Carolina Girl (6 page)

His sharp eyes focused on her face. “I can give you a U design. More length in a smaller space,” he explained. “That takes the ramp under the master bedroom window and back to the walk. Plus, it would be out of sight from the guest patio and the guest bedrooms.”

Meg narrowed her eyes, trying to visualize the layout he described. Sam knew the inn. He’d built the master addition with her father and Matt almost twenty years ago. Her parents trusted him.

“I guess a handicapped access could be a draw for guests,” she acknowledged. “But we’d have to move those rosebushes.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Just tell me where.”

His ready acquiescence was balm to her soul. She went back into the kitchen glowing with decisiveness, once more in control. A feeling which lasted until she sat at the table again and read the next question from the career coach.

What gives you joy?

The words danced tauntingly on the screen. As if joy had anything to do with work. Or making money. Or planning her future.

Gritting her teeth, Meg typed. She was in PR, for heaven’s sake. If the job required bullshit, she could write bullshit.

* * *

“S
KYPING WITH THE
boyfriend?” Sam drawled.

He watched Meg jump like a teenaged boy caught surfing porn sites. Her face flushed wild rose red.

He grinned and leaned a shoulder in the doorway, pleased for once to have the upper hand. “Or do you usually take off more clothes for that?”

She scowled, closing her laptop with an annoyed click. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was . . .” She broke off, her color deepening.

“Working,” he supplied, taking pity on her.

“Yes.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

Interesting.

The dishwasher was already running. He rinsed his empty mug and set it in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee and pastry.”

“Focaccia. You’re welcome.”

“Got any more?”

“A little.” Recovering, she stood, moving with brisk grace to the counter. “Are you still hungry?”

“No.” He stayed where he was, enjoying the mathematical precision with which she sliced a square. Her hands were neat and quick, her fingers slim and unadorned. He wanted them on his body.

The sudden flare of lust caught him by surprise. He shifted his position against the counter. “The old man was grumbling about his breakfast this morning. I promised to bring him something tasty and artery-clogging if he behaved.”

Her full lips curved. Soft, pink. Distracting. “I can wrap some for you to take home. But it’s not bad for him. It’s just a basic bread recipe with a little fruit, a little olive oil.”

Sam winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Her hands stilled on the knife. The memory of her whisper rose between them.
Don’t tell Matt.

She bent her head, busying herself with the plastic wrap.

“Thanks,” Sam said quietly as she handed him the square of focaccia. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s nice of
you
.” She gave him her crooked smile. “You’re a good son.”

He was taken aback. Embarrassed. His family wasn’t like hers. He managed not to shuffle his feet. “There are different opinions on that.”

“You’re here. According to
my
father, most of life is about showing up.”

“Yeah? How does he feel about the absent boyfriend?”

“He doesn’t . . . Derek isn’t . . . Dad was talking about
family
.”

So New York Guy wasn’t family. After six years? Loser, Sam thought.

“Obviously he respects Derek’s need to work,” she added stiffly.

“Okay.”

Meg glared. “Dad meant showing up for the big stuff. Weddings, funerals . . .”

“Heart attacks?”

“Yes.”

Sam nodded. “Maybe. Maybe that’s enough. But I’ve had this feeling lately that I should be . . .”

He broke off. He didn’t talk about this shit. Not with anybody. Certainly not with Meg, who always knew exactly where she was going, who had her whole life mapped out and a calculated backup route.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Doing more than dropping in on life.”

“Your father’s life,” she clarified.

Sam shook his head. “Mine.”

Their eyes met. A different hunger stirred in his belly, solidifying into a hard ache. “Meg.”
Meggie
 . . .

Her eyes widened. Her breathing quickened. The wall phone behind him rang, and she jumped.

“Saved by the bell,” Sam murmured.

She shot him a wary look as she pushed past him to answer the phone. “Pirates’ Rest.” Her voice was cool and pleasant.

He leaned against the counter, amused at them both. There was too much history between them for his usual moves to work. There would be no quick drive to the basket this time, no easy score.

But there was too much heat between them to let him pick up his ball and go home.

He watched her, enjoying the rise and fall of her voice, only half listening to her side of the conversation.

“. . . not here at the moment . . . happy to help you . . . I’m her aunt.” Her tone sharpened, snagging his attention. “Of course I can take a message, but . . . Yes, I am living here now. With Taylor. Yes.”

Her breath escaped through her teeth. She dug for a pencil. “I’m ready. Shoot.”

Sam craned his neck as she jotted down notes on the pad by the phone.

“All right. Thank you. I’ll make sure he does,” she said and ended the call.

“Vernon Long,” Sam read aloud over her shoulder. “What do you want with an Elizabeth City lawyer?”

“Do you know him?”

“Some. Decent guy. Used to play golf with my father.”

“Is he any good?”

“Lousy swing. Excellent lawyer.” He studied her truculent face. “What’s wrong, Meg? And if you say everything’s fine, so help me, I’ll find the nearest pier and toss you off.”

“Everything
is
fine. Will be fine,” she corrected.

Uh-huh
. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Kate Dolan. Taylor’s lawyer.”

He looked at her blankly.

Meg huffed. “The executor for Dawn’s will?”

Comprehension struck. Dawn Simpson was Taylor’s mother. After getting knocked up and leaving the island, Luke’s high school girlfriend had made a life for herself working at a law office in Beaufort. “This Kate Dolan . . . is she the one who told Luke he was a daddy?”

“Yes.” Meg’s clipped tone didn’t encourage conversation.

That was okay. He was good at getting people to talk to him. “I hear Dawn’s parents aren’t too happy about Luke getting custody.”

Meg’s eyes narrowed. “Matt talked to you about that?”

“Sugar, everybody’s talking about it.” She couldn’t have forgotten how the island grapevine worked. He glanced again at the pad by the phone with the lawyer’s name in firm, black script. “So, when’s the court date?”

“Two weeks.” Her lips pressed together. “They’re claiming ‘changed circumstances.’ Because of Mom’s accident.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Luke is Taylor’s father. Dawn wanted him to raise her.” If Sam had a daughter—his mind stumbled briefly over the thought—he would want her raised by the Fletchers, too.

Meg’s face was tense and pale. “Luke’s out of the country. The Simpsons took care of Taylor right after her mom died. They’re as much her grandparents as Mom and Dad are. I’m not saying the Simpsons should get custody, but they’re not bad people just because they want Taylor.”

“Or they want her money.”

“What money? Dawn was a receptionist, not a millionaire.”

He raised his brows, watched her figure it out.

“Survivor’s benefits,” she said slowly. Her blue eyes widened. “Life insurance.”

“You would know,” Sam said. “It’s your business.”

“That’s . . . awfully cold.”

“Not cold. Realistic. Not everyone in a custody dispute is invested in the child’s welfare. Sometimes they’d rather have cash.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“You mean, because my old man paid off my mother?” Sam drawled.

Meg blushed. “I didn’t mean to insult your family.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s true enough. The old man’s not easy to live with. Belinda stuck it out as long as she could. When she finally made a break for it, she didn’t want anything tying her to her old life. Including me.” When Sam was eight, his mother’s choice had bewildered and devastated him. Maybe if she’d been different . . . If he’d been the kind of son she wanted . . . But he was all grown up now. He’d made his peace with it. And with her. “It all worked out. Dad got his heir, and she got the life she wanted. Everybody’s happy.”

“Bullshit.”

Sam chuckled. “Don’t hold back now. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Your father had an heir whether you lived with him or not. He must have wanted
you
.”

His eight-year-old self wanted to believe her. But Sam knew better. “He wanted to win,” he said flatly.

Meg opened her mouth, like she was going to argue again. But all she said was, “Do you ever see her? Your mother?”

“Sure. I call once a month, go out for a visit maybe once a year.” Sam smiled wryly. “That’s enough for both of us. I’m not the best of sons.”

“It’s not you,” Meg said fiercely.

His brows lifted.

“It’s not your fault that she didn’t fight for you,” Meg said. “It’s her lack. Her loss.”

He regarded her with affection. She didn’t understand. Meggie would always fight for those she loved. She’d always been a fighter.

Reaching out, he tugged a strand of her short, silky hair. “Careful, sugar. You don’t want to be nice to me. I might get ideas.”

Her flush deepened. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying. You, me, an inn full of empty bedrooms . . . It would be a shame to waste an opportunity.”

Her lips quirked up. She primmed them together. “Go away. I’m working.”

“So take a break. You need a little fun.”

“And you think you can give it to me?”

He smiled at her slowly, confident now that they had moved away from discussion of his family to the more comfortable ground of sex. Maybe he’d failed to show her a good time the first, last, and only time they’d been together. But . . . “I’m sure willing to try. I’ve learned a lot in eighteen years.”

She met his gaze, humor and a hint of challenge in her eyes. “So have I.”

He grinned and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “In that case, I might as well pick up the lumber.”

She straightened. “Let me get my checkbook.”

“Not necessary.”

Her chin went up. “You’re not paying for my supplies.”

“No, I’m taking them off an old job site.” He stood a moment, enjoying the confusion in her face, her slim, braced body, her suspicious eyes. “Want to come?”

Six

M
EG’S HEART GAVE
an extra thud. She met Sam’s gaze as his question hung on the air, heavy with expectation. She wanted to say yes, she realized, dismayed.
Yes
, to the building supplies.
Yes
, to going with him.
Yes
, to pretty much anything he proposed that would get her out of this kitchen and away from the career coach’s stupid questions.

So take a break. You need a little fun.

No.
The sooner she finished the assignment, the sooner she could begin the real work of finding a job. She wasn’t abandoning her schedule to go joyriding around the island with the Boy Who Had Everything.

She dug in her heels, resisting the tug of temptation. “I’m not scavenging materials off a construction site. I’m perfectly capable of buying what we need.”

“Think of it as close proximity sourcing,” he suggested. Despite the gleam in his eye, he sounded almost sincere. “This isn’t about money, Meggie. It’s about time and energy. A trip to the mainland and back would cost me a couple of hours and half a tank of gas. This is quicker. Get in, get out. No problem.”

Okay, she could accept his reasoning. To a point.
Time is money
, Derek was fond of saying. In their relationship, household chores and errands were calculated and divided as neatly as the monthly utilities. So many minutes to unload the dishwasher or carry the trash to the garbage chute, so many hours to pay the bills or wait for the super or pick up the dry cleaning . . .

Sam wasn’t anything like Derek. Maybe, in this one instance, that was a good thing. “At least let me reimburse you for the cost of the materials.”

“Nope.”

She was forced to be blunt. “Look, I don’t want to owe you any favors.”

“Consider it payback.”

“For what?” The instant the words escaped her mouth, she wished she could snatch them back. What did she want him to say?
For being drunk? For taking everything you offered? For not calling you the next day or for weeks afterward?
They were too old for any of that to matter now.

And if he apologized again, after all these years, she would hit him.

He smiled as if he knew what she was thinking. “For all those cookies your mom baked for me.”

Her mouth jarred open. She stared at him, at once relieved and oddly disappointed. This wasn’t about her. Maybe none of it was.

His eyes glinted with humor. “So, are you going to give me a hand loading the truck?”

When he put his request that way, she could almost justify saying yes. But if she went with him, it wouldn’t be because he needed her help, and they both knew it.

Her gaze dropped to the computer screen.
What gives you joy?

Her heart thrummed in her chest. “I need to change my shoes first,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ll wait.”

* * *

“L
AST ONE,”
S
AM
said, hefting the deck board level with the truck bed. “Easy does it.”

He raised his end onto the stack and then moved down the length of the board, shifting his grip, taking its weight. She tried hard—she’d always been a worker, Meggie—but she was small and female. Fun to watch, with the quick energy of her movements, the shape of her breasts under her sweat-dampened top.

Her shoulder brushed his as he nudged her aside to slide the board into place. Her arms were smooth and bare. She smelled distractingly of sweat and woman, of rosemary and Meg. He wanted to turn his face into the curve of her neck and lick her. All over.

He shoved the board hard onto the top of the pile.

He turned and caught her staring. Her cheeks were pink from embarrassment or the sun. With those big, wary, fascinated eyes, the strands of hair sticking to her forehead, she looked less like some hotshot New York executive and more like the girl he used to know. He grinned.

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Your face is dirty.”

She rubbed at her cheek with the back of a borrowed work glove.

“Here.” He chuckled and stepped in, tugging off his own gloves. With his thumb, he brushed at her warm cheek. She went very still. For one electric moment, he could imagine how she would feel under him, taut and trembling, silky hot. He could
remember
.

“Thanks.” She broke eye contact and stepped away, leaving him half hard and wanting.

Not just wanting sex, he realized. Wanting Meg, her affection, her admiration, her trust, all the things he’d once had and taken for granted.

“It’s pretty here.” She looked around at the waves of sea grass capped with spiky yellow flowers. A sandy track wandered beside a makeshift fence to the deep blue water of Pamlico Sound. “I never really explored this site before.”

“You never will, if the old man gets his way.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “His way?”

Shit
. He didn’t want to talk about this now. Most of the time he avoided thinking about it. The old man hadn’t beaten Sam’s convictions out of him yet, but their countless battles—and Carl’s illness—had persuaded him of the futility of the fight.

He jerked his chin, indicating the undeveloped acres of land, thick with vegetation and birdsong. “Dare Plantation. Gated community. No public access.”

“‘An overpriced, overblown luxury development,’” she quoted back at him softly.

So she’d listened last night. She remembered.

“Multimillion-dollar houses with big lawns and private pools and piers,” Sam said. Houses like the one he’d grown up in. Who was he to throw stones?

She pursed her lips, not judging so much as thoughtful. Or maybe he was kidding himself. “Are you saying that you wouldn’t build here?”

“No.” Her eyes rested on him, inviting him to continue. He shrugged. “I’d go with a different kind of project, that’s all. Higher density, more affordable housing that would conserve the shoreline and the open space instead of chopping it up into little parcels with their own docks and septic tanks.”

“I never pictured you as an environmentalist.”

“I’m a builder,” Sam said, trying not to hear the old man’s voice in his head.
Fucking tree-hugger.
“We need jobs on the island, good jobs, construction jobs. And we need more moderate-priced housing for year-round residents,” he said, warming to his topic. “People who live on the island, who work here—fishermen, firemen, teachers like Allison—are getting squeezed out of the market.”

Meg nodded. “It makes sense when you explain it. Why don’t you do it? You said yourself that luxury homes aren’t selling now.”

She was like a kid with a stick, he thought, exasperated. Stirring things up, poking things in the water to see if they moved.

Sometimes it was better to let them die.

“Maybe I don’t care enough,” he suggested.

She tilted her head thoughtfully, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. She had a great neck. “I don’t believe you.”

“Ask my old man.”

“He’s not here.”

Exactly. Carl Grady had never been there for his family. He was too busy making a living to make a life, to make time for his wives or his son. Too busy building his fortune to see what his ambitions cost the island.

It wasn’t something Sam spent a lot of time thinking about. Why focus on something that couldn’t be changed?

“Look, you’d have to get a project like that approved,” he said. “Dare Island is incorporated. The town board has to sign off on any new development. And then you’d have to convince investors it would pay. They only know big houses and hotels. We’ve never done a moderately priced development on the island.”

“You can talk anyone into anything. And they’d listen to you. You’re a Grady. Grady Realty and Construction.”

She didn’t understand. She’d always had her family’s support. “You’re getting me mixed up with the old man. And he doesn’t want any part of it. He’d rather sit on the land and wait for the market to improve.”

“Is that why you left?”

Yes.
But if Sam admitted that, he’d have to admit how badly he’d failed. “What’s with the questions?”

“I’m interested.”

He grinned at her, deliberately misunderstanding. He hadn’t brought her out here to discuss his relationship with his father. “That’s promising.”

She stuck her nose in the air. “Interested in the
island
.”

“Why? You don’t live here anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion. That I don’t care.”

“Sugar, nobody ever said you didn’t have opinions.”

“Huh.” But her lips twitched, like she was trying not to smile.

Encouraged, he moved closer, leaning over her. Her soft dark curls tickled his chin. “I like that you care about things.” He spent too much time playing it cool, pretending not to care. “You’re passionate.” His mouth wandered to the edge of her jaw, found the corner of her mouth. Her lips were full and moist. “Exciting.”

She inhaled, making her chest lift against his. She was so soft, so warm against him. He wanted his hands on her. He wanted . . .

She turned her head away. “I told you, I’m not doing this. I have a boyfriend.”

“You have a roommate. You need more.”

She flushed. “Let’s not argue over semantics. The point is, I’m with somebody.”

“Yeah. Me.” He sniffed her hair behind her ear. She smelled really good, like sun and rosemary, warm and sharp at the same time.

“At the moment,” she said breathlessly. “Not permanently.”

He spread his hand across the small of her back, not really listening, nudging her against him, letting her feel how she affected him. She made a sound in her throat and hitched against him. His hand slid lower, over the smooth, firm curve of her butt. His hard-on lodged against her hip. “I’ll take what I can get,” he muttered.

“You always did.”

The words were as effective as a slap. His fingers tightened before he dropped his hand from her bottom. “Nothing that wasn’t offered.”

Her cheeks went from red to white. “I suppose I deserve that.”

Sam kicked himself. He was trying to seduce her, not insult her. “What you deserve is a guy who will be there for you all the time, not just when it’s convenient for him.”

She drew back, her blue eyes cool again. “Are you referring to yourself or Derek?”

Sam sucked in his breath. Okay, so he’d screwed up eighteen years ago. He hadn’t had the control to resist her or the balls to face her the next morning. Rejection wasn’t his thing. He couldn’t undo what he’d done. He couldn’t make things right. So he’d run, using the excuse of school to avoid confronting both her family and his own failures.

“I’m talking about you.” He met her gaze steadily. “You deserve somebody who won’t take advantage of you.”

“Which is why Derek is perfect for me.”

Sam felt a sharp, unpleasant stab. “Perfect, how?”

“He’s the company’s chief financial officer.” Like Sam gave a crap about the guy’s job description. “We’re equals. Partners. We share the same goals.”

“Getting married is a goal for some people.” But not for her, he remembered. Never for her.

“For your stepmothers maybe. I’m not waiting around for some man to propose. Derek and I have been focused on our careers. It’s important to have a solid professional and financial foundation to build on.”

“Fine. But you’re, what, a vice president now? How far up the ladder do you have to climb to become Mrs. Chief Financial Officer?”

The faint lines beside her mouth dug in. “You don’t understand.”

He hitched his thumbs in his belt loops. “So explain it to me.”

She looked away. In the bright sunlight, the shadows under her eyes were dark as bruises. Like she wasn’t getting enough sleep, he thought with a twist of concern. “My situation right now isn’t . . . settled,” she said.

He frowned. Meg was straightforward to the point of bluntness, honest to a fault. It wasn’t like her to beat around the bush. “What, you get fired?” he joked.

* * *

A
RUSH OF TEARS
closed Meg’s throat. She stared at him, speechless.

Sam went still. His broken bottle green eyes sharpened on her face. “Meggie?”

Oh, God.
She shook her head. Blindly, she turned away, fumbling for the handle of the truck.

Sam swore. His arm came up, bracing against the top of the door, cutting off her escape. An aggressive gesture, but his voice when he spoke was deep and gentle. “Does your family know?”

His body was hard and close behind her. She fought a ridiculous urge to bury her face against his chest and bawl her eyes out. “I don’t want to worry them.”

Silence.

Her heart pounded in her ears. She risked a peek over her shoulder. For once, Sam’s charming grin was nowhere in sight. He frowned at her thoughtfully, that lock of dark hair falling over his forehead.

She wished she knew what he was thinking. And yet it didn’t really matter. A shameful, shaking relief swept over her because he’d guessed. She didn’t have to pretend anymore.