Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove) (5 page)

She ducked her chin for a moment, but not before he caught the
if you only knew
expression that flickered through her eyes. “Not necessary,” she said, taking a breath and meeting his gaze directly. “Appreciated, but I can take care of myself.” That wry smile kicked up again. “Yesterday’s episode notwithstanding.”

He tried, and failed, to ignore the memory of what it had felt like when she’d nipped his lower lip, when she’d kissed him with that wry mouth, those soft lips. And wondered what it would be like when she had all her senses about her. Like she did now. He was pretty sure it might kill him. And he’d die smiling.

“Okay.” He paused to clear his throat. And tried not to shift in his seat hoping for a more comfortable fit to his jeans. She hadn’t made a single mention, or even hinted at the things that had happened once he’d brought her back to the house. And given how straightforward she’d been about everything else that morning, he’d thought she probably would have. So he could officially just tuck all that away, filed under “interesting, but never to be repeated.” It might take his body a bit longer to get the memo, however.

“If you need a place to stay for a few days until you sort out your schedule—”

“That won’t be necessary.” She gave him a brief look that let him know how ridiculous he’d sounded.
Sort out your schedule?
Like a project the size of Pelican Point wouldn’t have been a major undertaking. She had no other schedule.

“I’m sorry, that was—I’m sorry.” He sighed and pushed his chair back. “The offer stands. You can stay here until you figure out what you’ll be doing next. Fergus told me yesterday that he’d promised you the keeper’s cottage, which was right decent of him, except I doubt it’s habitable. No one’s even cracked the door open in . . .” He trailed off, then abruptly stood and went to the sink to rinse out his mug.

“In?”

“A long time. But the guest room is yours if you want it. I’ll see to the shower problem.” He ran the water over the mug far longer than necessary, trying to keep his thoughts in the moment and not on the keeper’s cottage, the past . . . his past, and how they tied together. Failing.

He hadn’t thought about that part of his past, about Jessica, the many lazy afternoons and chilly nights they’d spent in that cottage, in such a long time, he was surprised that it could still snatch at him the way it did. Probably just the odd direction his life had taken in the past twelve hours. Combined with that kiss.

“That’s not necessary,” she said from a spot just behind him.

He felt his skin react in awareness of her proximity, and thought that her refusal was probably a good thing. Definitely a good thing.

“Can I ask one favor? Then I’ll be out of your hair. Or I will be as soon as I change my flat tire.” She stepped next to him, leaned in and put her mug under the still running water.

He put his on the drain rack and stepped aside, but only a step—because he couldn’t figure out why she stirred him up so effortlessly and he wanted to. It had been a hell of a kiss, sure, but, end of the day, just a kiss. And because he was apparently a glutton for punishment. “What favor?”

She turned the water off, then fiddled with the handle when it continued to drip. “You need a new washer and a . . .”

“This whole house needs a . . .” he said.

She shot him a brief smile. “I’m pretty good with a wrench.”

“So you’ve shown. I—”

“I’m sure you’re just as handy with one. You also have a full-time job. One that I’m guessing probably keeps you busy a lot more hours in the day than a normal nine-to-five would.”

“All true, but—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not angling for a job. You said you weren’t hiring. Someone else will be. I had a split-second thought to offer a trade while I find that someone, but never mind. It—I’m going to go.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to work in exchange for room and board. I meant what I said. You’re welcome to stay until you sort things out.”

“Appreciated, sincerely, but I had a different trade in mind.”

His body stood right up and saluted at the first trade idea that sprang to
his
mind. Given it was highly doubtful that was what was on her mind, he shoved that thought away.

She ducked her chin, and for the first time, the tiny hint of the vulnerability that he’d seen yesterday crept in.

“What’s the favor?” he asked, hearing the quiet in his voice, wondering how she did that to him so easily.

She seemed to shake off the momentary dip and looked up again, but not at him. She was still facing the sink. “You know what, it’s not important. I really should—”

“Alex. What’s the favor?” He heard a short sigh.

“I’d like to go out. Look at the tower.”

He couldn’t see her eyes, but there was a different kind of tension, one he couldn’t explain. Only it wasn’t between them. Just within her.

She cut him a quick sideways glance. “For myself. No hidden agenda. No hard sell.”

He started to ask why, not because he cared so much as because his natural curiosity had him poking at the reason for the tension. Then he noticed her hands on the edge of the counter were trembling. Slightly, but it was there.

As if she felt his gaze, she pressed her palms flat, then lifted them, rubbing them on the sides of her pants. She took a breath, turned to him. “Like I said, it’s really not important. I’ve overstayed my welcome as it is. Do I need to call someone to get out to my truck?”

He shook his head, caught up once again in those stormy seas. “It’s out front. Tire’s fixed.” He’d peeked out the window and seen it earlier.

When they’d first gotten in the truck to head to the Point, Logan had called Fergus. He must have gotten old Earl to get it done sometime last night. While they’d been sleeping in the chair. Her all curled up and soft and warm in his arms. Before she’d kissed him like a house on fire.

She clearly didn’t remember any of it, whereas he couldn’t seem to forget it.

He broke their gaze and walked over to the table and started clearing. “I’ll take you out to the lighthouse. Not much to see, I’m afraid. It hasn’t seen a helping hand in quite some time.” He knew it was nothing to be embarrassed about, just as he knew thoughts of his past, of Jessica, shouldn’t be bothering him the way they were. He thought it was likely Alex’s nightmare more than her kiss that had stirred up those old emotions. And even older memories.

“I can find my way around. You probably need to go in to work. I don’t want to keep you. You’ve already done a lot more than you should have had to.” She was over by the door leading to the mudroom with the whole kitchen between them. “You can lock the house before you go if you like. I just want to see the tower.”

“I doubt it’s safe. No one has been in it for a very long time. The wind is up and the rocks are dangerous.”

“I don’t know what Fergus did or didn’t tell you about MacFarland & Sons, but it’s safe to say I’ve been around one or two towers in my lifetime. Most of them aren’t exactly situated in easy-to-get-to places. By comparison, from what little I saw of yours yesterday, it looks remarkably accessible. No boat required, no shaky or icy bridge.” She said it without arrogance or sarcasm, simply stating fact. “I realize the situation yesterday might lead you to believe otherwise, but I can take care of myself. Want me to sign a waiver or something?” When he didn’t respond right away, she pushed off the frame. “No problem. You’ve been more than kind, Chief McCrae. Thank you for the hospitality and the coffee. I’ll get out of your way.”

“It’s Logan.” He looked up when there was a continued pause.

She’d already turned to go, then seemed to physically shake off whatever she’d been thinking. “Thank you. Logan. Just let me grab my coat and boots.”

“Alex.”

She stopped, but she didn’t turn around. And there was that tension again, only at least a little of it was between them.

He couldn’t have said why he did it. He never invited trouble. His job brought it right to his doorstep; no need to go courting any personally. But he crossed the room anyway, and took a set of keys off the rack pegged to the wall above the counter, right next to the door. “Here.”

She looked over her shoulder.

He held up the keys. “Small one is the side door to the keeper’s cottage. Don’t use that, it’s boarded shut inside. Big one opens the front door. Or would have. It’s probably long since warped shut. Middle sized one opens the door to the tower, but I imagine that’s in even worse shape.”

“I didn’t get a chance to look and couldn’t see from my position yesterday, but are the main house and cottage connected?”

“No. The house sits back inland, closer to the trees. The cottage is between the house and the tower, rocks on one side, open ground on the other, pretty much exposed, which is why the main house was added later. Tower is out on the promontory, about twenty yards past the cottage. There’s a brick path between each, but it’s not in the best shape. The weather really takes a toll out here. The old oil house is off to the side on the north.”

“Oil house is still intact?” She nodded approvingly. “Original housing?”

“Close to it. In about the same shape, though. The tower is granite block. The beveled square shape was a big part of why the maintenance has been so overwhelming. The tower and the keeper’s cottage were built in 1821. The cottage is shake shingles over wood frame, slab base, all done by hand back then. First part of the main house, the part we’re standing in, was built in 1863. The parts that branch off either side, forming a windbreak of sorts, were added on over the years, but nothing new, structure-wise, since 1919. Just renovations to what was already built.”

“So the newest addition is still going on a hundred years old.”

He nodded.

“When was the tower decommissioned?”

“1933. One of my ancestors on my dad’s side—my grandfather with a lot of greats in front of his name—was the first keeper, and every keeper after was a McCrae, so the family stayed in the cottage and the house after the tower went dark, working first with the town council, then with various other organizations, trying to find a way to save it, preserve it. For various reasons—war, history, politics, economy—all of those efforts failed.”

“When did your family buy it outright?”

“With the help of an inherited trust started by one of the townsfolk—a wealthy older woman who summered up here her entire life and had always taken a particular liking to the lighthouse established it as part of her will when she passed away—my grandfather bought it in 1971. There have been renovations, upgrades. Some good and not-so-good changes to the interior, walls added, fireplaces sealed over.” He smiled at the aggrieved expression that briefly crossed her face. “As someone who has spent a good amount of his spare time removing said walls and unsealing those fireplaces, I agree.”

“What’s the square footage now?”

“The main house adds up to around 4500 square feet, give or take.”

“Unusual structure shape, or so Fergus told me. With the additions.”

“Main house is two stories, the additions off either side are one. No cellar, but an attic over the back side of the second story. Detached two-car garage, which is mostly storage shed now. Five bedrooms total, two up, one down in the main house, then one in each of the side additions. Three and a half baths total. There’s also a library or study on the far side of the living room, a formal dining room through there”—he nodded toward double doors leading off the far side of the kitchen—“which isn’t used these days, a closed-in veranda across the central back of the house facing the cottage and the water, and a lot of random spaces, especially in the additions, that aren’t currently dedicated to any particular use. Fergus is right. The additions seem to have been designed in a way that accommodated the rocky ground, so the resulting spaces were often more curious than useful.”

She nodded, and he could see her mind working, filtering, processing. He realized then, despite being perfectly willing to answer her questions, it was probably less than thoughtful to go on about the place. If restoring lighthouses was her livelihood, her passion, than sprinkling the details around was probably tantamount to teasing. So he left it at that and didn’t detail the cottage space or tower.

“It’s impressive really. And a lot on your plate.” She didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze on the keys in his hand. “Thank you. For sharing all that. I-I don’t need those.” She nodded toward the keys. “I just wanted to take a look. Outside is fine.”

He put the keys on the counter. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Instead of relief, or pleasure, or whatever it was she’d wanted to get out of looking at the tower, he felt her tension ramp up even higher. “Is it?” he asked, when he knew what he really needed to do was walk away. Shower and dress for work, close the door on this . . . whatever the hell it had been, and move on. “Is it really okay?” he clarified when she lifted her gaze to his. “You seem . . . I don’t know. I’m not prying. But yesterday you . . . well, you weren’t in great shape. So . . .”

She held his gaze and the silence stretched out one beat, then another, and it was the wrong damn time to remember how she’d tasted. How she’d bitten his bottom lip, pulled it between hers. He realized his gaze had dropped right to them. He jerked it back up again, but not before she noticed. And if those deep pools of luminous blue had been storm-tossed before, when the pupils punched wide, it was like a vortex had opened up in the middle of them . . . and threatened to suck him straight in. He had no chance to hold his breath, no chance to save himself.

“Alex—”

“I need to—should—go.” The words had been all but choked out. She didn’t pause; she left the kitchen and walked down the hall toward the guest bedroom.

And Logan had to ball his hand into a fist by his side to keep from reaching for her and dragging her right back.
To do what?