Summer on Mirror Lake

by JoAnn Ross

  “That’s Brianna’s nature.”

  “I know. I suspect it’s why she ended up owning that B and B. She can make everyone’s visits here better. She’d already left town when my mother died.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He didn’t come back for Mom’s funeral. He said it would just be too hard for him. He does keep in touch. Not regularly, but a few times a year. He remarried, has twin sons and calls me every year on my birthday.” She looked out over the water and appeared to be miles away.

  “In fact, he called today, as I was leaving the library, to wish me a happy birthday.”

  “Oh. Well, hey, happy birthday. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have bought a cake.” Okay, that wasn’t very funny, either. But at least he was trying, right?

  “The thing is...” She took another, longer, drink. “My birthday was last month.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, not having any answer for that. How could he? Her life experience was the polar opposite of what his had been. He’d been fortunate to have grown up in a warm and loving family. One whose parents still held hands when they watched a movie, or walked through the rows of fir and pine trees on long summer evenings, when he suspected they often were remembering that day his father had proposed to her on that very same farm.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry for being such a downer. It was just a bad day, and I wanted to be with someone, but everyone else I knew was busy, so—”

  “You worked your way down the list to me.”

  “You could put it that way. But I honestly did want to try again to convince you to let the reading adventurers see your faering. I didn’t plan on rowing across the lake.”

  “Whatever your reason, I’m glad you did.” And, despite his determination to keep his distance, that was the absolute truth.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHELSEA WAS RELIEVED WHEN, as if by unspoken agreement, after the call to Bert had been made, including offering a payment probably more than the man made in a month, the conversation shifted to more typical dinner talk—the Mariners’ chances of getting to the World Series, the upcoming Fourth of July celebration, her reading adventurers group, which she was always eager to talk about, the changes in Honeymoon Harbor since he’d been away, and the upcoming double wedding of his sister to Seth Harper, and his brother Aiden to Jolene.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said your mother taught you to cook,” she said. The salmon was dark pink, flaky and delicious. Grilling it on a cedar plank, which she’d only ever had in a restaurant, had added a smokiness and enhanced the herbs he’d put on it. He’d also taken advantage of the outdoor kitchen to make rosemary roasted potatoes, grill the asparagus his mother had included in the basket, then toss it with a light vinaigrette.

  “I haven’t for a long time.”

  “I’ve watched New York City real estate shows and most of the kitchens I’ve seen would probably fit in this place’s pantry, and you’re unlikely to be able to grill outdoors.”

  “My apartment has a balcony, but city fire codes don’t allow cooking on it, which is actually reassuring since I wouldn’t want anyone burning the building down. But the real reason I haven’t cooked is that I work long hours, and it’s not worth the trouble shopping and cooking for one person.”

  Did that mean he didn’t have a girlfriend waiting for him in Manhattan? Or perhaps he did, and if they ate in, they’d have dinner at her place. “With all the amazing restaurants, I imagine going out is more practical.”

  “Mostly I stick with takeout.”

  “Me, too,” she said. “I will admit a weakness when it comes to your brother’s wings.”

  “He started making those back when we were kids.”

  “Then I guess it’s not such a surprise he left the law to open a brew pub.”

  “It was at first, because of all of us, he’d always known what he wanted to do when he grew up. And then, once he’d achieved it, he tossed it all away to brew beer and cook for a living.”

  “But he only cooked for the first few months, when he was getting started. Then Jarle came to town and they formed a perfect partnership.”

  “Seems so. Tell you what though, I sure as hell never would’ve bet Aiden would end up police chief.”

  “You’re not alone. Word around town was that your dad put some pressure on him when he came back to Honeymoon Harbor.”

  “So he said. Dad’s sneaky that way. You can see my mom’s motives coming a mile away. You remind me a lot of her.”

  “Oh?” It couldn’t be a good thing that he was comparing her to his mother, could it? Then again, all the dating advice columns advised that a man who was good to his mother would be good to you. The problem, a pesky little voice popped up in her mind, was that she didn’t exactly want him to be good.

  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”

  Had any comment starting out that way ever turned out well? “Okay.”

  “She’s known in our family as the velvet bulldozer. You might as well cave or she’ll roll right over you.”

  Oh, no. That wasn’t at all good. “You’re comparing me to a bulldozer?”

  “Only in a good way,” he assured her. “Answer me this... Has anyone else in town turned you down when you asked them to participate in the reading adventurers’ activities?”

  “Well, no. But that’s because Honeymoon Harbor’s citizens have always been strong supporters of the library.”

  “I get that. But they agreed for the same reason I did.”

  “And that was?”

  “You’re impossible to turn down.”

  “Yet you tried,” she reminded him.

  “I did, indeed,” he agreed. “But resistance was futile.” She laughed at that, even as he continued his explanation. “On the other hand, Dad has mad ninja skills. He appears out of nowhere, and takes you down. Which is what Aiden said he did to him.”

  “It must have been horrible for Aiden, losing his partner and nearly getting killed in that shootout in LA.” Of course, she only knew what she’d read in the Honeymoon Harbor Herald and on the town’s Facebook page.

  “From what I’ve been told, it wasn’t a picnic. But hey, it brought him back here, where he not only got a job he likes, but a woman he loves.”

  “And once again, the town lives up to its name,” she said.

  “So it seems.”

  As the gloaming sent a soft rosy lavender drifting across the blue sky and gilding the clouds, Chelsea realized how right her impulsive decision had been to come here. Getting to see inside the house was a treat—the scenery and complete peacefulness of the setting had taken away the sting in her heart from her father’s call; the dinner had been as good as anything she’d had in a three-star restaurant in Seattle, and—here was the biggest surprise—just sitting here on this deck with Gabriel Mannion was the nicest evening she’d had in a very long time. Maybe, she considered, ever.

  The temperature was dropping. She knew he’d seen her shiver when he suggested going inside.

  “Let me help,” she said after they’d taken the dishes into the kitchen.

  “Megan Larson’s Clean Team comes tomorrow morning,” he said. “They’ll take care of it.”

  “It must be nice to have your own private elves,” she said dryly. Wealth did, indeed, have its privileges.

  “As you undoubtedly noticed, this is one big ass house. Megan is an entrepreneur. If I did my own cleaning, she’d have one less client, and I wouldn’t get the faering done before I had to leave.”

  “She’s expanding to Port Townsend and Sequim, so I guess I can see your point.” For not the first time, Chelsea wondered what it would be like to have so much money you never, ever had to worry about it. She could tell he hadn’t stopped to think of what to pay Bert. He’d just pulled a number out of the air. Or, perhaps it
was the going rate in New York City for odd jobs. She also wondered what all he could possibly buy with it. With the work hours he’d described, it didn’t sound as if he spent a lot of time jetting around the world. “You could probably buy the entire town.”

  “As it happens, I’m not in the market for a town. And this one has been chugging along just fine on its own for nearly three centuries. I’ll tell you what. Since you’ve turned down spending the night with me—”

  “At this house,” she corrected. He had, after all, mentioned a separate wing, which would preclude them sleeping together.

  “At this house,” he agreed. His tone was so even, she couldn’t tell if he was at all disappointed as a very strong part of her was.

  “I suppose I’d better be taking you home.”

  If her defenses hadn’t already been down, she never would have ended up here in the first place. So, if anything was happening between them, and she wasn’t certain of that since she definitely wasn’t sure of her own feelings, let alone his, calling it a night would probably be the most sensible idea. The problem was, she hadn’t been feeling all that sensible since she’d climbed into that rowboat to cross the lake.

  “It is getting late,” she said. Though she doubted she’d get any sleep. “So, that’s probably best.”

  He shrugged a wide shoulder. “Your call.”

  It was her call, Chelsea reminded herself as they reached the door. She paused, and as they stood there, less than a foot apart, her looking up at him, Gabe looking down at her, she could read the naked hunger in his eyes. Okay. So, something was happening, and she wasn’t the only one feeling it.

  “I think I’m getting nervous again.”

  “Join the club.”

  “This wouldn’t be a good idea. “You and me...being together that way.”

  “You’re not going to get any argument from me. But you want to tell me why it feels so damn right?”

  “It’s the night. It’s been beautiful. And the food was perfect, and there was wine, and me sharing a story I never tell created an intimacy that might color what seems to be happening.”

  “That doesn’t sound so optimistic.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s being careful... A friend of mine, you wouldn’t know her, told me earlier this evening, before I’d even thought to come here, that I should have a summer fling.”

  “So you were already thinking about it?”

  “Yes. But only as a hypothetical.”

  “You’re not the only one. But my thinking wasn’t so hypothetical. But here’s the deal, Chelsea. That’s all I can offer. The summer. And everything tells me that you’re not the type of woman to have a summer fling.”

  “I never have.” Nor a spring, fall or winter fling, but he didn’t have to know that. “Though there’s something to be said for new experiences.”

  He shook his head as he ran the back of his hand down her face, his knuckles grazing her skin. “You’re not making this easy.”

  “Perhaps things worth having—”

  “Aren’t supposed to be easy,” he repeated what she’d said earlier. “Like you said, I’d better take you home now.”

  “I think so.” It wasn’t her first choice. Nor his, from both his words and tone. But it was, Chelsea reminded herself again, the wise, sensible thing to do.

  As much as she was tempted, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to be his summer girl, the one he slept with before going back to his women in Manhattan. Sleek, polished, sophisticated women in designer suits who lived in the fast lane. Women like him.

  She was, she considered, a novelty. Although he’d grown up here, the same as she had, unlike Quinn or Brianna, who’d slid right back into small-town life, it was more than a little apparent that he’d left Honeymoon Harbor far behind. Whatever had brought him home for the summer—and wasn’t she now dying to know the reason?—he’d made it clear that once his sister was married and his faering done, once the Labor Day wooden boat festival and the last of the fireworks signaling the official end of summer had faded away, Gabriel Mannion would be on his way. Back to his real life. The one he’d chosen. The one that she’d never fit into. Not that she’d want to.

  But, heaven help her, she wanted him.

  He’d just taken hold of the door handle, when she reached out and covered his hand with hers. “You know how you said, earlier, that if you’d known it was my birthday, you would’ve bought a cake?”

  “Sure.”

  “I just realized what I’d rather have for my belated birthday.”

  “What?”

  She lifted her arms, and combed her fingers through his hair. “You.”

  A dangerous flame flared in the smoky depths of his eyes as he slowly trailed his thumb along her bottom lip. Her breath caught as she waited. As impossible as it was, it felt as if the earth had stopped turning on its axis.

  Slowly, deliberately, giving her time to back away, he reached up and took off her glasses, placing them on the marble-topped foyer table. Then, just when Chelsea feared she’d pass out from a lack of oxygen, he spun her around, with a fast, practiced move that told her this was not the first time, backed her up against the door and took her mouth.

  His body was hard and hot. His mouth clever and hungry as he took the kiss deeper, his hands beneath her blouse, scattering sparks everywhere he touched. He filled his hands with her breasts, that same thumb that had her parting her lips, teasing her nipples to hard points. Then they went lower, skimming over her rib cage. When he unzipped her capris and eased them down her hips, Chelsea learned something she’d never known about her own body—that her stomach could actually be an erogenous zone. All it took was a light touch of a fingernail tracing an excruciatingly slow trail down her abdomen and pressing his thumbs on that tangle of nerves below that set off an explosion of tiny fireworks. That place where she wanted him. Before she could change her mind because if they stopped now, she could possibly die.

  She’d heard of people dying during sex. But as his fingers continued their sensual journey she wondered if a woman could actually die from becoming too aroused without release. Someone should do a study, she thought as his tongue tangled with hers and the wickedly clever hands stroked slick flesh.

  “Kick off your shoes.” His voice was low and rough.

  It was more order than request, but one, that at this extraordinary moment in time, she was all too willing to follow. She toed them off, then, after he’d shoved the capris the rest of the way down her legs, she managed to step out of them without falling down only because of his hold on her.

  Their bodies were pressed so closely together she could feel him reach between them to unbutton his jeans, which was followed by the hiss of zipper.

  Somehow, without her noticing through the fog of arousal clouding her mind, he’d gotten hold of a condom that he put on with a quick, practiced move.

  There was no seduction. No soft murmuring in her ear. No tenderness. It was rough and raw, and exactly what she needed. Because if he’d carried her off to bed for candlelight and soft, slow romance, she might change her mind. She might realize how insane this was. She was a librarian. Maybe not one of those sexless, dried-up old maids that seemed to be the flipside stereotype to the naughty librarian, but still...

  Ms. Prescott did not have hard, hot, up-against-a-door sex with men she barely knew. Ever.

  But she was having it. And it was amazing.

  Her breasts were pressed against the hard wall of his chest, their bodies so close together she couldn’t tell whether it was his heart hammering she felt, or her own. With just his hands and mouth, with no movement on her part except to hang on for dear life, he brought her to the brink. Every nerve ending in her body was electrified. Waiting.

  Finally, when he pressed down on that sensitized nub, Chelsea cried out in a voice that she didn’t even know had been hiding inside her.
One she’d never heard before.

  She was trembling. Everywhere. Her bones were turning to water and once again, he knew exactly what to do, bracing her up with one wide hand while using the other to guide himself into her. This time her cry was half moan, half strangled laugh. How could she possibly laugh at a time like this?

  But there was no time to figure that out because his hips began jackhammering against hers. He took her. Filled her. Claimed her. And after a few long strokes, the earth that had only moments before seemed to have slowed on its axis, suddenly and violently tilted, throwing her into a dark, swirling void.

  It could have been minutes. An hour. Years. But when she was once again capable of thought, she was sprawled on her back, naked from the waist down.

  “I think I may be blind,” she managed to say.

  Life was filled with trade-offs. Chelsea suddenly heard her father’s voice back when she was seven and he’d still lived at home, pointing out that the reason she was on her knees on hard tile, throwing up into the toilet, was that she’d ignored his warning not to eat all the county fair junk food. There was a good chance that had she known ahead of time that such rough, raw sex with Gabriel might cause something to explode in her head, costing her her sight, she might just have accepted that trade-off.

  “Try this.” He lifted her melted arm away from where it had been flung over her eyes and laid it down next to her with a gentleness far different from their fast and furious lovemaking—not lovemaking, sex—they’d just experienced.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She blinked and found herself looking directly into his eyes. Which had turned unnervingly unreadable. “I owe you another apology,” he said.

  “You already cooked me dinner.” And gave me not one, but two orgasms within seconds, something that had never, ever happened before.

  “I knew we were going here as soon as I saw you rowing that boat across the lake,” he said, trailing a hand down her side. At any other time, with any other man, she might have felt embarrassed to be lying half-naked, while the man who’d just rocked her world was braced on one elbow, looking down at her. Touching her. But this was not any other time. And Gabriel Mannion was not any other man. “But that’s definitely not the way I’d imagined it going down.”