Those Cassabaw Days (13 page)

Then, she reached over and grasped his hand in her small, soft one. “Thank you,” she said breathily. “I sincerely mean it.”

Matt stared; he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He swallowed. Swallowed again. Cleared his throat. “No problem, Em.”

That made her eyes sparkle, and she beamed.

He forced himself to breathe as she dropped his hand and took off down the road.

What in the hell had gotten into him? It was just a hand. A pair of eyes.

No, you idiot. They’re Em’s hands. Em’s eyes.
He stared out the window, baffled.

The midmorning sun filtered through the trees and landed in spots on the hood of Jep’s truck, and when Matt braved a look over, Emily’s skin was dappled in the same way. She bounced along as they drove, humming one of her old vintage tunes, full of excitement, anticipation of finding the perfect things at the store for the café. He had to confess, even if to only himself, that some of her enthusiasm rubbed off on him.

Just a little bit. And he wouldn’t tell a damn soul, either.

Before long Emily veered off the main road and started down the narrow single lane that cut through a maritime forest, toward Caper’s Inlet.

“Isn’t it so cool the way the trees arch over the road?” she commented, and pointed. “The sun can barely squeak through the canopy.” Her eyes drifted toward him. “All the moss hanging down kind of looks like ratty old witch’s hair, like we’re driving through a secret magical forest to Narnia, or Terabithia.” She wiggled her brows. “Or the magical time tunnel. Don’t you think?”

Matt took a long, sideways look at Emily. “You’re even weirder than you were when we were kids.”
And it’s sexy as hell.

Emily beamed and kept her gaze on the road. “Why, thank you. Takes one to know one.”

Matt just shook his head and stared out the window.

Soon the coastal town of Caper’s Inlet rose from the moss, scrub palms and live oak trees, and Emily pulled into an old-fashioned diner called The Shoehorn. Small mom-and-pop place that Matt immediately felt at home in. They seated themselves into a booth facing the marsh and a young woman greeted them with menus. She wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a black apron that read The Shoehorn across the front.

She promised to bring them coffee and then hurried off.

Emily leaned forward, her fingers tented together, her eyes dancing. “You have like, I don’t know, seven words in your entire vocabulary. Did you know that?”

Matt pinched his lips together. “What are you talking about?”

With her fingertips she pushed around a packet of sugar. “‘Yep. Nope. Uh-huh’—which is technically one word and not two—‘sure, okay.’” She shrugged. “You used to be a lot...wordier, Matt Malone.”

His gaze met hers. Noticed the flecks of green in her strangely shaped hazel eyes. “And you’ve not changed one little bit, Emily Quinn.”

Leaning back, she cocked her head. “Yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Matt shrugged. “Opinionated. Unfiltered.”

“Honest?” she added.

“Annoyingly so,” he said.

She gave a little nod, briefly closing her eyes like some monastery monk slash Yoda slash Samurai elder. “Ahh. My work is done, then.”

The waitress returned with a carafe of coffee, two cups and a pitcher of cream. She took their orders, and to Matt’s surprise Emily’s was the exact same order. Apple pancakes with a side of sausage, extra syrup. When their food arrived, they both dug in.

“No way you’re eatin’ all that,” he said, pointing to her stack of pancakes with his fork. “No way.”

“Wanna bet?” she offered. “Twenty bucks says I do.”

By the size of Emily’s willowy build, he’d thought he’d pocketed an easy twenty. But to his complete surprise, she finished it all.

And before he did.

Matt leaned back in the booth and inclined his head to her plate. “That’s just...unnatural, Quinn. Plain and simple.”

“Jesus don’t like envy, Malone,” she warned with a sigh. “He just don’t.”

Matt couldn’t help it. He laughed. Out loud.

And Emily just sort of...glowed after that. He was sort of getting used to it, and pretty fast. Looked forward to seeing that glow even. When she smiled, it made him want to...

Better lose that train of thought, Malone. Lose it fast.

After breakfast they drove to the riverfront, parked in front of this crazy-looking old blue fishing shack and got out. A big metal mermaid sat above the entry, and two of Titan’s pitchforks, or whatever they were called, were jammed into the ground flanking the double-hung red doors.

With her hand on the brass door handle, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Okay. Be prepared.” She lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. “I’m about to get really excited in here.”

Matt kept his face stone-solid as he fought a smile. “I’m always prepared.”

One of her strawberry-blond brows lifted. But she didn’t say anything as she pushed into the strange shop ahead of him. And that had him a little nervous.

The moment Matt stepped inside music drifted from somewhere in the back. It was an old blues singer, with that perfect mournful melody. Then a gritty old voice called out from somewhere in the shop. “Help yourselves, call if you need me.”

“Thanks!” Emily replied, and she turned a wide-eyed expression of mischievousness toward him. “Is that music fantastic or what?” she whispered. She wiggled her brows, as if trying to convey some sort of secret message, and Matt got lost in them once again. She was getting under his skin, and he wasn’t too sure he liked it.

Then the store’s hazy interior and cavernous shadows swallowed Emily up as she took off to the left. For a moment he just stood there, still contemplating the stealth and skill it’d taken Emily Quinn to lure him into shopping.

Antiquing, for Christ’s sake.

Not much stealth at all, he supposed. The first thought on his mind when he’d woken up that morning was of Emily.

Taking the opposite direction, he hugged the far wall on the right and turned down the first aisle. They were narrow paths of, well, stuff, and he barely fit through it. He had to turn slightly sideways to keep from knocking things off the crammed shelves.

After a few minutes of skimming over things—most of which he had no idea what they even were—he was halfway down the cramped aisle when Emily’s voice rose over the music.

“Hey, Matt,” she half whispered, half squeaked. When he looked he could barely make out her head, poking around the corner, her braid swinging over her shoulder. She waved frantically at him. “Come here! Hurry!”

There’d be no hurrying, not if Matt didn’t want to bring down the shelves and all their contents with him. But he turned sideways a little more and eased down the aisle as best he could. When he got to the end, he didn’t see Emily. Then she poked her head back out of another aisle and waved to him.

“Come
on
,” she insisted, then disappeared again.

Matt shifted his gaze, saw no one who’d recognize him inching through an antiques store and headed down the aisle. He found Emily, squatted down and digging through a pretty big box. Her gaze rose to meet his.

“Check it out,” she said.

Excitement made her face flushed, almost glowing in the dim interior of the shop. Matt squatted beside her and looked inside the box. “Do you know what they are?” he asked.

“I don’t,” she confessed, and held one up for closer inspection.

“Old glass insulators, probably from the twenties or thirties,” Matt offered. “Used to aid in the transfer of current for telegraph, telephone and electrical lines.”

“Well, that’s just cool!” she whispered.

Matt lifted one out. An aqua color. Even he admitted, they were pretty cool. “What do you want with them?”

“I’m going to hang these in the rafters of the Windchimer,” she said excitedly. “With twinkly lights. Inside and out, if I have enough.” Her wide eyes caught a light somewhere behind them, and her mouth pulled into that fast smile. “So it can always look like a clear, starry Cassabaw night overhead.”

That’s really when it hit him. A sucker punch that caught him off guard, and yet deep down, he wasn’t all that surprised. It
was
Em, after all. Fifteen years apart and a career in the marines, and it was still there.

He liked her. The young girl he’d adored still had those same qualities that had drawn him to her, way back when. She was still Em, only...better, if that was even possible. Beautiful. Impossible. Spontaneous.

Emily Quinn was all of that. But what was he?
Who
was he? He didn’t know anymore. It consumed him, not knowing.

It scared him enough to catch himself. What did he really have to offer anyone? Including himself? To be some local handyman, picking up odd jobs best he could?

Hell, no.
Hell, no.

Sooner or later, he’d have to make a call. He felt it coming on just as sure as he knew he’d have to keep Emily Quinn out of his life.

For both their sakes.

CHAPTER TEN

I
T HAD BEEN
a productive morning in more ways than one. Emily scored big-time at the obscure, zany little antiques store in Caper’s Inlet, acquiring four boxes of the old glass insulators that equaled to nearly a thousand of the aged domes—at a mere ten cents apiece, no less—two large vintage prints of jellyfish, four colorful tin serving trays with sea turtles painted on them and a stack of Gatsby-era table numbers, adorned with whimsical merfolk. Every bit of it was absolutely, perfectly wonderful.

But the best thing? She’d broken through to Matt. At least, a little. He was still quiet. Still somewhat reserved and used as few words as possible. But his mannerisms had shifted a little. He wasn’t quite so uptight around her. She sensed he was beginning to trust her. And she really liked that.

She really liked
him
. Whenever they were close, her insides shivered. When he looked at her? She thought she’d melt into a pool of goo. Despite his gruffness, she still saw some of the old Matt, buried deep inside. And she aimed to drag it out of him.

The ride home was quiet but not uncomfortable. By the time they hit the island road leading to Cassabaw, clouds had moved overhead and turned dark and threatening. A complete shift from the sun-dappled morning they’d just spent at Caper’s Inlet. Thunder boomed over the marsh, the flags hanging from flagpoles on the floating docks whipping madly in the wind. As soon as they loaded the antique finds into the Windchimer it began splattering rain.

Matt handed Emily the keys to her Jeep. “She’s ready to go.”

“Thanks so much, Matt,” she said. “And thanks for coming with me today. It was totally fun.” She hugged him then, wrapped her arms around his neck, and as his arms encircled her, she shuddered. Felt the heat from his body, the muscles tighten around her.

When Emily pulled back, Matt was looking down at her, his eyes dark and stormy, and the air snapped between them. Then, Matt’s brows knitted, and he set her back.

“No problem,” he muttered, and cleared his throat. Looked over her head, toward the sea.

“W-well,” Emily stuttered—so unlike her. She locked the café door and glanced toward the sky. “We’d better skedaddle.”

“Right.”

Wordlessly, the two hurried off the veranda to their parked vehicles, and Emily waved. “See ya, Matt.”

He gave a nod, turned and jogged to Jep’s truck.

* * *

O
VER
THE NEXT
few days Emily saw very little of Matt. Without having the materials to begin her jobs, he’d decided to help out on the trawler. She’d spent time in the river house, organizing and settling in. But now Saturday had rolled around, and she found she was more than excited to see him.

Nearly every afternoon, showers fell. Even now, as she headed home from McKinnlay’s Grocery Mart, the rain picked up the closer Emily got to home, and by the time she pulled into her drive and parked by the porch, she had to sprint to avoid being soaked.

She darted for cover, and once under the canopy of the veranda, she stopped and watched the storm move over the marsh. It was a sight she’d never grow tired of. As she stared over the river, she glanced over her shoulder and did a double take.

There, suspended by a pair of brand-new chains, was her repaired porch swing. A long, slow pull of her lips curled her mouth. Matt Malone had fixed her swing. With a sigh, her smile widened and she continued to adore the storm passing through.

Gosh. Matt Malone. Still full of surprises.

She’d been having a difficult time getting him off her mind the past few nights. What she’d meant as a simple hug of thanks felt like so much more—to her, anyway. The way he’d looked at her, the sensation it’d caused inside of her. And that weird electricity that seemed to snap and crackle around them. Had she just imagined it? Was it all one-sided?

Was Matt Malone safe?

Even if he was safe, she’d experienced all those feelings with Trent, and yet after years of intimacy they’d still broken up. How did she know what she was feeling for Matt wasn’t just some passing physical attraction?

After a few moments, the wind drove the rain onto the veranda, and Emily hurried inside. Once she set the grocery bags down, she washed her hands. Just as she was about to retrieve the ingredients for the lemon pies, her cell chirped.

Trent.

With a deep breath, she contemplated not answering. But she did.

“Trent,” she said.

“You’re ignoring me,” he voiced. “Emily-girl, why?”

Emily gave a short laugh. “Trent, we broke up.
You
broke up with me, remember?”

“I do,” he said quietly. “And I’m regretting the hell out of it.”

Emily stared out the window. Across the marsh, the storm blew the saw grass back and forth. She sighed. “What do you want?”

“I miss you,” he said. “I...miss hearing your voice. It doesn’t feel right, Emily. With no us.”

Emily closed her eyes and breathed. “Trent, don’t. Please.” Confusion battered her insides. “I’ve got to go.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Can I call you again? Please?”