The Mighty Quinns: Ronan (2 page)

“Mistry Bay is a family business,” she said as they walked up the stairs. “We’ve had the oyster farm for nearly twenty years and we think we have some of the best oysters on the east coast. But I’m a bit prejudiced.” She drew a ragged breath. “Why don’t we taste some oysters.”

He walked beside her into the tasting room and she couldn’t help but notice how tall and well built he was, dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, but the stubble made him look slightly dangerous. He was like the kind of guy who wore his sex appeal with a casual indifference, as if he didn’t care if women noticed him.

Since she’d left Danny in New York over a year ago, Charlotte hadn’t found herself attracted to any man. In truth, she’d written off men completely. As long as she was living in Sibleyville, romance was an exercise in futility anyway. But she wasn’t averse to indulging in a little fantasy every now and then and Chef Joel Bellingham provided plenty of raw material.

She pointed to a stool at the granite-topped counter then moved to the other side of it to retrieve a bowl of freshly harvested oysters from the refrigerator. As she stood across from him, she laid a folded towel on the counter and grabbed an oyster. Charlotte felt him watching her. She was almost worried to look up, afraid that he’d be able to read her thoughts.

She held the oyster with another towel and popped the shell open at the hinge. After carefully slicing the meat from the shell, she placed the fresh oyster on a Mistry Bay oyster plate, preserving the liquid in the shell. “Lemon?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I like them plain.”

“Can I offer you a pairing? We have champagne, muscadet and ice-cold vodka. All three really enhance the taste of our oysters. Not all together, of course. Each one separately.”

“It’s eleven in the morning,” he said.

“Right.”

He regarded her warily. “Champagne would be good. If you’re going to join me.”

She found a split of bubbly in the fridge, popped it open and poured it into two flutes. Drawing a deep breath, she went into her business pitch as she continued to open oysters. “We ship from September through June and use overnight delivery. That means you can have fresh oysters Tuesday through Saturday mornings. We harvest early in the morning and ship that afternoon.”

Charlotte continued to shuck oysters and place them on the plate, describing the attributes of the Mistry Bay oyster in sensual terms. They were plump and juicy, briny and sweet. Usually a half dozen on the half-shell satisfied most customers, but Chef Joel seemed to be particularly hungry.

When she wasn’t talking, she was nervously sipping champagne, trying to keep herself from spinning right out of the room. He finally held up his hand at a dozen, then drew a deep breath. “They were really good. Thanks.”

Really good? Usually her oysters received more than a “good.” Exquisite, delicate, satisfying, better than sex. Really good wasn’t that good at all. “Do you have any questions?” she asked.

“Just one. Does this mean I have the job?”

She sent him a quizzical look. “Job? I—I don’t understand.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an index card, then held it out to her. “I found this over at the visitor’s center. It said you were looking for help?”

A gasp slipped from her throat. “Wait a second. You’re not Chef Joel from Boston?”

“Nope. I’m Ronan. Ronan Smith from Seattle. I don’t mind working hard. I’ll be here early and stay late. You tell me to do something and it’ll be done.” He gazed at her silently.

Charlie felt a shiver skitter down her spine and she had to force herself to look away. She cleared her throat. “You ate a dozen oysters,” she said. “Did you think that was part of the interview?”

“I just thought you were showing me the product. And I was hungry.”

She really couldn’t blame him for the mix-up. She’d been caught off guard from the moment she set eyes on him. The fluttery feeling in her stomach and the buzzing in her head had made it impossible to think clearly. Maybe if she’d had her wits about her, she might have seen his confusion sooner.

“So, do I have the job?” he asked again.

“Come with me,” Charlotte said. She had just posted the job yesterday. Considering the other employment opportunities available, she hadn’t expected such a quick response. Nor such an interesting prospect. But here was guy who set her heart racing and she had a perfectly good reason to keep him around a little longer.

“The job is hard, with long hours. The pay isn’t great, but with the hours you work, you should make a decent living. Are you going to have a problem with that?”

“Nope,” he said as he followed her downstairs.

She led him over to the inverted skiff. “This is my brother, Garrett. Garrett, this is Ronan Smith. He’s interviewing for the job. Give him your scraper.”

“No problem,” Garrett said, handing Ronan the paint scraper. “I’m going home, Charlie.”

Charlotte didn’t argue this time. She was glad to be rid of her little brother. She certainly didn’t need him watching her fall all over herself around the gorgeous new employee. “Cut the lawn when you get home. You know Dad can’t do it and Mom is too busy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Garrett said.

“Teenagers,” she murmured as they watched Garrett walk out the door. When she turned back to Ronan, she caught him staring, his blue eyes direct and intense.

“You’re Charlie?” he asked. “You’re the boss?”

“Yes. Charlotte. Charlie. Sibley.”

“I was expecting a man.”

“And I was expecting a chef,” she countered.

“What do you want me to call you?”

She caught a look in his eyes that appeared to be amusement. Was he just toying with her? Or had she completely lost control of this interview. “You don’t have the job yet.” She picked up the paint scraper and safety glasses and handed them to him. “If you want the job, show me what you can do with this scraper first.”

He nodded. And for the first time since they met, he smiled. To Charlie, it was as if the morning mist had suddenly parted and the sunshine shone down. He was even more attractive, if that was possible.

Men who looked like Ronan Smith usually learned to wield their charm early on. By the time they reached their teens, they knew the effect they had on the opposite sex and used it to their advantage. But Ronan seemed reluctant to use his God-given advantages.

He set to work on the skiff, a shower of paint chips flying off with each stroke. Charlie watched him for a moment, her gaze falling on the finely cut muscles in his arms. A shiver skittered down her spine and she turned and hurried back upstairs to clean up the tasting room. A bit of privacy gave her a chance to take a deep breath and focus her runaway thoughts—on Ronan Smith. It was an odd name, Ronan.

She grabbed the bottle and guzzled the remainder of the champagne, then opened another split. He’d mentioned he was from Seattle. She really ought to ask for references. Or a resume. For all she knew, he could be a criminal or a con artist—or a competitor, out to get an inside look at their operation.

Sliding onto one of the stools, she opened up another oyster and slurped it down. Ronan was a complete enigma. But then, when it came to men, she really didn’t know what she was doing. She’d only had one romantic relationship in her life and that had lasted six years.

She and Danny had started dating when they were juniors in high school, playing opposite each other in the school musical. When they graduated, they were both determined to chase their dreams on Broadway.

But New York was a rude awakening. Danny was easily discouraged and took a full time job selling cell phones. After some minor parts in a criminal drama, a series of commercials for generic laundry detergent, and an appearance in an off-off-Broadway play, Charlie was beginning to break through.

But as she got more work, Danny became more and more distant—and jealous. Their relationship began to fracture and Charlie realized that New York wasn’t where she wanted to be. So, she moved out and came home to Sibleyville, older and a little wiser.

She glanced up at the chef’s mirror above the granite counter. A groan slipped from her throat. Her chestnut hair looked liked a tangle of seaweed. Charlie grabbed a clean oyster brush from the drawer next to the fridge and ran it though the shoulder-length strands, then pinched her cheeks to give herself some color.

She rarely wore make-up when she was working and usually didn’t care to dress in anything that showed off her figure. Yet she couldn’t help but regret that it wasn’t the New York City actress Charlotte Sibley that opened the door to Ronan Smith rather than the oyster farmer Charlie Sibley.

She looked at herself in the mirror once more. Though she could pretend to be a myriad of interesting and exotic characters, Charlie knew that the woman she was would have to be enough.

Shaking her head, she walked to the door, but found herself off balance from the champagne she’d guzzled. If she was going to hire Ronan, than she’d have to keep her feelings to herself and her wits about her. A man like Ronan probably had women drooling over him everyday. And Charlie had never aspired to be one of the crowd.

* * *

R
ONAN
SMOOTHED
HIS
hand over the hull of the twenty-foot skiff. The boat was old, maybe sixty or seventy years old from the clues he’d found in the construction. Nowadays, most commercial outfits chose fiberglass boats for their easy upkeep and long life.

“How’s it going?”

He glanced up to see Charlie watching him. Jaysus, she was pretty. Her wavy dark hair framed a beautiful face, each of her features a perfect complement to the others. She had the kind of beauty that made him want to sit her down in front of him so he might study her in greater detail, like a fine painting or a famous sculpture.

“Good. This is a beautiful boat,” he said. “I love the lines.”

“It’s old,” she said.

“They don’t make them like this anymore. I think the best boats are made of wood.”

“My dad would totally agree with you.” Charlie came closer to examine his work. “You’re very thorough,” she murmured.

The compliment pleased him, more so because it came from her. “This scraper is kind of dull. If you’ve got a way for me to sharpen it, I’d get more done. And you might want to use a better grade of marine paint next time,” he said. “If you apply it properly and maintain it, you shouldn’t have to repaint as often.” He stopped himself. Now he was sounding like the boss.

“You know something about boats?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Ronan said. “Just a little.”

“You said you were from Seattle. What are you doing in Maine?”

“Just traveling,” Ronan said. “Seeing America.”

“Well, if you’re willing to work hard, I’ll pay you a fair wage,” she said. “We have the office and shop here in town. And our nursery and hatchery is out at Kepley Pond. Then we grow out the oysters at Mistry Bay.”

Kepley Pond. Mistry Bay. That sounded like a lot of water. Since he’d been eight years old, Ronan made a point to stay off the water, at least the ocean. But he wanted this job and he’d need to put his fears aside. Maybe it was time to face the past. Besides, no one ever got lost at pond or at bay like they got lost at sea.

“You’ve done good work on the boat,” she said. “The job is yours, if you’d like it.”

“There is one thing,” he said. “I need to find somewhere to stay. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“We’ve got a small apartment upstairs next to the office. I could rent that to you,” she said. “As long as you’re quiet and tidy, I don’t see any problems.”

“Great,” he said. Ronan knew he ought to tell her his real name. She didn’t seem like the type to discriminate, although he still hadn’t figured out what the problem was with the rest of the town. “I tried to find a place in town, but no one wanted to rent to me.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. As soon as I told them my name, they suddenly didn’t have a room to rent.”

“Ronan?” she asked. “Or Smith?”

“Quinn,” he said. “My name is Ronan Quinn, not Smith.” He paused and watched as surprise came over her pretty features. “See. That’s the look right there. So it is the name.”

She laughed softly and then a sudden hiccup stopped her. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she sent him an apologetic smile. “Yeah. People around here have a pretty big grudge against anyone named Quinn.”

“How could they have a grudge against me? They don’t even know me.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Well, I don’t really believe in all the silliness. Spells and curses and witches. I’m willing to give you a job, Ronan Quinn. And a place to stay, if you want.”

“What did this Quinn do to make everyone mad?”

“It’s a complicated story,” Charlie said, waving him off.

“Don’t you think I ought to hear it, so I know what I’m up against?”

She shook her head. “If I tell you the story, you’ll think we’re all so crazy that you’ll want to leave town. And I need an oysterman.” She pointed to his duffel. “Grab your bag and I’ll show you the apartment.”

Ronan breathed a silent sigh of relief. “I didn’t mean to lie about my name. I was just trying to figure things out.”

“No matter,” she said, walking him back upstairs.

When they got to the second floor, a doorway opened into a lobby for a spacious office opposite the tasting room. “Things usually get busy in here in the afternoon when we’re preparing packing lists and labels for our shipments but all that starts next week.”

She showed him a comfortable one-bedroom apartment with a galley kitchen and a comfortable bed. A bay window overlooked the water and he could hear the metallic clank of the boat riggings through the glass. “This is nice,” he said.

“If you need an advance to buy groceries, I can help you out there.”

“I could use that,” he said. “And I can finish the skiff today. I’ll work on it all night if I have to.”

“Great,” she murmured. Charlie stood in front of him, her gaze flitting nervously around the room. Though Ronan had tried to hide his attraction to his new boss, he hadn’t really considered that she might be attracted to him. As she shifted nervously, her fingers twisted together, he decided to test a theory.