Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove) (4 page)

 

Logan jolted awake to the sound of the old copper pipes groaning and rattling in the walls as water flowed through them. The first strands of thin morning light illuminated the faded wallpaper on his bedroom walls as he lifted his head from his pillow. Why was water flowing through the pipes downstairs? His gaze flew to the clock even as he was already tugging off the sheets and comforter and sliding bare feet to the cold, hardwood floor. It was just before six. And somebody was in the downstairs shower.

He sank his weight back into the mattress, sitting on the edge of his bed, and palmed his forehead. “Oh. Yeah.”

Feeling the twinges of a headache, he finally pushed off the bed and pulled on a sweatshirt, then dug out a pair of jeans, surprised at how rested he felt. He’d slept like the dead. He tugged his zipper up, then paused . . . remembered the shower, and rolled his eyes.
Seriously, how pathetic is it that you slept like you got laid when all you got was a hot kiss and a soapy hand on your
—a shriek echoed through the old house, cutting off the rest of his thought.

It immediately occurred to him that that shower hadn’t been used in—
oh shit.
He took off downstairs, hearing the pipes groan again as the water was shut off. Then they kept groaning.

“Alex!” he shouted, taking the stairs two at a time. “Alex, get out of the shower! Those pipes are probably rusted out.” He slid to a stop in front of the closed bathroom door and smacked his palm on the warped wood panel. “Alex, it’s not safe, you really need—”

The door opened—well, after a firm yank, it opened— and Alex, wrapped in an old bath towel, hair dripping wet, with tear-tracked makeup smears spread farther out from the blast of water she’d apparently taken to the face, stood there . . . with a wrench in one hand and a piece of copper pipe in the other. “What you really need is a new fitting, a washer, and some Locktite. But that should hold it for now.” She held out the wrench and the rusty copper pipe until he silently took them from her hands. “Does
your
shower work?”

“It does.”

She calmly wiped her dirty hands on the faded navy blue towel she was wrapped in, then with a dignified air, pushed the sodden locks of hair back from her face. “Upstairs?”

“End of the hall, through the bedroom on the right.”

“Thank you.” Head held high, shoulders very squared, she moved past him and walked directly and quickly to the stairs, dripping all the way.

He heard the pipes groan and rattle on the second floor a few moments later.

He stood there for another ten seconds, then finally shook his head and walked to the kitchen.
Coffee.
That would help make sense out of this. Or, at the very least, kick out the little throb at the base of his skull. And the not so little one in his pants.
Jesus, Joseph and Mary, McCrae, you’re not sixteen. Get a damn grip. And despite her grand entrance the day before, Alex MacFarland is no fragile, wilting flower, either.

It surprised him a little when he caught his reflection in the old metal toaster a moment later to discover he had something that looked like a smile on his face. “And what’s funny about this? Nothing.”

He put two more slices in the toaster when the first two popped out. Scraped the black off them, then grabbed butter and blueberry preserves from the fridge and set them on the small cherrywood table tucked into the bay window alcove. It was one of Eula’s, actually, and had been in his family longer than he’d been alive. By the time the water upstairs shut off, he had two cups of coffee and a pile of scraped toast on a plate. He sniffed the carton of milk still in the fridge, then, satisfied it wouldn’t kill either one of them, he set it on the table along with a small bowl filled with sugar packets.

“Coffee?” came a hopeful voice from the doorway.

“And toast. Sorry, I’m out of eggs. And . . . food.”

“No, that’s good. More than good.”

He’d picked up the coffeepot to take it to the table, then almost sloshed all of it onto his feet when he turned and got his first look at her. His first real look. She was wearing the same jeans and pullover she’d worn yesterday, or he assumed so. She’d had her coat on the day before. But they were definitely hers and not his, so . . .
great deductive reasoning there, detective.

That wasn’t what had made him almost drop the coffeepot. It was what she did for those jeans and that pullover. He’d felt her body, of course, all curled up against his chest and pushing against his—“How do you take your coffee?”

“Hot.” She pulled out a chair and sat down, and he noticed that, while she seemed okay, alert and somewhat rested, she wasn’t making eye contact.

Her hair had been toweled into a soft mass of chin-length, deep auburn curls that did amazing things all clouded around those deep-sea blue eyes. Without all the black mascara streaks, her cheeks were smooth, pale—maybe too pale, as the flush from the shower stood out a bit too starkly—which made her eyes, free of any makeup, utterly luminous. And then there was her mouth. Pink, soft, and surprisingly full when not pulled tight at the corners. How had he not noticed that?

Probably because it had been dark when she’d claimed his mouth like he’d been a dying man who’d requested one final kiss.

Yesterday, she’d looked like woman on the verge of collapse. Actually past that verge, since she actually had collapsed. Now she looked all dewy and soft with eyes that reached right down inside a man and—
yeah, don’t go there.
Too late. The part of his body he’d like her to reach right down inside and grab sat up and said good morning.

Suddenly, he realized why she probably wasn’t meeting his gaze. Come to think of it, he didn’t know exactly what to say about what had happened last night, either. And not just the kiss. That might have left a lasting impression on his too-long-neglected libido, but it was the wrenching sobs and the nightmare that had followed him to sleep the night before. He had a suspicion she was more upset about that part of the evening’s events.

He set the pot on the table and took the seat across from her. “Alex, listen, I—”

She held up a hand, stalling him.

He watched, bemused, as she closed her eyes and took another long sip of coffee. She made a little moaning sound as she swallowed. “This is . . . really good.”

“Cop coffee sucks. So I learned early on how to brew—”

She held up her hand again. He raised a brow, but held his tongue while she took another sip. Another little sigh, a little shudder of pleasure that made his body react as if she’d just done a pole dance on the kitchen table, and he was all done waiting.

Not sure whether he was more frustrated with her, or his damn reaction to her, he put his mug down. “Listen, we need to talk about—”

She opened her eyes and pinned him with a very direct gaze, which, as it turned out, was far more effective than the talk-to-the-hand gesture in shutting him up. “Okay, so there might not be enough coffee in the world.”

“For?”

“For me to get over that voice of yours. It’s really . . .” She trailed off, shook her head, then took another fortifying sip.

“Deep,” he finished for her, fighting the oddest urge to smile.
Sex-god Voice.

Did she remember saying that? Did she remember any of it? She was a lot . . . different today. Now that she wasn’t fighting the combination of exhaustion and a sugar crash, she was calm, collected, and surprisingly direct.

Although, when he remembered the kiss the night before, maybe that last part shouldn’t have surprised him all that much. “I know. But it’s the only one I’ve got.”

“Well, it’s . . . something.” She started to take another sip, then paused with the cup halfway to her mouth.

Remember something?
He hid the beginnings of a smile behind his coffee mug and took a sip of his own. He had no clue how he’d thought she’d behave this morning, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t it. But what the hell did he know? At least she didn’t look so haunted or fragile. Of course, she was ducking his gaze again, so he couldn’t really tell for sure.

“About yesterday,” he started.

“I’m very sorry for all of that. More than you know. Trust me, I’m usually more professional. Or at all professional.”

She lifted her gaze to him, and it was like getting poleaxed, every time.

“What?” she asked. “Your expression,” she clarified. “Is something—?” She reached up and felt her cheeks, her hair. “I couldn’t possibly look any worse than I did yesterday.”

“You’re fine.”
More than fine.
“You were fine then.” At her arched brow, he lifted his mug again. “Okay, so you might not have been at your best, but I gather it had been a rough couple days.”
Weeks, months
. “We all have them.”

“We do, and it has, but I’ve never gotten myself into anything like that.” She lifted her coffee mug in silent salute, a hint of a wry smile kicking at the corners of that soft mouth. “You were the lucky one to witness the first.” She took another sip. “I sincerely do apologize. And I realize that I’m probably the last person you want to trust with the restoration, but—”

“Not true.”

She looked at him, clearly surprised.

“Well, not the
last
person, anyway.”

Her brows pulled together for a moment, then she hiked up one of them in a
oh no you didn’t
look, before ducking her gaze and taking another sip. Only he was pretty sure that had been a smile, not a scowl, he’d caught before she’d looked away.

He smiled himself, thinking this was quite possibly the most bizarre morning he’d ever had. Following one of the strangest evenings he’d ever had. At least she couldn’t say she hadn’t made a memorable first impression. “To be honest, I hadn’t actually thought about hiring anyone.”

She glanced up. “Wait, what? Are you not restoring the tower? Fergus said—”

“If you knew him, you’d know that my uncle will say any number of things to get what he wants, with or without letting anyone else know if his plans will trample theirs. He’s pretty sure he’s always right.”

“And is he?”

“Frustratingly often.”

For the first time—well, with her alert and lucid, anyway—he got a real, all the way to the eyes smile. It packed a pretty good one-two punch when combined with all that deep-sea blue.

“You’re looking at me funny again. I have jelly on my chin or what?” She touched her face again.

She had no guile about her at all, something he found himself liking. A lot. But Christ, those eyes were enough to kill a man, or drown him, or both. He took a sip of coffee, then another. “Yeah, there isn’t enough coffee.”

She looked at him more closely, sizing him up. “For?”

“To get over your eyes. They’re really . . .” He trailed off on purpose.

“Blue,” she said at length. “I know. But they’re the only ones I’ve got.”

They both grinned at that.

He put his empty mug down, then turned it in his hands as he spoke. “I have to apologize, too. About Fergus and about the trip—where did you drive in from?”

“Thunder Bay. On Lake Huron. Michigan.”

“Ah. Wow.”

“Right.” She set her mug down, too, all business. “Why don’t you want to do the renovation? Fergus mentioned you have a town tricentennial celebration coming, which is pretty impressive, by the way. And he mentioned the lighthouse is closing in on its bicentennial. What better time? If you don’t mind my asking. If you start now—”

“I’m putting the labor into the house. The tower will have to wait.”

“Is it funding?” she asked, quite directly and without sounding nosy. “Because I know a number of ways to raise funds and get—”

“The tower is privately owned. By me. Well, by my family, and I’m not interested in taking on any kind of partnership or working with an organization to restore it. We’ve been down that road in the past and it’s not—” He broke off, waved his hand. “The particulars don’t matter. And I’m very, very sorry to have caused you what has obviously been a big inconvenience. I’ll be happy to reimburse you for all your travel expenses, gas, hotel, food. Whatever. And apologize again for—”

“No need,” she said, studying him for another few seconds before draining her mug and setting it on the table with a little push. “I understand.”

“You do?” He didn’t know why he was so surprised. Or why he wasn’t more relieved. He guessed, despite her initial appearance yesterday, she struck him as someone who didn’t back down easily. “Good. If only Fergus had talked to me first—”

“You would have shot him down. So it’s no wonder he didn’t. But that’s none of my business. And, actually, this is on me. We always research any project before coming out to see it. I didn’t this time. If I had, I’d have known you were the owner, not Fergus, though he is family. I would have spoken to you directly before making such a long haul.”

Logan wondered again about her story. Echoes of her nightmare continued to resonate inside him, and he recalled the condition she’d gotten herself into. He was pretty sure she’d hauled more stuff with her than someone would who was just being hired to do restoration work, regardless of the duration of the proposed assignment. She’d said “we” when referring to her company, and yet she was alone, and Fergus had made no mention of any other MacFarland being involved. Son, brother, father, or otherwise.

He had been privy to such a private thing as her fears or her grief or . . . whatever had provoked that nightmare with her father playing some role in it, and felt awkward asking about her business, her background.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to. Her credentials didn’t matter. He wasn’t hiring. Anyone.

“Well,” he said at length, “regardless of how it came about, or who should have done what, it happened, and I’d like to do what I can to mitigate any further inconvenience.”