Trapped in Tourist Town (5 page)

He scratched off the last two he'd added, ripping the entire page from the notebook for good measure. Wadding it in a ball, he tossed it toward the garbage can in the corner. It bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. Of course.

A fresh page stared back at him, the promise of something new and exciting. Burke resisted the urge to lean down and take a whiff. Something about a new notebook, new writing supplies of any kind, really. He knew he'd probably been the only kid in school who looked forward to back-to-school shopping. His nanny had always taken him. His own parents couldn't be bothered with the actual raising of their son.

Burke took a cleansing breath and let his mind wander. He had loved Maria like a mother. She was old enough to have been his grandmother, looking back, but Burke hadn't been looking for a grandmother-figure. He'd needed a mom. So it was Maria he had gone to with his first juvenile stories. It was Maria who had encouraged him to write. It was Maria he'd told when he first got the job with the magazine. She'd been so proud but also a tad disappointed.

“I am happy for you, sweetheart, if you are happy. But promise me something. Do not abandon your stories. Keep writing from your heart. Someday, when the time is right, let go of your fear and just write.”

He was supposed to be working on his article. His editor would be expecting the first in the series next week. But that empty notebook called out to him, enticing him to write something far more interesting. Something dark and creepy. Burke started to smell damp leaves, to feel a chill wind pass through his bones. It would take place in October. It was dark, the dead of night. The trees were newly bare but that didn't stop them from pressing in on the hero. He was lost. He knew someone or something was watching him, following him.

A loud rapping sounded on the front door. Burke pushed his rickety wooden chair back with a screech. His heart mimicked the knocking on the door, even louder if that were possible. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Blinking hard, he stole a look at the clock on the bedside table. It wasn't even nine a.m. Who bothered their neighbors this early?

Shaking his head to get back into the here and now, Burke plodded down the hall and into the kitchen. This had better be good. He'd been working. Well, he was supposed to have been working. He wrenched open the door harder than was necessary.

“You might want to nuke that latte for a bit. Someone took his time getting to the door.” Cady winked.

She handed him a large paper cup and breezed inside, apparently seeing the open door as the only invitation she needed. Heading for the counter, she set down a large basket and immediately began to unload it. Burke threw a gaze heavenward before closing the door and folding his arms across his chest. He tried to ignore the enticing aromas that just compounded, the more items Cady withdrew from the basket.

“So most of these are desserts, because who doesn't love desserts, right?” She tossed the question over her shoulder, seeming to prefer keeping her back to him.

“And what if I told you I was diabetic?” He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Cady whirled around, her mouth open.

“Are you? Diabetic, that is?”

She looked horrified at the idea her baking could possibly bring harm to someone. Burke felt a twinge of guilt for scaring her.

“No, I'm not diabetic. And I suppose I could be persuaded to take some of this off your hands.” He stole up to the counter, spying a plate of brownies and reaching out, only to have his hand slapped. “What the hell?” He snatched it back, glaring at the infuriating woman taking up space in his kitchen.

“Those are for later. You can't eat brownies at nine o'clock in the morning.”

“Hey, if it's late enough for social calls, it's late enough to eat chocolate.” He tried again, only to be thwarted when she threw herself in front of him.

“You can eat all the brownies you want once I'm gone. But for now I have raisin bran muffins. You did say those were your favorite. I hope, for both our sakes, that you weren't just being nice.”

“So if I eat one of your raisin bran muffins, you'll leave?” He regretted the barb the second it sailed off his tongue and hit its target, causing her to wince.

She straightened her back and finished emptying the basket of goodies. There were three different kinds of cookies, brownies, muffins, and, good grief, was that a pie? Cady had been a busy girl!

“I could go looking through your cupboards for plates and silverware, but that would be rude.”

“And you certainly wouldn't want to do anything that could be construed as rude.”

They stared each other down before Burke finally broke eye contact and went in search of plates and forks. He gave her points for not flinching.

Cady put a muffin on each plate and whipped a couple of paper towels from the roll on the counter. Burke took the opportunity to pop his latte in the microwave for a quick nuke. She picked up the plates and turned in a slow circle, her brow wrinkling in confusion.

“Where is your table? Where do you eat?”

“Oh, I moved it. It's in the bedroom.”

And just as she had entered his little rented cottage, Whirlwind Cady blew past him and headed down the hall. She pushed aside his empty coffee cup and the notebook, index cards, and assorted pens. Placing their breakfast on the table, she rubbed her hands together and sighed happily.

“There we go.”

The smile on her face faltered as she took in her surroundings. Square footage already at a premium, adding the kitchen table had only made the small room that much more cramped. Burke chose to remain in the doorway, not willing to add to the awkwardness that was slowly building.

As one, they turned their attention to the bed. Single bachelor that he was, neatening up his living space hadn't even occurred to him. The blankets were turned down, the sheets rumpled; it should have looked like a cozy retreat. But with Cady in the room, this seemingly innocent scene pulsed with an erotic charge that was impossible to ignore. She swallowed hard, wiping her palms against the soft faded denim of her jeans. The silence in the room was deafening.

“There's a suspension bridge not too far from the center of town. I thought maybe you could use that for your first article.”

“Grab that notebook on the table. I'll get my camera and laptop and meet you outside.” Anything to get her out of his bedroom.

He didn't breathe again until she'd brushed past him and he heard the front door close behind her. This was the worst idea in the history of ideas. He should just sleep with her already. The tension was gonna kill him.

Stuffing the supplies he'd need into an old backpack, Burke started to leave the room, doubling back for one of the muffins. Cady was already behind the wheel of an aging Civic. When she started the engine he began to have doubts that they'd even make it out of his driveway. She waved cheerily from the driver's seat, the screech of country twang rivaling the whine in the engine. Burke suspected this was intentional. He wrenched open the passenger side door and prepared to spend time in an enclosed space with a woman who was slowly driving him insane.

During the ensuing car ride, Burke tried to follow Cady's conversational thread. Something about a retirement home, no more Bingo, strip poker, and a lonely man named Gerald. About the only thing he got out of it was that this was her way of explaining why she didn't show for their meeting at the library yesterday. Though honestly, she could have been reciting Latin hymns for all the sense it was making. Wishing for a pair of earplugs, he laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. The scent of her perfume grabbed him by the short hairs. He was going to cry, right here in this tiny tin can of a car. Forget the sexual tension. Every damned thing about Cady Eaton was gonna kill him.

“Again, I am so sorry—”

“It's fine. Just don't ... no more apologies. Please?” Burke shook his head and accepted the glass of beer from the waitress.

Cady lifted her own heavy stein and took a few swallows of the pilsner. The hoppy flavor slid down her parched throat. It was enough to make her smile. Almost. Ending the day at Smitty's bar seemed a fitting choice after the day they'd had. And it had been her own stupid fault, of course. She drew a design in the condensation on her glass, too embarrassed to meet her new employer's gaze.

She'd insisted on taking her piece-of-crap car to show off her town. They'd made it to Shaky Bridge just fine. The wheezing started on the way to the cove, where she'd introduced Burke to some of the lobstermen that were coming back with the day's haul. Lucille had made it halfway up the narrow, winding road to the lighthouse when she coughed, sputtered, let out a sound like she'd eaten a whole pot of Saturday night beans, and died.

Of course, the tow truck driver was the same guy she'd turned down for the prom. She would swear there had been a satisfied gleam in his eye when he'd given her his exorbitant bill. Pat Murphy was now married and Cady had lost count of how many times he'd become a proud papa. With an impressive beer gut and more hair on his chin than his head, he just paid proof to the theory that there was someone for everyone.

She'd wheedled a ride back to Burke's cottage from Pat, feeling only slightly guilty that she made Burke sit in the middle. The cab of the tow truck was cramped and the look on Burke's face made it plain that she would regret the fact that he was forced to touch thighs with their burly driver.

Cady raised the glass to her lips, only to realize that it was already empty. She set it back down, a small moue pushing her mouth into a pout.

“Why do I get the feeling you could drink me under the table any day?” Burke watched her, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Cady opened her mouth to respond, decided it was better to let him believe this, and snapped it shut again. She flashed him a smile that she hoped looked mysterious.

The waitress approached then and Cady took the liberty of ordering the seafood platter for each of them. The food here was to die for.

When the server left, Burke's gaze was caught by something behind her and he frowned. He lowered his voice and leaned across the scarred table to be heard over the din of conversation and the crack of colliding balls at the pool table.

“So, at what point does a stranger stop being interesting enough to stare at?” He jerked his shoulder in a
see-what-I-mean
gesture. She whipped her head around to catch a group of locals staring at her ruffled tablemate.

“What? The attention doesn't flatter you?” Cady winked.

“Seriously. People greet you like you're their best friend, but they look at me like I've got three heads. I'm going to need them to let down their guard and trust me to tell their story for the magazine.”

“This is good. They're curious. See the one with the bright red beard? That's Farmer Zach. In the summer he runs the biggest fruit and veggie stand. In the fall he sets up a really spooky corn maze. I say we put him on the list for tomorrow's research possibilities.”

“It's just … the staring. Is it really necessary? I'm so used to people ignoring each other in the city.” He hunkered down in his chair, turning his body slightly to the left.

“You're new, and you're interesting, but if you want the truth, you stand out.”

“I'm just a regular guy. How do I stand out?”

“Take a look around the room. Is anyone else wearing slacks? Loafers? Button-down shirts—that are actually ironed—and aren't made of flannel?”

When she could see that he was starting to get defensive, she pressed on.

“You need to dress to fit in. Jeans, sneakers, a ratty old T-shirt.” She leaned back in her chair to show off her own standard-issue Scallop Shores evening wear. She picked at the gaping hole exposing her entire left knee. Time to think about turning this old pair of jeans into a new pair of cut-offs.

“The only T-shirts I own are for running. I wouldn't wear them in public.” He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly mortified to even think it. “And jeans. I've never ... Hell, I wouldn't even know where to buy jeans.”

A fit of coughing wracked her as her second malt beverage went down the wrong pipe. She took a moment to catch her breath, wiped the moisture from her eyes, and gave him a frank look.

“You have never owned a pair of jeans? No denim? In your life? Nothing? And you can't see how you stand out in this town?”

“Until I came here, I would never have found it that unusual.”

Settling into her creaky wooden chair, Cady lifted her chin. There was a story here.

“What kind of background do you have, exactly?”

“Hey, I'm just passing through here. You don't need to know my life story.” Burke stuffed a hand into the bowl of pretzels on the table and came out with a pawful.

“I'm not trying to pry. It's okay if you're too scared to talk about yourself.” She let the challenge hang.

He muttered under his breath, his eyebrows lowered so far she almost couldn't see the brilliant emerald of his eyes. They faced each other, neither speaking. She goaded him with her smile. The hard set of his jaw revealed that he had no intention of caving easily.

She reached out and patted his hand. Clearly he wasn't ready to trust her.

“Hey, don't worry about it. When you're ready to start interviewing people, they're going to be so proud to be in the spotlight that you'll have them eating out of your hand.”

When their plates arrived, Cady groaned aloud at the scent of fried seafood. Burke eyed the greasy baskets warily. He picked up his fork and poked at a plump scallop like it was going to spring up and bite his nose. She plucked a fried clam from the pile, dug a trench in her tiny container of tartar sauce, and popped it in her mouth.

“The salt is right there, but I'd go with the tartar sauce. Total yum.” She licked her greasy fingers.