Summer on Mirror Lake

by JoAnn Ross

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “It was great. Everyone was very open and sharing and I came home with some helpful information that will help with the girls. As to that other topic we were discussing, I have a list.”

  “A list?”

  She took her planner from her bag and opened it to the relevant page. One ebony brow lifted as he read his way down the list. “Excellent.” His eyes, dark with intent, moved down to her lips. “Your room. Tonight. Ten thirty.”

  “You’ve got yourself a date.” As her body warmed beneath his smoldering gaze, Chelsea decided that there was, indeed, a lot to be said for anticipation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  WHAT WAS SHE supposed to do? Take off her clothes and get into bed? Or wait and let him undress her? And why, oh why, didn’t she own anything better than a pair of pale pink Jockey French Cut panties and a smooth pink T-shirt bra? Although the white on pink polka dots looked cute in The Dancing Deer, now she wondered if she didn’t look as if she were wearing something childish. More suitable for a training bra for Hannah. Which, she made a mental note, they were going to have to go shopping for if the fostering lasted a few more months.

  She was standing beside the bed, mind whirling, when Gabriel opened the door, took the time to lock it, then crossed the small room and stood in front of her. “You’re on time,” she said, trying for humor that fell flat.

  “That’s because I’ve been pacing the deck for the last ten minutes. I figured timing was important for appointment sex.” He kept his voice low, both of them all too aware of the hopefully sleeping children across the hall.

  “Planning feels a little more awkward than door sex,” she whispered.

  “Only if we let it.” He framed her face in his hands, then lowered his head. The kiss was as soft as thistledown against her mouth. It was only a kiss, she told herself as his tongue traced a damp, beguiling pattern across her lips. The feathery brushing of lips, the slow stroke of his tongue, the gentle nip of his teeth on her bottom lip was more temptation than a proper kiss. More promise than pressure. But that didn’t stop it from weakening her knees.

  He unbuttoned the white blouse that she’d worn that day to the boat shop. She’d always felt the crisp tuxedo style made her look, perhaps not sophisticated, but polished. And definitely confident, which was why she’d worn it to the shop, and again tonight when she’d been admittedly nervous about meeting the other moms.

  But as he slowly opened it, one button at a time, Chelsea didn’t feel starched and crisp. As her skin warmed beneath his touch, she felt sexy. And desirable. Any man who radiated such sexuality—a potent power she’d experienced herself, downstairs in this very same house—would’ve had plenty of opportunity to perfect his technique. What was coming as a revelation was that such a meltingly soft touch could create such scintillating heat.

  His mouth tempted. Enticed. Seduced. As rich liquefying pressure flowed through her, Chelsea let out the breath she’d been holding on a soft, shimmering sigh and twined her fingers together behind his neck. God, she loved his mouth. Loved. It.

  Finally! He slid the blouse off her shoulders, where it fell to the floor. “Nice,” he murmured as his fingers grazed the sides of her breasts, dipped in at her waist, and lower, over her hips. If he’d been fantasizing about silk and lace, he didn’t appear the least bit disappointed. “I’ve been imagining this,” he murmured as his lips skimmed up the side of her face before returning to her mouth. “Dreaming of it.”

  “Me, too.”

  She felt his smile curve against her lips. “I’m glad to know that I wasn’t the only one suffering.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and drew her into the cradle of his thighs. “But this is even better than my dreams.”

  Chelsea sighed her pleasure. “Mine, too.” He continued to kiss her lovingly, lingeringly, until her entire world became focused on his mouth. She’d never known it was possible to feel so much from just kissing. She’d never realized a kiss could make you fly.

  She had no idea how long the delicious time had gone on when he took her hands from around his neck and placed them against the front of his shirt. “I think we’re wearing too many clothes.”

  “It’s your turn to take something off.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He pulled the T-shirt over his head and threw it across the room where it landed on an ivory velvet-covered slipper chair.

  He was so beautiful. Entranced, she ran her hands down his chest, over his tight abs, and lower, following a crisp black happy trail down to the button on his jeans.

  Slowly, as if they had all the time in the world, they took turns. And when every bit of clothing had been discarded, he lifted that sexy brow, and said, “Didn’t that list mention blanket fort sex?”

  She nodded. “It did.”

  “Good. Because I’m beyond ready to capture the fort.”

  He yanked back the quilt, the blanket and the sheet, had her tumbling onto the bed with him, then, as they lay there, legs tangled, flesh to flesh, he pulled the blanket over his head, and captured her quick laugh with his mouth. “We have to be very quiet,” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered back, surprised how it felt as if they were in their own private cocoon.

  It was the last thing either of them said for a very long time.

  * * *

  “WELL, THAT WAS more fun than I expected,” she said, snuggling up against him. Although he was accustomed to getting right up and out, Gabe found himself in no hurry to move.

  “Next time I’m going to bring a flag,” he decided.

  She pressed a kiss against his chest over his heart that was settling down to a normal rhythm. “Oh, I think you planted yours just fine.”

  “Why, Ms. Prescott, did you just use a dirty euphemism?”

  “I thought I’d try out being a naughty librarian on for size.”

  “You proved very naughty.”

  “If you’re going to do something,” she suggested, her fingers playing idly—or teasingly, he wasn’t certain which—in his chest hair, “I believe it should be done correctly.”

  “Mrs. Henderson taught you well.”

  “I know.” They lay there together, listening to the now familiar owl hidden somewhere in the trees. Finally, after a long silence, she sighed. “As much as I’m starting to love this place, which is a big surprise to me, I’m really going to have to step up my search for an apartment. One that’ll take the kids.”

  While Gabe wasn’t exactly an expert on postcoital conversation, considering he hadn’t been with that many women who’d either expected or seemed to want it, this was definitely not the norm. “Still thinking of this being long-term?”

  “You heard Mrs. Douglas. She said she hoped to find someone to take them by Labor Day. What are they supposed to do in the meantime? Live in a tent up at the park? I have a friend who used to be a child court advocate who told me that foster kids in Washington State’s system have over five-point-six moves in the first year. I looked up the statistics and on any given day there are between nine and ten thousand foster children needing homes and, as we’ve already found out ourselves, a serious dearth of beds, which is increasing every year. I’m thinking that perhaps I could take the training and be a permanent foster mother, actually a guardian, so they could stay with me until they age out at eighteen.”

  He frowned, taking time to parse his words carefully. “How could you do that and work?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the way millions of working moms manage every day? And by the way,” she flared, “the 1950s just called and want their ‘women should remain barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen’ slogan back.”

  Obviously, from her uncharacteristic reaction, his attempt at parsing had failed.

  She closed her eyes for a long, silent moment. Having been working on finding his own Zen, Gabe could re
cognize the struggle within her. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the more time we spend together, the more worried I become about them.”

  “Of course you are. And there’s no need for you to apologize. I feel the same way. It was a stupid, knee-jerk, sexist thing to say and I should know better. My mom managed to raise all of us while working at the school.”

  “Your parents could have juggled,” she allowed. “Your dad’s mayor position is voluntary and most of the town council meetings happen in the evenings, or are planned way ahead of time. I’d admittedly be at a bit of a disadvantage being single, but until summer vacation, and the S’mores incident, they’d already stayed at the library after school. And I do have two days off a week.”

  “There are probably day care places in town.” Thinking about it, he realized everyone he knew with kids either had au pairs or nannies. Sometimes one for each child. “Or you could go old-school and hire a sitter.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Maybe Mrs. Lawler. She was certainly good with Hailey. And didn’t hesitate to take care of them when she saw that smoke.”

  “True. She might not be able to be a full-time foster mother, but she’s not so old she couldn’t watch them a few hours a few days a week,” Chelsea mused.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to ask. All she can do is say no. Perhaps she knows someone who’d be perfect for the job.”

  “I’ll do it,” Chelsea decided. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “Good plan. Meanwhile, you know what your moms’ group said about quickies?” They’d already done the whispers and blanket fort thing. Which had turned out to be surprisingly hot. And had him looking forward to the surreptitious closet sex.

  “It would be hard to forget since I only wrote it down a few hours ago.”

  “How would you feel about crossing that item off that list?”

  She laughed softly as she rolled over on top of him. “Well, imagine this,” she said as she felt his renewed erection. “You already have a head start.”

  From the way she’d begun to move her hips, there’d be no problem ticking off the quickie.

  “Perhaps you could catch up,” he suggested as she slid down his body.

  She looked up at him, her eyes on his as she curled her fingers around his length. “I can do that,” she said.

  Then lowered her head.

  * * *

  “SINCE TODAY’S NOT an adventurers’ day, can I go to the boat shop instead of the library?” Hannah asked over breakfast the next morning. “I’d like to see how far it’s come along.”

  Chelsea looked up from her omelet. Gabriel had been working his way through his sister’s menus and it occurred to her that if he ever gave up Wall Street, he could probably get a job as a personal breakfast chef.

  “The shop?” She glanced over at Gabe, who shrugged.

  “It’s okay with me,” he said. “I’m putting fiberglass on the hull today and could always use an extra hand.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “You’d let me work on the faering?”

  “Would you like to work on it?” he asked easily as he refilled Chelsea’s coffee cup.

  She appeared as surprised as Chelsea was. This was quite a turnaround from the man who’d made her swear no adventurer would touch his boat. “I guess. Sure. But I don’t know anything about boat building.”

  “That’s why the school is there. To teach people. I wasn’t born knowing how to build boats. I spent summers as a kid hanging around the shop learning from the guys who’d learned the ropes from guys before them. It’s one of those crafts that’s passed down over generations. When the town was first founded, there was a big business in wooden boat building and repair, but that dwindled off after World War II. Then, about the time my dad was in middle school, one of the Harpers decided to bring the place back to life. And it’s grown since then.”

  “How did I not know that?” Chelsea asked.

  He grinned. “If we ever play Jeopardy!, it sounds as if I might actually beat you at the boat category.”

  “I suspect watching me row across the lake to this house gave you your first clue.”

  “You rowed across the lake? All the way?” Hannah asked.

  “I did. And, FYI, rowing is not nearly as easy as it looks. I think, if Gabriel is up for it, going to the shop with him sounds like a very cool day.”

  “Then it’s settled.” He skimmed a glance over Hannah, who’d dressed in her go-to-the-library clothes. “You’ll want to change into some old clothes,” he said. “This stage can be messy.”

  “I’ll be right back!” She jumped up from the table, put her plate in the dishwasher and ran out of the kitchen. A minute later they could hear her running up the stairs.

  “Thank you,” Chelsea said, as Hailey went chasing after her big sister. “That’s very generous.”

  “She’s seemed interested, but I remembered what you said about attachment—”

  “I think that ship sailed a long time ago. But you’ve made it clear that you’re only here for the summer, so her being happy probably outweighs the risk.”

  Chelsea paused, wondering if she should share what she’d been thinking. “And it’s not as if you’re going to another planet. Or even another country. Maybe this year you might be able to get away to spend the holidays with your family. And, if I get appointed a guardian, maybe you could visit them. As a friend. Or maybe more like a favorite uncle.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I know my parents and grandparents would be happy, and I could probably get away given that Christmas is on Wednesday this year, so the markets will close early on Tuesday, then remain closed on the twenty-fifth. I could come home on Tuesday, take the red-eye back Christmas night and be at work on Thursday.”

  “Do you always know the dates of the holidays?”

  “Sure. The market may not be that easy to predict, but it does have some trends. The days between Christmas and January 8 are typically the most positive market days of the year, due to the so-called Santa Claus rally, so although the gain isn’t that much, it’s still a good trading time.”

  “May I ask you a question without you thinking I’m being judgmental?”

  “Sure.”

  “When was the last time you went to the Christmas tree lighting at Rockefeller Center?” It was something Chelsea had always wanted to experience. While Honeymoon Harbor had two very wonderful lightings, one in the park, the other at the harbor, to her New York was the quintessential holiday city. Or, perhaps she’d seen Miracle on 34th Street and When Harry Met Sally too many times.

  He sighed. “I’m going to disappoint you.”

  “I don’t have any expectations one way or the other.” That was the deal. No strings, no expectations, on either of their parts. “I was just curious.”

  “I haven’t seen it lit.” He held up a hand. “And before you ask, no, I haven’t gone ice skating there, either. But I have driven past it many times. Why?”

  On the way home from his office, she suspected. During those few hours he’d sleep before starting all over again. Chelsea loved her library. She thought about it every day. But she’d still achieved a good work-life balance. Which would be expanding even more over the upcoming years with the girls. Although Gabriel had certainly proven to be a far nicer man than Scrooge, his entire life, by contrast, appeared to revolve around making money.

  “It’s no big deal.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “I just always thought it would be wonderful to see in real life.”

  “Maybe someday you could come to New York,” he suggested, appearing to have forgotten their summer-only fling rules.

  “Maybe,” she said, even as she knew that the chances of that happening were about the same as a white Christmas here in Honeymoon Harbor, which had occurred all of eight times in the past one hundred twenty-one years. And since they�
�d been gifted with one last year, Chelsea wasn’t going to hold her breath.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  IF ANYONE WOULD have told Gabe two months ago that he’d be building a Viking faering with a twelve-year-old apprentice, he would have asked what they’d been smoking. He’d also have guessed he’d be doing that in one of the lower rungs of hell.

  But to his surprise, as much as he’d been enjoying getting back into the groove of boat building, Hannah’s open enthusiasm made a good day in the shop even better.

  “I don’t understand,” she said as she helped him smooth out the fiberglass cloth he’d draped over the overturned hull. “Why would you put fiberglass on a wooden boat?”

  “Because while this might look like white burlap, it’s made of very fine strands of glass woven into the cloth. After we bond it to the hull and deck with epoxy, we’ll have a tough skin that’ll help minimize dings from rocks that aren’t visible, or from dragging it up onto a rocky beach. It’ll also make it more watertight.”

  “But then it won’t look like a wooden boat.”

  “Sure it will. We’re using a low-viscosity epoxy, which will make it invisible beneath either paint or varnish.”

  “Are you going to paint it?”

  “No, I’m going with a clear varnish. To show off the grain.” He smoothed the cloth outward from the middle, pleased with how easily it conformed to the shape of the hull.

  “What did the Vikings use?”

  “They’d seal the cracks between planks with moss and/or animal hair, then cover that with a mixture of oil and tar called boat soup.”

  “The moss wouldn’t be so bad. But I’m glad we’re not using animal hair.”

  “Me, too.” After mixing up the epoxy, he brushed it lightly onto the cloth, handed her a pair of gloves and a squeegee, then covered her hand with his. “Now we’re going to smooth it carefully, not too hard so we don’t get air bubbles. This first coat will turn the cloth from white to nearly perfectly clear, but the weave will still show.”