“But you—”
“Need to get going. You’re right.” He waved his stamps in the air, but with Jillian about to blow her top, he wondered if he was just wiggling a matador’s cape in front of an enraged bull. “My dad’s old boathouse is available. Some cabins, too. If Mr. Chippy is interested in any of those, let me know. Otherwise, sayonara, Jillian.”
* * *
THE NEXT MONDAY, Lyddie hung up the phone in her so-called office and tried to keep from either screaming, swearing or sobbing. All were appropriate reactions to the news she’d just received, but none would do a bit of good.
She balled up her apron and threw it into the far corner. It hit the wall with a highly satisfying smack before slithering down to the floor.
“Damn, damn, damn...”
Her volume increased with each utterance, forcing her to clamp her lips tight before she totally lost it. If she started yelling now, she knew it would be heard in the dining room. The last thing she needed was Nadine asking questions. Not yet. Not until she’d had a chance to vent in private.
Lyddie marched to the front of the kitchen and forced herself to take one of those deep, cleansing breaths that the Lamaze instructor had insisted would get her through the worst contractions. It had proven to be a bald-faced lie during labor, but at least now it enabled her to maintain some control as she pushed open the door to the dining room. When she peeked in she was relieved to see that business was still light. The midafternoon lull meant this was her best chance for escape.
“Nadine, will you be okay alone for a few minutes?”
“Sure thing, boss. You got a hot date you have to squeeze in?”
“Yeah, Ryan Gosling’s yacht is passing through and he has a few minutes free for a quickie. Call me if you need me. Otherwise I’ll be back in a few.”
Without waiting for Nadine to respond, Lyddie retraced her steps through the kitchen to the back door. She shoved it open and was hit by a blast of humid heat, the scent of fresh pizza in the air and Jimmy Buffett begging for a cheeseburger in paradise. If she hadn’t been in such a pissy mood she would have reveled in the assortment. As it was, she turned to glare across the parking lot at the reason for her dismay—Patty’s Pizza—then cursed in frustration.
She needed to get away. Needed to vent. Alone.
Something near Patty’s caught her eye. It was a man. A tall, confident, complicate-your-life-beyond-reason man, walking down the street without so much as a glance at the people he was passing.
“Typical,” Lyddie said, and booted it until she was in J. T. Delaney’s face.
“Hold it right there,” she said without preamble.
He raised his focus from the sidewalk to her face, clearly startled. Something like pleasure flashed in his eye. It was gone in the instant it took her to scowl.
“We need to talk. Now.”
“Is it something I said?”
“More like something you didn’t say. Get in my car. We’re going for a drive.”
“I love a woman who takes charge,” he said, but followed obediently as she fished her keys from her pocket and led him to her minivan.
“In.” She pointed to the front seat, not even bothering to clear away the pile of library books Ben had left for her to return. This was a grown man. He could push books off the seat as well as anyone else.
She let herself in her side, slammed the door and had the car out of the parking lot before he had his seat belt fastened.
“I never pegged you for the dominatrix type,” he said over her squealing tires. “Guess you never can tell.”
“This is not a good time for jokes.”
“Fine. No problem. Can I ask where we’re going?”
She stared out the window, bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“You said we need to talk.”
“Yes.”
“You want privacy for this discussion?”
She swallowed hard, nodded. “Yes.”
“Fine. My dad’s old boathouse is empty and I have the keys. You know where it is?”
She did. She passed it every day on her way to and from work. She didn’t bother to answer, just stepped on the gas and carried them out of town and down River Road in record time.
She parked the car in the lot and hopped out, crossing the rutted dirt and gravel in long strides, letting her anger build as she waited by the door. For a second she realized that if anyone were watching—and in Comeback Cove, that was more likely than not—then the gossip network would soon be buzzing with the news that she and J. T. Delaney had been alone together in a deserted building.
Well, that would be one way to get folks to stop calling her the Young Widow Brewster.
It took J.T. a minute to find the right key, another couple of tense seconds to convince it to work in the stubborn lock, but at last the door was open.
“Careful,” he said as she stepped inside. “I haven’t been in here yet. It might not be in the best shape.”
His warning was justified. Standing behind her in the half-open door, J.T. blocked a good deal of the sunshine from outside. Dust motes danced in the weak light of the sole unshuttered window, drifting slowly down to earth. Deep shadows hovered outside that small patch of light. The mingled scents of grease and gas and the sound of water lapping at boards reminded her that this was a boathouse—meaning one wrong step in the unfamiliar darkness could land her in even deeper water than she faced already.
“Hang on.” J.T.’s voice, low and subdued behind her, was oddly reassuring considering he was the reason for her misfortune. “I doubt there’s any electricity, but I’ll try the light—wait—no, nothing. There should be a flashlight up on the shelf. Just give me a...”
The door slammed closed, plunging them into darkness.
Lyddie yelped. J.T. cursed.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“I won’t.”
“Let me get the door open again.” He moved slowly behind her. Something warm—a hand, probably—grazed the small of her back. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t nervousness about the dark and the water that was making Lyddie’s heart do double-time in her chest.
For the first time in four years, she was alone in the dark with a man. And all she could hear was Zoë’s voice, laughing on the phone, telling her to jump him.
Oh. Dear. God.
Four years of zero interest in anything sexual ended in the space of a breath. Every erogenous zone roared back to sudden, urgent, demanding life.
She must have made some sort of sound, for in an instant he stopped his slow walk.
“Mrs. Brewster? Are you okay?”
“Fine.” Except she kept remembering the way he had looked when he first walked into the shop, before she knew who he was. And the way he grinned. And the slight suggestion in his voice when she told him to get in the truck and he said he liked a woman who took charge.
Most of all she kept feeling that touch on her back, over and over. Heat pooled low in her belly. Her skin prickled with awareness. Even without contact she felt him moving. Every hesitant footfall echoed through her, pulling her focus back to that spot where she could still feel him. And each time it replayed in her mind her breath came a little faster.
“You’re sure you’re okay? You sound like you’re hyperventilating or something.”