind her. “Is that Alex? Taking a suitcase out of his car?”

Jamie briefly closed her eyes and nodded. “Yup. Looks like my company isn't going anywhere anytime soon.”

N
ick smoothed the sandpaper over the wooden railing he'd just finished nailing into place on the Clam Festival float, relishing the deep sense of satisfaction that filled him at the progress the committee had made on the project. If all went well, the float would be finished by the end of next week and ready for the decorating committee to paint and work their magic upon.

Noise surrounded him and he glanced around the huge chamber of commerce parking lot at the dozen float workers. Some hammered, some sanded, some made use of the level or saw, but all were involved. Nick noted Dorothy exchanging scowls with Melvin, while Megan and Grace served cold drinks to the workers while their husbands were busy measuring wood. A sense of community, of belonging filled him, one that satisfied his soul in a way he'd never known until he came to Seaside Cove. Which served only to prove that some things couldn't be bought.

He'd just wiped away the sawdust from the rail when a familiar voice came from behind him, “Looks like the float is coming along really well.”

He briefly closed his eyes and absorbed the little jolt his heart performed at the sound of Jamie's voice. He turned around and his heart gave another, bigger leap at the sight of her. Damn. One look at her and any hopes he'd harbored that not seeing her for the past week and a half would dampen his attraction to her zoomed away like a gull caught in a stiff breeze. She walked toward him and all he could do was stare. Jesus, the woman in motion was an engineering marvel of perfectly moving curvy parts that could stop a train in its tracks.

Her tight black athletic shorts showcased a full, rounded ass his palms itched to cup—right after his fingers traced over the several inches of tanned stomach peeking out between the top of her running shorts and a matching half tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a haphazard ponytail from which several curls had escaped, and in spite of the sweat glistening on her skin, he bet she smelled like cookies.

He wanted to grab her and take a great big bite.

She waved in the direction where he'd seen Megan and Grace standing. “Out for an early-morning run on the beach?” he asked, eyeing the sand clinging to the edges of her Nikes.