The Red Door Inn (17 page)

“I'm not missing out on anything,” he said.

“You're not?”

They strolled past a couple holding hands, drawing nearer to the rock jetty. Her attention shifted between the beauty
of the scene before her and the cone in her hand so that she missed the hole in the sand. Her knee buckled as she lurched forward.

Seth grabbed her arm, righting her by the sheer force of his grip. “Are you going to watch where you're going now?”

Kicking sand out of the cuff of her pants, she said, “Where
are
we going?”

“To my absolute favorite spot on the island.”

“You have a favorite spot?”

He cocked his head to the side. “Just because I don't dance down boardwalks or ramble about the guy they named the gulf after, doesn't mean I don't appreciate it.”

When they reached the jetty, he climbed onto the rocks, holding his cone high in the air with one hand and using the other to climb the uneven steps. Glancing over his shoulder, he wrinkled his brows. “Watch your step.”

“I'm more worried about my ice cream.” She licked a melting drop that slid toward her finger.

“Come on.” He held out his free hand, and when she tucked hers into it, he pulled her up with a strength that his earlier save had only hinted at. Several yards out over the water, he pointed to two rocks that formed a perfect bench. “There.”

“This is your favorite spot? On the whole island?”

“Try it out.”

She shrugged, dropping to her knees before sitting down facing the water. The catch in her breath had nothing to do with his proximity and everything to do with the view of the village. From their vantage point, she could just make out the beach beside a big yellow barn-like building. There waves clapped against the island's famous red dirt with
breathtaking ease. The little white lighthouse shone brightly even in the sun, and a few wildflowers were braving their way back, reaching for the sun.

After nearly five minutes of silence, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“Why?” He smiled around a bite of waffle cone.

“You know why.” She used her melting treat to motion across the water.

“You're welcome.” He licked around the edge of his ice cream. “This makes me wish I still had my surfboard.”

“You surfed?”

He shrugged.

“I figured as much. San Diego guys always do.”

“Well, not all of us. We moved there when I was twelve, and I was obsessed with the water. Not very good at surfing, but I didn't care.”

She nodded toward the rolling waves. “I don't think these would make for good surfing either.”

“Nope. But I'd give just about anything to paddle out past the break and just sit there, letting the surf float me back to shore.”

She crunched on a piece of the crispy waffle, knowing exactly what he meant.

When her cone was gone and her stomach so full she could pop, she leaned elbows on her knees and rocked in motion with the waves. Closing her eyes, she let the water lull her almost to sleep. “Wake me up when it's time to go back.”

“All right.” He leaned back on his hands.

The rhythmic lapping of the waves was the only mark of time, so when he nudged her, she nearly fell off her seat.
“Maybe we should head back. I've got to get the mirror hung in the upstairs bathroom.”

She nodded, taking his hand as he helped her up and then back down the rocks. They walked side by side in silence all the way back to the inn. Whether he was trying to avoid more dancing or afraid that she'd begin rattling on again, he kept his mouth closed, a small grin in place.

Seth held open the back door as she walked inside.

“Thanks for the ice cream.”

He followed her closely into the house. “I didn't pay for the ice cream.”

“You didn't?” She whipped around, almost running into the middle of his chest. Her hands rose to fend off the bump, her fingers grazing the front of his T-shirt.

His forehead wrinkled, his eyes narrowing. “I thought you did.”

“I didn't. He didn't tell me how much it was.” She pointed in the general direction of the beach. “But he didn't call after us. Did he?”

She tried to replay the scene in her mind, but everything before strawberry on the beach was a blur.

Seth's chest rumbled, his laughter building from deep within. When it finally exploded, he had to put his hand on his side as the guffaws shook him. “I owe him some money. And if I don't pay him, I might be labeled persona non grata.”

Between her own giggles, she said, “Yes, I'm sure they'll post your picture next to the window and tell their whole staff to refuse you service.”

With quick backward steps that matched the rhythm of his laughter, he reached the door. “I'll be right back.” He
disappeared around the side of the house, his chuckles still ringing in the room.

Marie wandered into the dining room, a skip in her step to match Seth's laughter. The table was empty, and Jack and Aretha had disappeared. “Jack?” she called down the hall, wandering to the foyer. At the front door, she spied two figures walking down the road toward Aretha's shop.

She pressed her face as close to the window as she could without leaving a smudge. Jack's white hair fluttered in the wind, and Aretha clasped her hands around his elbow as she looked into his face.

This was very, very good.

If anyone was right for Jack, it was Aretha, with her warm heart and bright smile. Jack needed that after his loss. Even if he didn't realize it.

Marie wandered back to the kitchen, put a few more glasses into the dishwasher, and wiped off the counters. There were still plenty of walls to paint, but maybe if she waited for Seth, she could help him hang the mirror and he'd help her paint.

Jack's
New York Times
sat in a haphazard array on the corner of the counter, and she shuffled the pages together, automatically scanning the business section for anything of interest. The Dow was down, but that wasn't new.

She flipped the page over and nearly crumpled it up to throw into the recycling bin. But her hand stopped at the edge of the page. She blinked several times, trying to focus on the tiny script and praying she'd misread the name in the article.

She hadn't.

As the words came into focus, she scanned the lines as fast as she could, mumbling the words. “Boston area real estate group Carrington Commercial hit a snag in the purchase of
two and a half acres of land . . . Current property owner Derek Summerville Sr. is asking the National Register of Historic Places to preserve the buildings on his land and halt the purchase of the land, which Carrington Commercial owner Elliot Carrington says . . .”

Her voice trailed off as her breath vanished. Leaning an elbow on the counter, she covered her face.

The land where her dad planned to put multimillion-dollar condos was still in limbo, still of more import than his daughter.

She tried to swallow the lump that lodged in her throat, but it stayed put.

Her father had tried to use her, but he wasn't getting what he wanted. While he might be able to pressure Derek Summerville Sr. into selling, the land was worthless if it couldn't be developed. Mr. Summerville knew that and was using it to fight back the only way he could.

The lines on the page blurred, and she knuckled away the wetness on her cheeks until she could make out the rest of the story. It was mostly financial jargon, except for the last line, a quote from Elliot Carrington.

“We believe there's an expert who can clear up any confusion about this property, and we're making every effort to locate her immediately.”

She sagged against the counter and covered her face with both hands. Tears splashed into her palms as she swallowed a sob.

It could only have been clearer if he'd used her name. He was coming for her, because without her, his bite was toothless. Without her, he could prove nothing. And Derek Sr. knew it.

M
arie counted the money in her stash for the fifth time in as many days. There wasn't any more than there had been the night before, and she folded it twice before tucking it into the hidden zipper of her backpack. Pressing her fists into her eyes, she pulled her knees up to her chin.

Was it enough? Was the meager stash enough for her to move on? To keep her father guessing at her whereabouts?

The lingering questions left her head pounding.

Not yet. But she had to go. And soon.

Jack and Seth hadn't signed up to face down her father. When they met him, they might not initially intend to send her packing. But after he coerced and cajoled them in the same voice he used in the boardroom, they'd wish she would go. They might even encourage her to go back to Boston with him. And she couldn't do that.

She wouldn't do it.

No matter how much she might want to stay with them—or how much they could use another hard worker—it wasn't
an option. Her father would find her. His private investigator was almost certainly tracking her. It wouldn't have taken him long to find whatever security video the bus station in Boston had recorded. And someone at the Wood Islands ferry terminal had most likely remembered a lonely woman. At just two inches over five feet tall, she was noticeable. Memorable. The PI might still be stuck there if he hadn't yet connected her with Jack. But the island wasn't very big. It wouldn't take long to track down a new resident, especially outside of tourist season.

She didn't have much more time.

Two solid thumps on her door jerked her from her position on top of the bedcovers, and she scurried to answer it. Seth leaned one shoulder into the other side of the frame, his grin cocked to the side and a wink at the ready.

“Morning, sunshine.”

She put both hands on her hips. “What do you want?” The words tasted like sour grapes, and she wrinkled her nose at her own surly tone. “I'm sorry.”

“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” He pushed his long sleeves up to his elbows. The pale blue of the shirt made his hair even darker where it curled over the back of his neckline, and she had a sudden urge to run her fingers through it. He pushed a lock off his forehead, but it refused to stay behind his ear.

“You need a haircut.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

She scowled at him. “What can I do for you?” Although she'd changed the words, her tone was still not convincingly pleasant. She cleared her throat and plastered a smile in place. “How can I help you today?”

His grin ratcheted up, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his shoulders shook in silent humor. “Before I knew about your stellar attitude this morning, I thought I'd ask you to help me hang up a closet rack. It's a two-person job.” He squinted at her. “But now I'm thinking I might try to do it by myself.”

“I'm sorry.” She shook her head and pressed her fingers to the throbbing at her temple. “I didn't sleep very well last night, and I wasn't . . . Never mind. I'm sorry.”

“Apology accepted. So you'll help me.”

He was halfway up the stairs before she could even reply. “You're pretty sure I'm going to, aren't you?”

Facing straight ahead, he nodded. “Hey. You can't resist the chance to spend some more time with me.”

She massaged the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger.

She hated when he was right.

And she hated that she really did want to spend the day with him.

After their ice cream and beach trip, things had been different between them. More playful, less intense. More open, less congested. More fun. Period.

“Why are you such an easy target?” she asked herself as she stomped up the steps behind him.

“You say something?”

“No.”

His lips pursed to the side as he waited for her at the landing. He didn't believe her, but that didn't keep him from moving along. “Want to carry my toolbox or the rack?” He motioned to the giant metal box the size of a large cat carrier. Beside it sat what looked like fifty pounds of wire pieces cut into odd shapes and sizes.

“You want me to carry one of those?”

“Well, I'm not going to do your work for you.” He blinked twice, his mouth straight and delivery completely solemn.

“How about you tell me which tools you'll need for this job and I'll just take those.”

He scratched his chin. “I'm not quite sure yet exactly which we'll need. I might need them all.”

“A pipe wrench? You're going to need a pipe wrench to hang these shelves?”

He shrugged. “You never know. They look pretty complicated to me. But Jack told me you said something about wanting to put racks into the closet in the room next to the green one. Really, I think this is more your project than mine. But I've decided to give you a hand.”

She narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. “I don't think Jack would agree. Care to ask him?”

“I'm happy to. He's off on an errand—which he promised me was not another trip to the bank—so we'll waste the whole morning waiting on his decision if you're not willing to carry your own weight.”

“Literally.” She pressed the toe of her shoe to his metal box. “That thing has to weigh almost as much as I do.”

He shrugged in an “oh well” movement, and she shoved his bicep, the muscle firm beneath the lightweight cotton of his shirt. Her push did nothing to budge him. In fact, he only leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Well, maybe we should find out.”

“What—”

He grabbed her waist, throwing her over his shoulder as she screamed and smacked at his back.

“Put me down, you jerk.” But the laughter in her voice left her words impotent.

He scooped up his toolbox and the shelves in one hand and ran up the main staircase, his breathing never labored. She grabbed at his waist to keep from toppling off his broad shoulder, the muscles in his back flexing and bunching beneath her hands. He walked into the room and dropped his cargo on the floor in one stoop.

Back on her feet, Marie straightened her clothes, her shoulders still shaking with laughter.

Kneeling in front of the gray kit, he glanced up at her. “You definitely weigh more than my toolbox.”

“Watch it, Sloane.”

He winked at her, pulling a screwdriver, tape measure, and pencil from the top tray. “I'm only teasing. Now help me measure and mark the height of this thing.”

The closet wasn't intended to be a walk-in, so when they both squeezed into it, the air vanished. If Seth had seemed big when she was slung over his shoulder, he positively dwarfed her in the confines of the closet. The muscles of his neck flexed as he turned toward her, holding out the end of the yellow measuring tape.

He pressed the lip of it to the corner as he squatted to the floor. Looking at the ceiling, she tried to find anything more interesting than the way his hair flopped to one side. Or the way the light shimmered off it.

Her fingers were inches from touching the sleek strands when she jerked away. She couldn't just run her fingers through his hair.

Well, he just snatched you up and hauled you upstairs. Surely you're free to touch
him.

That was a good point.

She bit the corner of her bottom lip and held her breath as she reached for the top of his head. Just. A. Touch.

She trailed one finger along an errant lock. It was thick and sturdy, like Seth.

Suddenly his hand zipped up to hers, his callused fingers twining around her wrist. Her scream caught in her throat as he tilted his head and met her gaze with narrowed eyes. Pushing off the floor, he rose slowly before her, just inches away. Every moment was an eternity, his eyes never blinking as his face drew even with hers, their lips a breath apart. He kept going until he towered above her. Forced to crane her neck, she refused to lose eye contact, to let him win whatever unspoken contest she'd started.

Never looking away, he twisted his hand until his fingers pressed against her open palm, then between her fingers. Their hands flush, he squeezed ever so gently, his eyes flashing at the same moment.

The touch was so much more intimate than she'd imagined after months of avoiding any kind of contact. Sparks flew up her arm, stealing her breath. But she hadn't been breathing anyway.

After dropping the measure into his pocket, he lifted his free hand to her cheek, trailing a finger around the edge of her ear until her rebellious hair stayed in place. His touch left a trail of fire as he dragged his finger along her jawline, achingly slow. His Adam's apple bobbed.

He felt it too.

The pull was too strong, and she suddenly couldn't keep her eyelids all the way open. They dropped to half-mast, leaving her only a view of the pointed line of his jaw and mouth.
Training her gaze on the little scar near his chin, she readied herself for what was coming. Oh, how she wanted him to kiss her. To feel safe in the arms of a man. To be protected from the world, even if only for a moment.

He licked his lips, his pink tongue darting from right to left as a muscle in his jaw jumped.

And then he leaned forward, his face hovering above hers.

This was her chance to escape. Her chance to say she wasn't ready or didn't want this. Her chance to run away before her feelings galloped out of control. If she ran now, leaving later would be easier. If she ran now, hearts didn't have to be wounded and her memories of this home would be happy.

Instead she pressed onto her toes, steadying herself with a hand on his chest. His breath hitched, and she fisted her hand into his shirt, the warmth of his body surrounding her.

Seth paused just a fraction of an inch from completing the motion, suspending the kiss. In his hand Marie's face angled even closer to him. The scent of minty toothpaste lingered on her breath, mingling with the aroma of shampoo still clinging to her damp hair.

Her satin skin set him on fire, his stomach burning with a need that he hadn't thought he'd ever feel again. He wanted to make her laugh, to make every dark shadow in her sapphire eyes disappear.

But that wasn't right.

If he let the flames consume his mind, he'd never be able to be objective. He couldn't protect Jack if he let her seduce him too.

He pressed his forehead against hers. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she twisted her hand in his shirt, pulling him closer.

It couldn't hurt.

Just one little kiss.

But one would never be enough. His gut promised he'd need just one more. And then another. And another.

He'd set himself up for a Reece repeat. Whatever Marie wanted from Jack was on the line, and Seth wasn't about to be the cause of his uncle's pain.

It took every ounce of his strength to tear his hand away from her cheek and set it on her shoulder, gently pressing her back to the floor. She fought him for a brief moment, uncertainty splashing across her face as she leaned away.

Space to breathe.

He gasped for oxygen, needing a clear head. But his hands weren't willing to fully release her. Even as he stepped back in the confines of the closet, he wrapped both hands around her upper arms.

She blinked in quick succession, her lips parting and arms wrapping around her middle.

He let out a slow breath and jammed a hand through his hair, nearly yanking out the piece that had started this whole thing. When she'd put her hand on his hair, it had been everything he'd thought it might be. Everything he'd worried it could be. It was a jolt of lightning and a crashing wave in the same moment.

How easy it would be to get swept away.

But he couldn't let himself.

“I'm sorry.”

She nodded, her front teeth biting into her lip and turning it cherry red.

He couldn't drag his gaze away from her mouth, wondering what it would feel like to share just one kiss.

Shaking his head, he wiped away every thought in that ballpark. He couldn't do that. He wasn't strong enough to stop a second time.

She tried for a smile, but it wavered, leaving only a grimace in its wake. Her eyes filled with tears, the light from the bedroom fixture making them shine.

“Listen, this is just a bad idea. You're amazing.” He meant to keep going, but the words evaporated.

Her lips pinching together, she nodded frantically but said nothing.

His arms ached to pull her to his chest, but it would only mean confusing the situation further. “I am sorry, Marie. I shouldn't have let it get this far.”

She swallowed, the sound filling the cramped space. “You're right. Of course. It was a bad idea. Excuse me.”

She ran from the room, her steps echoing down the stairs and out the front door. She'd be on the boardwalk. He could go to her and say something. Except there were no words that would fix what he'd just done.

He thumped the back of his head against the wall, the ache a welcome distraction.

“Just brilliant, Sloane.” He deserved every bit of his own derision. Marie didn't deserve to be led on. He shouldn't have made her think he wanted more.