Summer at Seaside Cove (49 page)

He crossed his arms over his chest and hiked a brow. “I didn't hear you complaining at the time.”

“Of course not. There's nothing to complain about—unless there's serious thinking to be done. And there was. A lot of it. And I couldn't do it. At least not until I got away from you. When my head finally cleared from that glazy-eyed fog you put me in and as Larry here was unloading my bags at the airport”—she jerked her head behind her to indicate the cabbie, who gave Nick a thumbs-up—“it suddenly hit me. I just didn't want to leave. I mean I already knew I didn't want to leave, but when I contemplated getting on the plane to actually leave, I knew I couldn't. So I told Larry to stop unloading my bags.”

“Pretty bossy she was about it,” Larry chimed in with a grin.

“I realized that my mother is settled with Alex, Laurel and I have mended our fences, and Heather and I can always text each other to death. I called my mom and told her I wanted to stay here, and after assuring her I'd come back for the wedding, she gave me her blessing. But even if she hadn't, I was staying here—no more letting anyone pull my strings, except me. I phoned Newman's and spoke to Nathan and together we worked out a schedule and he's going to start interviewing for new managers right away. I then called Maria and officially accepted the offer she made me last night at the bonfire—to manage Oy Vey Mama Mia as she and Ira would like more free time. She also told me that the storefront next to the restaurant will be coming available in about four months. It would make a perfect dessert bistro—the exact sort of place I've always dreamed of opening.

“And then, there was you. I told you a number of times that my life was in New York, and maybe that was true. But it turns out my
heart
is here. With you. And you can't have a life without a heart, right? So I told Larry to take me to Seas the Moment.”

“Told me to get her there as fast as I could,” Larry added from the driver's seat. “Kept telling me she wished my superpower was the ability to fly. I told her I wished it was, too.”

“Why did you want to go there?” Nick asked.

“To get this.” She handed him the huge bag. “I would have been here sooner, but this took a while.”

“Hours,” Larry said. “It took
hours
. But she wasn't going to leave without it.”

“What is this?” Nick asked, taking the bag.

“One way to find out.”

He untied the bag and pulled it away. And found himself holding a beautiful oval wooden house plaque like the ones that adorned all the homes on Seaside Cove. This one depicted a flamingo wading in shallow water near a beach where a perfect sand dollar rested in the sand while the sun set in the background. The letters spelled out—

“Paradise Found,” he read, tracing his fingers over the raised letters. “It's beautiful.”

“And very true.” She set her sand dollar on the cab's rear seat next to Cupcake's carrier, then moved closer to him, and he set down the plaque so he could take her in his arms. “I know you didn't specifically ask me to come back,” she said softly, “but you did give me the sand dollar, and since you asked me to stay, I'm hoping you don't mind.”

“Mind?” He snatched her against him and took what felt like his first deep breath in more than twelve hours. “Just so you know, if you hadn't come back, Godiva and I were going to New York. I'd just finished booking the flight for tomorrow morning. We decided we'd rather be there with you than here without you.”

She leaned back in the circle of his arms, and her eyes searched his. “You mean you'd
move
to New York?”

“If that's what it takes, yes. Maybe we can look at getting a beach house in New York and splitting our time between both places. Here, there, as long as we're together, I don't care.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I thought Seaside Cove was my home—”

“I thought New York was my home. But home—”

“Is where
you
are,” they said unison.

Tears filled Jamie's eyes. “In case you haven't figured it out, Mr. Smart Guy, Princeton, Ivy League, I'm wildly, crazy in love with you.”

“Thank God. Because I'm wildly, crazy in love with you.” He settled his mouth on hers and the area surrounding his heart that just a few minutes ago had been empty and aching filled to overflow. His hands impatiently pressed her closer, but an insistent, “Excuse me . . . excuse me, you two . . .
excuse me
,” broke through the haze of love and lust engulfing him. Bemused, he lifted his head, and realized Larry was staring at them.

“I'm real happy for you folks, but it's late and I'm tired.”

“Sure, Larry,” Jamie said. Then she looked at Nick. “Um, you're happy to see me, right?”

He nudged her with his pelvis. “You can't tell?”

She gave a smothered laugh. “I can. And I'm very glad. Because there's a slight problem. It, ah, concerns my cab fare. I'm
reeeeeally
hoping you meant it when you said you weren't poor.”

Nick raised his brows, then looked at Larry over her shoulder. “What's the damage?”

Larry glanced at the meter. “Five hundred seventy-two dollars and thirty-five cents.” When Nick whistled softly, Larry added, “I'll have you know I took her off the meter during our lunch break.”

“That was very nice of you, Larry,” Jamie said.

Nick returned his gaze to Jamie. “I take it you're in need of financial assistance in settling your bill.”

“I'm afraid so. The plaque pretty much maxed out my credit card.”

“You realize you'll be in my debt.”

Her eyes glittered. “Oh, yeah.”

“For a very long time.”

“Even better. I'm thinking it'll take me at least a few weeks to pay you back.”

“Longer than that, I'm afraid.”

“Oh yeah? Like how long?”

He cupped her face in his hands. “I'm thinking about fifty years. At least.”

Her lips curved slowly upward, until the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen bloomed on her face, and he found himself looking into eyes filled with all the love he could ever hope for.

“Fifty years,” she repeated. “And once again, we agree.”

L
aurel Newman pulled in a steadying breath she wished she didn't need. Wished she wasn't wracked with nerves. Plagued with doubts. Wished her palms weren't sweating, or her heart pounding in hard, uncomfortable knocks. It was crazy to be so nervous, so unsure of herself, but as many times as she'd tried to change it, she always felt this way when faced with the unfamiliar. The best she'd ever been able to accomplish was the ability to hide her jitters—a task she'd mastered. She was an expert at camouflaging her discomfort, of always appearing calm, cool, collected, and confident on the outside. None of her friends or family had ever suspected that her unruffled exterior hid a chronic worrier who, all evidence to the contrary, rarely let down her guard. Not that she needed to worry any longer about her friends discovering her secret.

Because they weren't her friends any longer.

No, they were gone. Just as everything familiar to her was now gone. So much loss, so much pain. Her entire existence lost down a twisting path that had, after much chewing, spit her out here, in Seaside Cove. And brought her to this marina, to this building that overlooked the white-capped bay and grassy marshes of North Carolina. Where she was about to do something she'd never done before.

Apply for a job.

“C'mon, Laurel,” she whispered in her best pep-talk mode. “You can do this. People apply for jobs every day. First time for everything. Nothing to be afraid of.”

Except she was afraid. Because for the first time in her life she
needed
a job. Needing a job, applying for a job, uncertain about the future, uncertain about . . . everything. So many firsts.

God, she hated firsts.

How had her life changed so drastically in such a short a period of time? Less than a year ago she'd been financially secure, a card-carrying member of New York City's elite—with the black Amex to prove it.

And now . . . now it was all gone. The wealth, the luxury, her home, her security. All gone.

A breeze ruffled her hair and she wrinkled her nose at the underlying whiff of three-day-old fish—a scent she recognized as one the Seaside Cove locals called “low tide.”

Chanel it was not.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” she muttered.

Yes, she'd fallen, but she was determined to rise. Not just for her own sake, but for Heather's. She'd let her daughter down too many times in the past. She wasn't going to do it again. She hoped.

So these desperate times called for desperate measures. And God knows she was desperate. A humorless sound escaped her. Desperation. Another damn first. One she really, really disliked.

Straightening her spine, Laurel knocked on the door whose plain black lettering let her know she was at Griffin's Marina and Custom Boat Building. Only muffled music reached her ears. She knocked again, and when no one answered, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The scent of freshly cut wood hung heavy in the air. Light from the weak February sun fighting through the thick cloud cover seeped through the tall paned-glass windows, illuminating the partial wooden hull of a boat. Classic Aerosmith blasted from somewhere near the back of the hull, loud enough to awaken the dead. A pair of dusty jeans and work boots indicated someone stood back there as well. Probably Griffin, the person who'd posted the job ad. Since he couldn't see her and he'd never hear her entering over the racket of music and whine of some sort of power tool, she headed toward him. Her boot heels tapped against the cement floor, a welcome change to all the wood decking she'd encountered in Seaside Cove. Decks and docks and boardwalks everywhere. Hazard of a coastal town, she supposed.

In contrast to the rustic outside, the interior of the building was immaculate. Long rows of steel shelving ran the length of one wall, filled with gizmos and tools she couldn't name, but she recognized the pristine organization. Clearly this Griffin was neat and tidy. Maybe even to the point of being anal. The thought of working for an anal boss didn't thrill her, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Given that this was off-season in Seaside Cove, jobs weren't plentiful. In fact, they were just about non-existent. She'd have to take what she could get. So far she'd gotten nothing. So anal boss or not, she wasn't leaving here without a job. And she certainly wasn't going to let the fact that she knew zilch about boats stop her.

She rounded the back of the boat and found herself looking at a broad back covered by a faded plaid flannel shirt. Her gaze drifted down, taking in faded Levi's hugging long legs that ended in work boots so scuffed they must have traveled the planet. The cacophony created by Aerosmith and the power saw buzzed through her skull, so loud she could feel the reverberations in her chest. She didn't want to scare the guy—that saw looked like it could take off an arm.

“Hello,” she shouted.

Steven Tyler and the saw screamed on.

She gingerly moved around the table saw so the man could see her and waved her arms. “Excuse me,” she bellowed.

His gaze flicked up and she saw annoyance flash in his eyes behind the safety goggles he wore. The saw stopped with a fading wheeze, and he reached out to turn off the radio with an impatient flick.

“Hi.” She smiled, ignoring the ringing in her ears. “Are you Griffin?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone as impatient and forbidding as his expression. Not to mention his size. She was five-nine in her socks, hitting six foot with her boots, a height many men found intimidating. But not this man. He had a good four inches on her and sported a glower that no doubt would have sent someone less determined than her slinking away. Stubble shaded his square jaw, shadowing features that might have passed for good-looking if they weren't in the running for the title Mr. Seriously Pissed Off. His ebony hair was thick and rumpled and a few inches too long. Everything about him screamed big, rough, and Get Lost. If she wasn't desperate, she would have done just that. His dark-eyed gaze flicked down to her boots and his frown grew more pronounced. “Who're you?”

Oh, joy. Anal
and
grumpy. Yippee. Definitely not looking at all happy to see her. Which didn't bode well for this interview. Which frankly annoyed and confused her. He was the one who'd left the voice mail on her cell setting up this meeting. She swallowed her irritation and offered another smile, along with her hand. “Hi, Griffin. I'm Laurel Newman.”

The frown he sizzled at her outstretched hand was clearly meant to incinerate it. Instead of shaking her hand, he shoved his safety glasses on top of his head and folded his arms across his chest. “I'm not sure how you got in here—”

“I used the door.”

“It was closed.”

“But not locked. I knocked. Twice. You didn't hear me.”

“Because I was working.” His tone made it abundantly clear that she'd interrupted him and he wasn't happy about it—as if his pointed glare hadn't already made that obvious. “Look, if you're here to talk to the dockmaster about renting a boat slip—”

“I'm not,” she broke in, lowering her hand and fighting to keep her voice calm. Anal, grumpy,
and
insufferably rude. If she wasn't desperate, she'd tell this hulking buffoon what he could do with his power tools—in an anatomically specific way—then get the hell out of there. “I'm here about the job. Laurel Newman,” she repeated, because he clearly wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. “You scheduled an interview with me at one o'clock.”