Half Moon Harbor (27 page)

“Um . . . how dare I?” He was honestly confused.

“How am I not supposed to fall for you? How am I supposed to remain strong and in control and independent and not need anyone but myself when you're out there having my back every damn second and making me want to get you naked half the time?”

His heart resumed beating as her meaning began to sink in. He smiled. It might have been a grin. Hell, he was only a breath shy of letting out a war whoop. “Only half the time, luv? Then I'm clearly not doing something right.”

“Oooh,” she said, pummeling her open palms on his shoulders, openly laughing because he'd picked her up and was bodily stuffing her through the hatch.

“Mind your head,” he told her, then followed her down the ladder.

She wriggled free when they got to the tiny galley, but he snagged her hand and walked backward toward the single berth, tugging her along with him.

“Brodie, we can't,” she said, but her eyes were dancing. “I mean, we're out here in plain view of the island. My brother is on that island.”

Brodie reeled her in, then turned neatly and captured her in the narrow passageway between his body and the wall. “Not exactly plain view . . . unless they have infrared tracking. Then we'll show up.” He leaned in and kissed the side of her neck.

She gasped, then moaned softly as he continued the gentle assault up to the lobe of her ear, then along the line of her jaw, finally letting her head roll to the side to give him greater access.

“Heat-seeking devices,” he murmured against her chin, then pulled her bottom lip into his mouth, taking her mouth completely when she moaned more deeply.

He drew her hands up the wall, pinning wrists beside her head as he took the kiss deeper, until they were both groaning.

“You still want me to lift anchor?” he asked against her damp lips.

She shook her head, slid her hands down until her palms were under his, and tugged his hands to her breasts. “I was kind of hoping for the opposite.”

“See?” He grinned against her mouth. “You get me, too.”

“Win-win.”

She squealed when he scooped her up against him, conveniently bringing his mouth level with those very same breasts she'd been offering him.

“Brodie—”

He closed his mouth over one and suckled it, shirt and all. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” she gasped.

He dipped so she didn't hit her head on the hatch into the master berth that occupied the entire front end of the boat, then took them both straight down on the bed.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” she said, as he made quick work of her shirt and bra and she did the same with his T-shirt.

“We do?” He rolled to his back, taking her with him until she straddled him; then he popped the button of her pants.

“I'm not saying it's not negotiable.” She gasped as he tugged her zipper in one short rip, then slid her out of her pants and panties by moving her up his body, over his chest, right to his—

“Good argument.” Panting, she arched her back and grabbed hold of the headboard bolted to the wall as he teased her, then slid his tongue over her. “Excellent . . . point,” she panted, moving on him, groaning as he slid his tongue into her. “So many . . . excellent points.” The conversation ended on a long, very satisfied groan as those strong calves clamped against his shoulders while she shuddered against him.

She was still shuddering as he slid her back down his body . . . and directly onto him. “I—Brodie—I can't yet, it's too—”

“Shh,” he said, easing into her, groaning himself. She was so tight, still twitching. “Don't let it stop, give up a little control,” he urged, nuzzling the side of her neck, then pushed the rest of the way in. “And let yourself—”

She cried out as she arched into him, then convulsed around him all over again. She fell against him, her moans muffled against his shoulder as she clung to him and continued to come apart for him.

“Aye,
yes
.” He held her, wrapped up against his chest, and let her move as she wanted, as she needed, gritting his teeth with restraint. She felt so damn good.

She nipped his earlobe, and his will snapped. He rolled over, pulling her under him, and took her mouth as he took her. She lifted into him, took him, held him, and kissed him like he was the only thing keeping her connected to her next breath. He understood the feeling.

When he came, growling, having given up every last shred of control, she bit his chin and growled back, “Aye,
yes
!”

G
race pulled her leather satchel more tightly under her arm and pushed open the door to Delia's. It was a small, old-fashioned diner perched on the high side of Harbor Street, just past Blue's. The dining area and deck faced the water. Ostensibly, she was there to grab lunch and make use of the free Wi-Fi. She enjoyed the peace and quiet of the library, but the diner was filled with a fair number of familiar faces . . . as well as tourists. The chatter and clink of silverware on dishes and ice in glasses, along with the vibrant hum of conversation was inviting, rather than intrusive. Free Wi-Fi and good food.

None of that mattered much since her stomach was so tense she'd be lucky to get down a glass of water at the moment.

As she made her way to a free table in the back corner, some of the conversations paused and a few heads turned. All of them, she noted, belonged to the locals. As she settled into a booth seat, she saw a woman—Jean Reisters, if Grace recalled her name correctly, who ran the jewelry store across from Owen's hardware store—tug on the arm of the redhead who was presently laughing loudly and taking orders from a table full of tourists.

The redhead glanced at Jean, then over her shoulder . . . right at Grace. Her smile faltered for a moment, then broadened. She said something to Jean, then turned back to the table she was waiting on and finished taking their order.

Grace realized she was staring, so she turned her attention to getting her laptop out and looking over the menu, trying not to feel as if all eyes were on her, except she was pretty sure a good number of them were.
Have folks heard about me and Brodie? Has his trip out to Sandpiper to get me made the local grapevine?

She wouldn't be surprised if it had. No doubt he was one of the Cove's most eligible bachelors, so there would be talk about who he was . . . well, sleeping with, she supposed would be the way it would be seen. That was pretty much the only way it could be seen, given they hadn't exactly dated like normal people. The fact that she'd bought property that had been in his family's possession since the town's inception might have something to do with the tongues presently wagging, as well.
Maybe I should have stuck with the library after all.

Except she wasn't really there for a working lunch.

“Hi. Grace, right?”

Startled from her thoughts, Grace turned from where she'd been staring, unseeing, out the front window, and found the redheaded waitress standing beside her table. She was a little taller than average height, with curves bordering on the knockout variety that even her deli apron couldn't hide. Her gorgeous natural red hair was pulled back in an easy knot with just a few strands escaping and curling around her face. Grace guessed the woman was in her early forties or thereabouts. When she smiled, openly friendly and welcoming, Grace thought maybe she'd misjudged by a handful of years.

Only at the last moment did she notice the smile didn't quite reach the waitress's pretty aquamarine eyes. Not that they weren't welcoming, exactly, but . . . nervous maybe? That made no sense at all.

Grace tensed as she realized what the problem might be.
Please don't tell me you're some former flame of Brodie's still carrying a torch. Gah. Why didn't I just call instead?

Belatedly, she realized she was staring. “Yes, hi. Yes, I'm Grace. Grace Maddox. I'm sorry. Have we met? I'm—I've met so many people since I got here, and they've all been so great. I'm very sorry if I've forgotten your name.” She knew she'd never met the woman, but made a stab at a polite opening.
Please don't stab me back with a lobster fork.

“No, no we haven't met. But I've been hoping to. I was just letting you find your way here, in your own time.”

Grace frowned, confused.

“I'm sorry. You really don't know who I am, do you?” The waitress took a seat in the booth across from Grace, who could feel everyone's eyes on them. “I'm Delia. O'Reilly. I own the diner.”

“Oh!” It was Grace's turn to smile uncomfortably. “I-I was actually hoping we could talk.” She braved a quick glance around, forced a smile for the room filled with people who weren't even pretending not to stare. “Maybe . . . not here. I know you're busy—really busy,” she added with another darting glance at the other tables. “Just let me know when is good and I could come back. Maybe after you close or—”

Delia reached across the table and placed her hand on Grace's arm, instantly quieting her. Her smile was as open as before, real emotion in her eyes, more than Grace could read. “It's okay. I want to talk with you, too. You're here about Ford, right?”

The breath and tension went out of Grace in a whoosh. “Yes. So, you're . . . Dee, right? He called you Dee.”

Delia's expression softened immediately, and there was even more emotion in her eyes, but Grace wasn't sure what any of it meant. Then Delia grinned, and her tone was wry and also more relaxed when she laughed. “If that's all he called me, I'd be surprised.”

“No, he didn't say—well, anything, actually. I had to piece it together. I just—did you send me a letter?” Grace shook her head, her own smile coming more naturally, as did the self-deprecating note in her voice. “It was a long time ago, so I know it's crazy to think—”

“Ten years almost to the day, come to think of it.” Delia squeezed Grace's arm, her smile softer and sincerely friendly. “What took you so long?”

Grace wasn't sure who was more surprised when tears stung her eyes. God, she was so tired of crying. “It's a long story,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Now, come on, there'll be none of that. All that matters is that you're here now. And you've seen your brother. At least, I heard that Robie took you out to Sandpiper yesterday.” Delia paused and seemed to realize they had an audience. “I'm glad you came to see me, Grace. I would love to talk with you. Tell you what. I'll admit I've been dyin' to see what you're doing to Brodie's boathouse, but I've stayed away because, well . . . we can get into that later, too. How about I drop by this evening once I get the night shift going? They can handle things for an hour or two without me.”

Grace smiled and forced even breaths, willing the tears to stay at bay. “That would be great. Though I'll warn you, I haven't done all that much to the place yet. We're still getting it prepped for the rebuild.”

“I heard Langston deVry designed the remodel. I don't guess you'd be willing to show me the plans?” Her smile turned conspiratorial as she leaned across the table. “Everyone is dying—
dying
—to find out what's what with your little soon-to-be inn. I'd kill to be the first. Or at least before Fergus McRae, at any rate.”

Grace knew Fergus ran the Rusty Puffin tavern and was related to the police chief. She also knew as a somewhat less direct transplant from Ireland, that he was close to Brodie. She'd learned from talking to the locals that Delia's diner and the tavern were the two main gathering spots for locals, and therefore, the two main grapevines in town with the respective owners being the head grapes, so to speak.

Grace smiled, the knots in her stomach finally easing completely. On first impression, she liked Delia. A lot. Thank God. “Well, since you asked and Fergus hasn't, probably only because I haven't made it in to the tavern yet, then I guess you win.”

“I'll take a default win,” Delia said with a laugh. “I'm not proud. Say around eight-thirty?”

Grace nodded. “That would be great.”

Delia started to slide out of the booth, then paused. “Because I'm going to get grilled on this as soon as you leave—not that you have to leave—”

“I-I think I'm going to head back to the boathouse. I have work crews there. And . . .” She glanced around, then back to Delia and made a kind of
ack
face, which made Delia laugh.

“And you're all done being on center stage. I get that, but you might have to get used to it. Not so much because of your brother. Who we all love and respect,” she hurried to add, when Grace's smile faltered. “No, it's more about a certain sexy Irish shipbuilder who might have sailed the seven seas to your rescue yesterday.” She placed her hand over her heart. “If I was only about a dozen years younger. Hell, half a dozen.” She cracked out a laugh, and the crow's-feet that winked from the corners of her eyes and the lines next to her mouth told Grace she spent a lot more time laughing than anything else. “Who am I kidding? If I thought even a fraction of that charming Irish blarney he sends my way was serious, I'd jump him right here in this booth today.”

Grace laughed even as she felt her face go flame red. “So, the whole town . . . ?”

“Oh yeah. Half are jealous, the other half just want every last steamy detail. Okay, so all of them are jealous.” She winked. “But only half of them would admit to it.”

Grace pressed her hands to her warm cheeks.

“I'm not talking about the hot blush, though that speaks volumes on its own.” Delia's smile turned sweeter, softer. “I'm talking about that look in your eyes.” She leaned across the table. “I'll let you in on a not-so-little secret. When he talks about you, his eyes do that same thing.” She grinned as Grace's eyebrows rose, and the flush spread to her neck.

“He . . . talks? About me? In a good way?”

Delia frowned. “Well, of course in a good way. To be honest, it's been a hoot to watch. When he first moved here, I had him pegged as a bachelor lifer. You know the kind, loves all women, so can't commit to any one of them. Then I saw him get all googly-eyed over Alex and—well, shit. I'm sorry. There I go, talking out of school.”

“It's okay. I know about Alex.”

Delia lifted a brow and gave her an entirely new considering look. “Huh,” she said, then murmured, “Well, I'll be damned.”

Grace's eyebrow furrowed with the unspoken question.

“Alex MacFarland caught his eye briefly, but I'd make a guess that you've grabbed something a lot more valuable. If he's telling you about other women he's cared for . . .” Delia trailed off, but her blue eyes were lit up in pure delight. “Why would you think he'd say anything bad about you? Oh!” The light dawned. “The boathouse. Yeah, well, I'm sure he was none too happy with that in the beginning, but honey, he doesn't hold that against you. That all goes on Cami Weathersby's doorstep.” She leaned forward again, voice dropping. “Not that I'm all that surprised she did it.
Conniving
is her middle name. And the woman holds a grudge.”

“A grudge? Against Brodie? For what?”

“He didn't tell you? He tells you about Alex, but not—” Delia broke off, rolled her eyes. “Men. They can be such idiots. Well, it's not my place to tell, but I'd ask him about it. He probably doesn't think there's anything to say, and from his viewpoint, there isn't. But considering the deal he's got going on with her father . . . that's exciting, isn't it?” At the blank expression on Grace's face, she blanched. “Well, shit again. I don't usually stick my foot that deep in it.”

“He did mention yesterday that he had something to talk to me about, but I ended up falling asleep and slept the entire boat trip back in.” Grace felt the heat climb to her cheeks again. “I . . . didn't get much sleep the night before, and the whole meeting thing with Ford . . .”

She just gave up and let it go. If everyone knew she was spending time with Brodie, there was no point in pretending some of that time wasn't spent having sex. She probably had slept more due to the sleepless night before followed by the emotionally exhausting reunion with her brother than because she and Brodie had ended up in bed again.

Actually, it was more how safe and cared for Brodie had made her feel than what they'd been doing that had lulled her into such a deep sleep. She hadn't even woken when the boat engines started up With no wind, Brodie had motored them back to the harbor. She'd gotten back to find two workers had stopped by to let her know that another member of her crew had gotten hurt trying to take advantage of the last night of eel season. She'd spent the rest of the afternoon finding a replacement for him and the evening in talks with Langston about starting the next phase of construction. She'd finally begged off dinner with Brodie, headed out to the Point house with Whomper, simply crashed out cold until morning.

She hadn't been able to stop thinking about the whole letter thing and was stuck on Ford's mention of Dee, so that had been her mission upon waking. After a night in a decent bed, followed by a long shower and a big breakfast, she'd headed back to Half Moon to figure out how best to approach her.

“It's been a busy morning, and Brodie and I haven't had the chance to talk,” Grace finished somewhat lamely.

Delia slid out of the booth and put her hand on Grace's arm. “Well, I'll let the two of you sort that out. I think it's all good news, but with Camille in the mix, there's always room for catastrophe.” She squeezed Grace's arm gently. “Don't let her do anything to screw things up between you and Brodie. He's a good man. Sometimes when the ones you think will never fall do, they fall good and hard. And stay there. Trust me,” she added with a flashy grin. “I've got a pretty good eye for these things.”

“Thank you,” Grace said, scrambling to assimilate a whole new host of information she hadn't anticipated. She'd come hoping to gain greater insight into her brother and what he'd been doing for the past thirteen years. She hadn't been prepared for other bombshells. Or potential bombshells. “Are we still on for tonight?”

“I'm game if you are. Why don't you give me a shout when you've talked with Brodie and have your day figured out. We can talk another time.” Delia patted Grace's arm, squeezed one last time. “About your brother, and what I know about him? Don't worry. It's all good stuff. Okay?”