Half Moon Harbor (15 page)

“You say it's for convenience, but I'm thinking it's just a means of keeping a closer eye on me.”

“You said you think of me as family. Well, that's what family does. It goes both ways.”

She laughed even as she took the gentle admonishment to heart. “Is this where the
be careful what you wish for
warning comes into play?”

“I think you're beginning to understand, yes.” He smiled, but all the affection he had for her was plain to see as well. “I want to know you're happy and safe here. So, just say, ‘thank you, Langston.' ”

“Thank you, Langston.” It was sincere. She raised a hand, though, when he beamed. He loved winning almost as much as he loved doing whatever he damn well pleased, which might be the same thing, she realized. “But you're going to make some kind of lease agreement with me. I won't be a kept woman,” she added, with a dramatic air.

“More's the pity,” he tossed back, and they both laughed. “Well, now that that's settled, shall we?” He crooked an arm in invitation. “I have Carlos already out at the house, preparing us dinner.”

“You brought Carlos with you to—never mind.” She shook her head. “Of course you did. And that sounds fabulous.”

They had climbed into his jaunty rental—how he fit his frame into the little sports car she had no idea—when she remembered. “Oh, wait. Whomper!”

“What on earth is a whomper?”

“Not a what, more a who. My dog. You met him when you came in. ”

“You have a dog?”

She laughed. “You say that like I've suddenly contracted a highly contagious virus.”

Langston gave a little shudder. “Only a slight overstatement, I'm sure. I guess I never saw you as a pet owner. What breed is the thing, anyway? Surely not pedigreed.”

She nudged her elbow into his side. “I forget what a snob you can be sometimes.”

“I've nothing against animal cohabitation. Cats can be lovely, self-sufficient companions. Why couldn't you get something in an exotic Siamese?”

She laughed again. “Wow. For the record, I never saw me as a pet owner, either. I assure you, it wasn't planned. I was at the local farmers' market and they were doing these shelter adoptions. It was an uncustomary moment of weakness.”

“See? I'm not the only one who sees the value in not being alone or lonely.”

“I never thought I was either of those things.”

“Don't fool yourself. With a lack of family, you made your work your steady companion and when that was gone? How long did you wait to fill the void?” She glanced away and he said, “Exactly. Maybe you're more like me than you're wiling to admit.” He glanced at her as he settled in and pulled the seat belt across his chest. “Any regrets?”

Grace rolled her eyes. “A hundred times a day.”

When Langston gave her hand a knowing pat, she laughed, and relented. “We haven't been apart since I got him. And I never thought I'd say this, but it feels weird going off to dinner without checking on him first.”

“Will you be seeing your man later? He looked pretty comfortable with taking over doggie duty.”

Brodie had, she thought, seeming not to care how long the pup stayed with him. She'd go over and get Whomper the minute she got back from dinner. “He's not my man,” she told Langston, trying not to think about what else she might get from Brodie after dinner. “Trust me. Guys like Brodie Monaghan aren't any woman's man.”

Langston nodded, then let his silence speak volumes. Grace was tempted to continue to push her point, but even she realized it would sound a bit like “she doth protest too much.”

She clicked on her seat belt and took a moment to glance down the curve of the harbor to Brodie's boathouse. She thought again about that look she'd seen in his eyes when he'd spoken of the woman who'd renovated his boathouse. Maybe he had been one woman's man at some point. Maybe it had been Alex MacFarland. But she had chosen her man, and it hadn't been Brodie. Grace had heard that Alex was living with the town's police chief out on Pelican Point.

Grace wondered what it would be like having Brodie Monaghan want to be her man . . . and what woman had been strong enough to send him away.

B
rodie let the door swing shut behind him as he entered the Rusty Puffin. It was Blueberry Cove's only pub, and an authentic Irish one at that. Since it wasn't quite nine in the morning, he hadn't come by for a pint. “Fergus?” he called out when he saw no one was behind bar.

“Back here, laddie,” came a shout from the kitchen, which was situated on the other side of the wall behind the bar. Fergus's shout was followed by a loud, metallic clang, a particularly inventive string of swearwords, another clang, then “Aw, bloody hell.”

“Hold up there,” Brodie shouted over the din. He was grinning as he ducked under the bar and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. “What have ye—oh Lord.”

He walked over to stand next to his fellow Irishman and mirrored the older man's hands-on-hips pose, as they stared at the antiquated and dismantled grill. “Ye should have called me over sooner.”

“I believe that's exactly what I did,” Fergus grumbled. “Took your sweet time. Had to try something.” He gave Brodie a once-over. “Thought maybe you'd found someone to keep you warm this morning, but given that pinched look on your puss, I'm guessing the drought continues.”

Every time Brodie thought he'd gotten used to Fergus's all-knowing-all-seeing fey Irish ways, he was proven wrong. He thought his cheeks had grown blush proof when he'd discovered the joys of sex at the ripe young age of sixteen. The family tavern's new barmaid had been three years his senior and light-years more experienced. Och, the things she'd shown him. Apparently, however, he'd been wrong about being blush proof, too. “What you think you know about my current sex life is not up for discussion.”

A stout fireplug of a man, Fergus had a thick shock of black wavy hair surprisingly free of so much as a single strand of gray. His bright blue eyes were the color of the summer sky, and his bushy beard and thick brows, both threaded with white and gray, belied his seventy-plus years of age. He gave Brodie a sideways glance. “These days it'd be a brief story anyway, short list of characters and not much plot to speak of.” Barking out a hoarse laugh, he clapped his beefy palm to Brodie's back with a reassuring thump. “Dinnae worry, lad, boy with a face as pretty as yours, the slump can't last for long.”

Brodie merely shook his head and accepted the advice, knowing it would go better on him if he resisted the urge to offer so much as a token defense. He was well aware of the reputation he'd earned since coming to the Cove. Was it wrong that he found women of all ages the most delightful creatures made by God's own hand? He couldn't see how. To his mind, any time spent in the wonderment of their company, especially if one could coax a pretty smile or a bright laugh, was a moment never to be regretted.

If he didn't exert a great deal of energy—or
any
energy—disabusing those who assumed that a bit of a flirt and some good Irish charm were synonymous with bedding every beauty he'd flashed a grin at, well, folks were going to believe what they were going to believe anyhow. Naturally, if a woman of his acquaintance wanted it made clear that her good name hadn't gotten a bit of Irish tarnish on it, then he'd gallantly stepped up and corroborated her story—regardless of the truth between them. Some women rather liked creating a bit of buzz, letting folks assume what they would. In those cases, he was happy to not kiss and let the gossips say he did.

The reality of his reputation and the idea that there was always some speculation about who he was or wasn't seeing . . . turned his thoughts instantly to Grace. Normal enough, given what they'd been doing the last time he'd seen her. He'd thought of little else since. It was the protective nature of his feelings, the immediate and rather strong desire to protect her privacy, that was a bit disconcerting. Grace would likely tell him right where to step off for presuming he was in charge of defending her honor in any way, shape, or form.

But he remembered the way she'd looked at him when she'd thanked him sincerely for taking a moment to make sure she was okay after their spontaneous moment of. . . well, unbridled lust was what they'd been having before being rudely and somewhat embarrassingly—to her mind—intruded upon by her old friend. Brodie could presume she was so used to taking care of herself that it had been a surprise for anyone else to assume the role. Or perhaps it was because she dated knuckle-dragging jerks who didn't know how to treat a lady. Somehow, though, he didn't see Grace falling into that pattern. Her self-esteem seemed pretty healthy.

And yet, she gave you a go.
He ignored his little voice. Or tried to. He wasn't a bad bloke. He respected women. Hell, he'd never have survived childhood if he hadn't learned their merit early on. The surprise of it was that he was a bit bothered by the fact that once Grace learned of his reputation, it might reflect poorly on him. Why that should matter when the woman had all but stolen his family heritage out from under him, he couldn't fathom. And yet, it mattered all the same.

All the more reason to change the topic with Fergus giving him the once-over. “Speaking of my charming ways, why don't I see if I can coax a wrench or two into fixing her up.” Brodie nodded toward the grill. “Maybe she can be resuscitated one last time.”

Fergus's attention was pulled back to the matter at hand and a scowl crossed his ruddy face. “For all ye've a bit of magic with the fairer sex, I'm fair to certain your luck will meet its match with this flaming—”

“Now, now,” Brodie said with a chuckle of his own. “Why don't you head on out front and do whatever it is that needs doin' and leave her to me. I'll set her right or put her out of her misery once and for all. Leave me to determine which it will be and it will go much easier on you.”

“You know I just replaced the damn furnace not six months back, and now this one wants to act like she's—” Fergus bit the rest off in an uncustomary show of restraint.

Brodie clapped his hand on his friend's broad shoulder. “Women. Can't live with 'em, can't run a decent pub without 'em. I'll come out and give you the final score in a bit.” He gave the array of ancient parts littering the floor a wary look. “But you might want to take a peek at the budget.”

Fergus swore under his breath as he stalked to the door. “I've business to discuss with ye when you're done.”

Brodie's brow climbed. “Do ye now? What would be the topic?”

“Put Ms. Humpty there back together again first. Before I lose what's left of me patience.”

Brodie shifted his gaze downward to hide a grin. Fergus was a man of many talents, patience not making even the long list. “Aye, sir. I'll be out in a bit then.”

He waited until the door swung shut and Fergus was on the other side of it before looking back at the old grill. It had probably been pulling duty since just after prohibition ended. “Darlin', I think this is where you and I might have to end this beautiful relationship.”

It wasn't his first time grappling with the damn thing. Far from. Brodie had met Fergus McCrae on his second day in Blueberry Cove. Looking for a bit of home across the pond, he'd wandered into the pub, hoping for a decent ale and a bit of conversation. Back home, his family's tavern had been the center of information in the village. Well, the tavern and the salon where the ladies had their hair and nails done. He knew a little about that, seeing as it was his mother's aunt who'd been running the place since before he was born.

Every time Brodie had bitched about being stuck working in the family business, Auntie Aideen had offered to let him come do shampoos at her shop. At the time, however, it had seemed a fate worse than death, even when compared to working in the family pub. Looking back now, he realized maybe he should have thought the offer through a bit better. Having his hands in a woman's long, silky hair, relaxing her, making her happy? Yeah, he'd definitely dropped the ball there.

His thoughts ran once again to the only long, silky hair to beckon him in recent memory. Certain indelible images came to mind when he thought of Grace Maddox. Despite the numerous new ones added to the repertoire after their hedonistic
pas de deux
earlier that week, the one of her descending his stairs that first morning, with those wild, damp locks dancing about her fair face, would likely always hold a spot near the top of the list. Och, but sinking his hands in all that silk and under running water? It wasn't a sink in the back of his dear auld auntie's beauty shop that came to mind.

“I don't hear any work being done back there, boy-o,” Fergus hollered from the front.

“All in good time, my fine friend,” Brodie called back, grinning once again. There were parts of home he didn't miss, but only the Irish could be irascible and lovable in equal measure, and he missed that natural ebb and flow.

Fergus was a character of the highest caliber. From their first meeting, he had become a fast friend, in part due to the two of them being the only direct Irish imports in a town full of Irish descendants. The relationship had long since grown beyond their obvious ties.

Fergus had come to Blueberry Cove close to twenty years earlier, another in the very long list of McCraes to do so, beginning with the ones who'd helped found the town along with Brodie's own forebears. As it happened, Fergus's cousin some number of times removed had taken on the burden of raising his son and daughter-in-law's four children after the pair had been killed in a tragic car accident.

As Brodie well knew, only one of those now-grown McCrae children had stayed on in the Cove, the three girls having gone off to seek their fame and fortune elsewhere. Brodie had met Logan McCrae, of course. In the span of a year's time there wasn't anyone left in the Cove he didn't at least have a nodding acquaintance with. As police chief, it was Logan's business to know everyone, and though Brodie hadn't had any reason to connect with him for professional reasons, they had developed something of a personal connection, albeit one neither had chosen.

About six months after his arrival, Brodie had found his head turned by the latest newcomer in town, Alex MacFarland. Problem was, she'd caught Logan's eye even sooner. Despite having inherited more of the irascible trait than charm from his Irish forebears, at least to Brodie's mind, Logan McCrae had caught Alex's eye early on, as well.

None of that would have mattered a whit to Brodie, as women in general were fun to look at, even more fun to flirt and banter with, and on occasion take home. That was where it usually ended. Rebuilding and relaunching the Monaghans' boatbuilding business was a monumental task. He wasn't looking for anything more complicated.

Alex had been different, though. He had given it a lot of thought since, and wondered if it was merely that they were both fish out of water that had been the draw . . . or if it was because she didn't fit neatly into any kind of category of women he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. Whatever the case, she'd lingered on and on in his mind and in his life, even after she'd gently but firmly turned down his advances.

She'd overseen the renovation of his boathouse, so even after she'd declared herself off-limits, he'd been subjected to being around her daily. While he respected her choice completely and had made the requested full retreat . . . that time spent together had formed the unshakable feeling in him that she was the one who'd gotten away.

The one
. He'd heard the stories and the songs that had been sung in his family's tavern about “the one.” He'd seen it often enough in his large and boisterous family, as well as in and around the village at home, to know and believe the concept existed. Yet, despite being quite in favor of spending as much time in the company of the fairer sex as possible, he'd never once felt that for himself. Until Alex.

When the renovation had been completed, she'd gone back to her work on the Pelican Point lighthouse restoration, eventually moving in with Logan. Brodie had been left with the ghost of her smile, her laugh—her essence, so to speak—haunting his boathouse. He'd spent more than a few restless nights wondering if he'd ever feel completely at home there. It felt like some part of what made it a true home was missing.

He frowned. All this maudlin bitching and moaning and carrying on . . . for a woman he'd never so much as kissed.

So it had been. The heart wanted what it wanted, even after being shut down and flat-out denied. He'd flirted, bantered, dated since, but it was as if a bar had been set. He wasn't particularly satisfied or even interested in starting something unless the potential to meet that bar was present. Crazy and frustrating as all hell. What was wrong with his old life, he wanted to know? There it was, his new truth, a new knowledge gained that he had to accept—since what had once been enough for him clearly wasn't acceptable any longer.

Six months had ticked by with agonizing slowness and he'd begun to think he was ruined for good . . . then he'd awoken three weeks ago to the sound of a woman swearing down on his dock. . . .

He grinned as he sorted through Fergus's extensive toolbox, looking for the right size socket. Funny how he hadn't thought of Alex MacFarland in . . . well, in three weeks. And when he thought of his boathouse, all he pictured was that moment on the iron steps. His grin turned wry and tone self-deprecating as he muttered, “Perhaps ye might want a mental image that doesna' include a woman in your home who otherwise wants nothing to do with your pale Irish ass.”

Except that wasn't entirely true. Oh, Grace Maddox wanted him. They'd sealed that truth the afternoon in her boathouse.
Her
boathouse. He grimaced. That he'd even thought of it that way was a step in a direction he still wished he didn't have to take.

Problem was, that direction also led him to Grace. Who, since their blistering hot interlude, had yet to make time in her oh-so-busy schedule to so much as wave in his general direction. Other than a message left on his business voice mail asking him to leave Whomper back at her boathouse—
her
boathouse—with a bowl of fresh water and a bit of dog food that same night, he'd only heard her voice two other times. Both times also via voice mail, both times turning down his invitation to dinner, invites which he'd been forced to leave on her voice mail because she couldn't even be bothered to answer his damn calls.