Summers' Love, A Cute and Funny Cinderella Love Story (LPC Romantic Comedy Series) (11 page)

“You know exactly what you did. You made fun of God’s Word, that’s what.”

“I did not.” Stu rubbed his earlobe, trying to massage feeling back into it. “I simply gave an honest opinion about what I thought the passage meant. Besides, if you didn’t want me to answer, why’d you call on me?”

“To gauge the sincerity of your heart. Obviously, it is still full of deceit. From what I can tell, the only reason you showed up this morning was to impress that poor girl and make her think you are something you’re not.”

“Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who told me I needed to learn
about
love and
how to
love from the
Author
of love. Anyway, I don’t think she was that impressed with my answer.”

“Are you kidding me? That girl is smitten.”

Smitten. Now there was a word he needed to remember for later on when he got back to the manuscript. “You think so?”

“When a woman looks at you the way she did, she has more than homiletics and hermeneutics on her mind.”

“Are those two of the apostles?”

His holy ghostwriter stepped closer. Her teeth met and her jaw grew rigid. “Let me tell you something young man. If you break that girl’s heart, you will need more than a blockbuster novel to revive your career. You hurt her and I will personally make sure your editor and everyone at that hot-shot publishing house knows you
never
wrote
any
of your books.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“But that’s blackmail.”

“‘Be wise as serpents and harmless as doves.’ Book of Matthew chapter ten, verse sixteen.”

“Uh-huh. You may be wise, Hattie May, but I have a contract that says otherwise. Remember?”

If he expected Hattie to back down, he was way off base. She cocked a brow. “Look deep into my eyes Stuart Summers. Tell me what you see.”

“Cataracts?” When Hattie didn’t smile or blink he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I promise. When the time comes I’ll let her down easy. I’ll explain the whole thing was necessary for the good of my readers and that if she’s okay with it, I’d like to dedicate my next novel to her. Women always love it when they’re mentioned in one of my books.”

“
Whose
books?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Oh, right, I’m sorry.
Our
books.” When he looked up again it was with a different tact in mind. “By the way, what did you think of the chapter I wrote?”

“I’m not finished talking to you about this.”

“Any comments, advice?”

Hattie sighed. “It’s definitely rough. And will need a lot of polishing. But for a beginner, it’s not bad. I sent you my edits, already.”

“I wrote another chapter this morning. Five thousand words a day, that’s my goal.”

“But didn’t you tell me your editor wanted the full manuscript by Friday?”

“I’ll send her what I have and ask for grace.” Stu flashed his award-winning smile. “You taught me that one. Grace and mercy, the guardrails of a sorry sinner.”

“Now you are mocking me.”

“Ah, Hattie,” he said, reaching over to kiss her dry cheek. “Don’t be like that.”

Hattie blushed appropriately. “Does this gal have any idea why you are behaving the way you are? Any at all?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure she thinks this is the real me, that I’m just being nice and polite.”

“Well believe you me,” she said, her brow narrowing. “I’m watching you. Watching you like a hawk. And so is God.”

Chapter Thirteen

The
Summers' Breeze
lay breathless and still in its slip at the Anchorage Inn Marina. Kate remained on the dock, unsure if she should board without Stu. Earlier, when he invited her to go sailing, she had wavered. Her goal was to get the thirteen unsigned books autographed, drive home, get the books to the thirteen women at her stun gun party, and then pack her bags for the Tasmania Tasers awards banquet in Charleston …
not
spend the day sailing Stu Summers’ yacht. But after his insightful comments during the Bible study, which had been followed by the yachting invitation, she had found a quiet little place to call her brother to ask his advice.

Roger sounded thrilled when Kate told him about the sailing invitation. He went on and on about how it had been years since she’d been on the water and how much she used to love coming home with the taste of salt on her lips. As if she needed reminding.

She ended the call by telling him she’d call him later, once she had the books signed.

Now, standing next to the boat, Kate checked over her shoulder. Stu remained in the parking lot, standing at the rear of his Jag, loading items into a dock cart. Holding her breath, she grabbed a stanchion and stepped aboard. Two long seats bracketed either side of the cockpit. She studied the shape of a large steering wheel underneath the blue canvas covering and admired the shine and sparkle of the polished bright work. Setting her purse by her feet, she lifted the teak hatch boards and peeked into the spacious main cabin.

Tucked into an alcove beside the companionway steps were a sink and stove and a small icebox. In the center of the cabin stood a square table with a U-shaped couch built around it. Kate backed down the steps and, smiling, inhaled the faint odors of diesel fuel and varnish. The familiar smells reminded Kate of the fishing boat her father had owned when she was a child growing up on the Banks. Charlie Winston was a hard worker, and despite his rough exterior, he remained a romantic idealist. He had grown up during a time of unbridled prosperity and hope. The United States had vanquished Germany and Japan, pushed back the spread of communism, and made America the envy of the world. She could still recall her father reminding her that life was for the taking, love for making, and it all ends too soon. Prophetic words, she thought, recalling how he’d died two days before she was to start eighth grade.

Kate ran her fingers along the varnished scrollwork of the yacht’s small bookshelf. If ever anyone had grabbed life by the neck and made the most of every opportunity, it was Charlie Winston’s only daughter.

“You still up for this?”

She peeked out a portal window and saw Stu unloading their gear from the dock cart.

Kate hurried back into the cockpit. “One thing before we go.” She took the small cooler as he passed it over the lifelines. “Those thirteen books, did you happen to bring them with you?”

He handed her a bag of groceries. “Thought about it, but it’s probably not a good idea. They could get wet. I don’t expect we’ll run into any weather but we’re going sailing, so you never know.”

“But we are coming back
here
, right? I mean this isn’t going to be one of those
Gilligan Island
adventures, is it?”

“I hope not.” With a false expression of concern, he added, “I can’t imagine what we would do if the two of us were stranded on an island together … alone.”

“And you without a boathouse to sleep in,” she quipped.

Ten minutes later the
Summers' Breeze
motored out of the harbor and hooked a left at the end of the breakwater. A crisp, cool northwest wind had replaced the steamy heat of the previous afternoon. Gone was the haze of humidity that had left Kate feeling sticky on her drive down the coast. Now a bright blue sky with high cirrus clouds welcomed her as she turned her face east toward the bright morning sun.

“Better get your things stowed before we reach the inlet,” Stu advised. “Not saying it will be rough but if you are prone to seasickness it’s better to be up here than below.”

“Good idea.”

Returning to the main cabin she remembered her father telling her that a cruising boat was its own compact and complete world.
In a properly designed sailboat you can feel the shape of the sea, Kitten. You hear its exhalations as waves roll under the hull. Boats do not ‘weigh.’ They displace water and create a divot in the ocean.

With its long overhangs on the bow and stern and perfectly pitched sheer line, Kate could tell the
Summers' Breeze
was ideally suited for long-distance cruising. The sound of the diesel engine and slosh of water gurgling past the hull reminded her once more of her love for the sea, for the coast, and the simple life she’d known before her father’s passing.

Kate stowed her things in the aft cabin. She kicked off her sandals and sat on the bed, lathering sunscreen on her face, arms, and legs. Inwardly, she grinned; she still could not believe she was sailing on Stu Summers’ yacht. Her only concern was the thirteen copies of
In Heat
. She had mentioned them to Stu several times, and yet, despite his promises, the books remained unsigned. Coincidence?

Or maybe just a calculated effort on his part to keep her from leaving?

Stu called to her through the partially-opened deck hatch. “Just a heads up to let you know we’re turning into the inlet. Might want to make sure everything is stowed.”

Kate shoved the bottle of tanning lotion into the beach bag.

Moments later she took a seat in a corner of the cockpit and watched as Stu stood and gave the wheel a subtle spin to the right. Gray smoke wafted up off the stern from the exhaust. Kate began to detect the lift and fall of swells working their way in from the ocean. As they passed a red floating buoy, Stu bent over a stainless steel winch and released a rope.

Sheet, Kitten.

Kate swallowed hard and closed her eyes against the sound of her father’s calm voice in her head. Odd how, after all these years, she could still hear him instructing her.

They’re all ropes, Kitten, but halyards raise the sails, sheets control sails. And ropes, or docklines you might hear ‘em called, they keep the boat tied to the dock.

“Is that the jib sheet?” Kate asked.

Without looking up, Stu nodded. “I’m going to roll out the headsail. If you don’t mind, take the helm and keep us in the center of the channel.”

Kate stepped around Stu. For a moment their hips touched, unleashing a surge of warmth up her spine. She continued toward the pedestal and gripped the large silver wheel as if nothing had happened. Taking a quick peek off the stern to make sure the current was not crabbing her toward the edge of the channel, she made a slight turn of the wheel. Moments later the foreword headsail unrolled and filled. Turning the winch handle, Stu began cranking in the jib line, tensioning the sail until it stopped flapping. The sailboat responded by heeling onto its side. For several minutes Stu watched the sail, making small adjustments, then joined her at the helm. With his hand lightly resting on her shoulder, the two of them scanned the channel. In the distance, breaking surf marked the edge of the ocean and end of the beach.

“I was going to take over,” Stu said, his face next to hers, “but it looks like you have everything under control.”

He allowed his fingers to linger on her bare shoulder; the pad of his thumb gently stroked her skin. There was a hitch in her breathing.
Under control, my foot. I’m about to come unglued.

“It’s been a long time,” she said, trying to sound calm, “but I remember how to read channel markers. Red right returning from the sea. Except in this case we’re heading out so I reverse it.”

He gave her an “I’m impressed” look. “In that case, I’m going to raise the main.” He took a few steps forward and looked back. “Is that okay with you?”

Still feeling the imprint of his hand on her skin, Kate said, “You’re the skipper. I’m just your Ginger.”

Stu laughed before moving on. Using another winch, he unspooled the mainsail from within the mast. Once more Kate felt the sloop accelerate. With a few turns of the jib sheet, Stu aligned the two sails until the tell-tales fluttered perpendicular to the sail indicating good trim.

“How’s that?” asked Stu, smiling back at her.

Kate loosened her grip and felt the wheel begin to pull left. “Little bit of weather helm. Might want to ease out the headsail a little more.”

“Tell you what, if the helm isn’t too bad, let’s keep what we have. I don’t want to get pushed out of the channel.”

She nodded. “Good idea.”

“And don’t forget to watch your depth,” Stu called over to her. “We get stuck here, and we could be aground for days.”

Taking a quick glance at the navigation instruments, she replied, “We’re in ten feet. What should our depth be?”

“Anywhere from twelve to eight.” He coiled the jib sheets and laid them over the winches, then said, “It’s obvious you’ve done this before.”

“The sailing, not so much. But Dad counted on me to hold her steady when we were setting traps.”

The sunlight cast a glow over his face as he squinted toward her. “So you grew up around the water?”

“On the other side of Pamlico Sound in a place called Hoboken. I was literally born on the water. Mom was helping Dad set crab traps when she went into labor. By the time they got back to the dock I was bawling my lungs out. Dad shrimped, crabbed, and fished pretty much his whole life.”