Trapped in Tourist Town

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer DeCuir.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

 

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8867-8

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8867-9

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8868-6

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8868-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Squaredpixels and 123RF/Chee-Onn Leong

 

 

This book is dedicated to the town and residents of York, Maine. Growing up in such a beautiful backdrop has given me a wealth of cherished memories. Scallop Shores is my way of remaining a part of my hometown. I hope I have done it justice.

My sincere thanks to Ginger St. Clair for her amazing photos taken around York and various other areas in Maine and New Hampshire.

Thank you to Lauren at Crimson Romance, who offered some terrific suggestions to improve this book, and I only hope I did them justice.

I really want to thank my readers. You have an incredible amount of choices in reading material and I am humbled that you chose one of my books. Extra thanks to those of you who have taken the time, or will take the time to leave a review on Amazon or Barnes & Noble. You really have no idea how valuable that is to an author.

 

“I'll tell ya what's worse than them stupid geese dressed up in people clothes—” Old Man Feeney jabbed a gnarled finger in the air, waggling it around for effect. “Those plywood cutouts Margie Nixon stuck in her yard of the ladies bent over showing off their bloomers. Downright scandalous!”

Gritting her teeth and glancing around the bakery, Cady did a quick inventory to make sure her customers didn't need an immediate refill of their coffee. She reached under the counter and withdrew an empty jar, setting it on the Formica with a thunk. That garnered a couple of bored looks from several of her elderly customers but they quickly went back to their discussion.

She rummaged through a basket under the cash register and came up with a marker and some Scotch tape. Smiling, she neatly wrote: Cady's NY Dream Fund. Taping the label to the jar, she slid the container toward her regulars sitting at the counter. “There you go, boys. Tip jar. Fill 'er up.” She winked at Old Man Feeney.

“Ayuh. Good luck with that, Little Miss Fancy-Britches. I think all your tippers are already in New York City.” Feeney and his cronies chortled.

Cady blew out a sigh and rolled her eyes. They were probably right. The people of Scallop Shores were stuck in their ways. They were stubborn. They didn't like change. They didn't do fancy. They cringed at exciting.

She'd been trying to get the morning regulars at Logan's Bakery to try something besides regular drip coffee for almost a year. Mr. Logan had refused to approve the expense of a new espresso machine so she'd gone out and bought one with her own money. Needless to say, it had not been the wisest investment.

Earl Duffy tossed back the last of his caffeine and held the ceramic mug out for more. Like an assembly line, empty coffee mugs were pushed out toward her side of the counter. Dutifully, Cady filled them all and then headed for the display case of pastries. They'd be asking for their second helping of morning sugar now.

“Cady, be a doll and get me another bear claw?”

“I could do with another cheese Danish while you're at it.”

Down the line she went, refilling coffee and topping off bellies. It was the same thing every day. Nothing ever changed in this town. So dull. So predictable. Crouching, Cady opened a new box of sweetener packets so she could refill the containers on the counter. The tinkling of the bell over the door signaled a new customer. Deciding to have a little fun with her theory that the town was indeed predictable, Cady called out from her spot on the floor to the woman who came in at this time every morning.

“Good morning, Gladys. Be right with you. How's that hip this morning? I made your favorite today, raisin bran muffins.”

The long pause was enough to wipe the smug smile from her face. The snickers from the old men lining the counter had her cringing. Then the deliciously deep voice that told her “I love raisin bran muffins” made Cady want to sink beneath the surface of the old cracked linoleum. Her cheeks hot with embarrassment, she rose on shaky legs and faced her unexpected customer.

“I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Clearly.”

Once she got a good look at the source of her mortification, she decided it had been well worth it. This man had
city
written all over him. In a room full of flannel and denim, his gray slacks, wool blazer, and perfectly crisp white shirt were a welcome sight. His neatly clipped dark hair and baby-smooth cheeks were a direct contrast to all the buzzards turned to him, their own visages long due for a trim and a shave.

“What can I get you?” Cady asked breathlessly.

“I'd like a soy latte—and one of those raisin bran muffins.” He winked. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Look at that, would ya, boys? Someone who's willing to try one of my fancy coffee drinks.” Cady smirked at the men who made no effort to hide their curious stares.

“Enjoy it while you can. Who knows when you'll make another?” said one of the regulars.

“Actually,” the stranger interrupted, “if it's good, I'll order one every day.” He spoke to the men at the counter but kept his eyes on Cady. Mesmerizing green eyes.

Shaking her head to get herself back on task, Cady rushed to fill his order. Her fingers lightly caressed the espresso machine as she poured, packed, and pushed buttons. Working this fancy coffeemaker, inhaling the heady scent of the beans, and listening to the loud whirs and chuffs as it transformed raw ingredients into a delicious hot treat made her happier than she thought possible. Would it kill the rest of the town to give something different a try? Just once in a while?

Her hand trembled slightly as she set the paper cup on the counter. She shook open a tiny paper bag, snagged a muffin out of the case with a pair of plastic tongs, and slipped it into the bag. Folding the top over, she handed it to the gentleman. He reached out, covering Cady's fingers with his own. Truth be told, she'd been expecting the touch, but not the jolt that traveled all the way up to tickle her behind the ears. He held her gaze even after he released her hand. Flustered, she broke eye contact.

“Cady's NY Dream Fund,” he read aloud, gesturing toward the pathetically empty tip jar.

She nodded, irritated with the way her body was reacting as she felt her cheeks signaling a second blush-fest.
Stop acting like a ninny
.
He's just a man.
A gorgeous man who looked like he'd just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine—or straight out of her fantasies.

Cady's eyes widened as he stuffed the change she'd handed him into the tip jar. He'd just bought a twenty-dollar muffin and latte! A smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, he gave her another wink and turned to go.

“Gentlemen.” He called the farewell over his shoulder, the bell tinkling overhead once more.

“Them tourists sure are getting here earlier and earlier every year.” Old Man Feeney slowly shook his head.

“No.” Cady narrowed her eyes and tapped her finger to her lips, her gaze focused outside on the man stepping into his fancy foreign car. “This one's not a tourist. I'm not sure what his story is, but I'll find out.”

• • •

The computerized voice belonging to his GPS chirped that he had arrived at his destination. Burke frowned. He wasn't a “roughing it” kind of guy. Yeah, he wrote for one of the country's leading travel magazines, but he left the sleeping-on-the-ground, no-indoor-plumbing assignments to the more adventurous writers. Give him a five-star hotel any day.

He'd been picturing a cheerfully painted little bungalow. A cute white picket fence surrounding the property. Bright contrasting shutters at the windows and immaculate landscaping. And a shoreline. Or the hint of a shoreline. Where the hell was the Atlantic Ocean?

Slumping down in his seat, Burke made no attempt to leave the comfort of his Lexus GS. He took a sip of the latte cooling in the console. So far it was the only thing the small town of Scallop Shores had working in its favor—a decent soy latte. Okay, that wasn't fair. His mind wandered to the perky townie behind the counter.

It was hard to judge her age, given that her honey-blond hair had been pulled up in a high ponytail. She wore no makeup, which had made her rosy pink blushes even more evident. A slow smile spread across Burke's face. He'd enjoyed putting that blush on her cheeks. The barista, bakery worker, whatever her title, was nothing like the women who normally caught his eye. But he doubted he was going to find sophisticated, polished women who spent hours at the salon in Scallop Shores. So, when in Rome—

Snatching up the white paper bag from Logan's, Burke pushed open the door and unfurled himself from the car. A sickening squelch had him squeezing his eyes shut and muttering a few curses. Not a paved driveway, or even a gravel one. No, his cottage-by-the-sea came with a mud driveway. Charming. Well, he could kiss his leather loafers goodbye.

The magazine was putting him up for the summer. Financially speaking, it wasn't cost effective for him to stay in a fancy hotel for months on end. If there were even such a thing as a fancy hotel in Scallop Shores. He said he'd make do with one of the numerous B&Bs. His editor told him he'd take the cottage and be grateful. Oh, the glamorous life of a travel writer.

Leaving his bags in the trunk for the time being, Burke stepped away from the Lexus and turned in a slow circle. Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs with clean, fresh air. Pine mixed with the salty tang of the sea. It seemed an odd combination but it worked. It was so quiet out here. Surely that would change, once tourist season was in full swing. But for now, if he listened closely, he could almost hear the trees whispering for him to slow down, take it easy. He shook his head, wondering where this fancifulness came from.

He'd come to Scallop Shores as a favor to his editor. His assignments normally focused on the more metropolitan areas of the world. Meredith had promised he could go anywhere his heart desired if he'd spend tourist season in this little dot on the map she'd discovered a few years back, and had finally convinced the magazine to do a series on. Much as he adored the woman, he'd been fully prepared to hate the town.