by Lea Nolan
Wren nodded. "Okay. I believe you."
Smith smiled. "Good. Now let's go play some games."
They walked to the opposite side of the park and played every game, even the ones that were rigged in the park's favor. Smith won at ring toss, skee ball, and milk bottle baseball and Wren beat him at whack-a-mole and target shooting. She was in danger of losing at balloon darts too, until Smith stepped close behind her and closed his hand over hers.
"You're not getting enough arc in your throw," he spoke softly, next to her ear. Her sweet apple scent made his mouth water. It took everything in his power not to dip his head and kiss her long, pretty neck, then run his tongue over her soft flesh until he nipped her earlobe.
As if she could read his mind, her body stilled. "Oh, really?" Her voice turned breathy.
"Let me show you." Pressing his chest against her back, he pulled her right hand back, then guided it forward in a flicking movement. The dart in her hand flew forward and sank into the center of the balloon, exploding with a pop.
"I did it!" she cried.
"Now do it again." Forcing himself to step aside from her luscious body, he handed her one of his own darts. She drew back, took aim, and let it soar. It struck its mark, killing a pink balloon.
"Yes." Wren threw a fist into the air.
"Prove it's not beginner's luck." He gave her his two remaining darts.
She took her stance and threw. The first dart nailed a small green balloon, and the last destroyed a blue one.
"We're even. Three games each," Smith said as they strolled from the booth, her winning tickets in hand.
"We need a tie breaker." She slipped her arm through his and dragged him to the putt-putt golf course in the back corner of the park.
When they got there, the woman in the booth took their money and gave them putters, but told them they had to wait until they had a party of four. A few seconds later, a teenage couple wearing sweatshirts from the island's high school walked up and paid for their game.
"Hope you don't mind sharing the course with us," Smith said as they walked toward the first hole which featured a mini castle complete with a drawbridge and moat.
"Us against you two?" the guy said with a snort. "This'll be easy,"
His girlfriend laughed. "Don't feel bad when we beat you. It's hard for old people to compete against teenagers."
What the hell? Thirty-four was a long way from being old.
Wren stepped close to Smith and dropped her voice. "You better know what you're doing. I don't want to lose to these punks."
Smith whispered, "Oh, it's on."
They battled through nine holes. Each time Smith and Wren took the lead, Zack and Sophie fought back, tying their score. These kids were either seriously into putt-putt, or he and Wren sucked.
At the tenth and last hole, a maze of ramps and tunnels led to a working windmill with a tiny door for the ball. Wren pulled Smith aside. "I don't care what we have to do, but we have to win this."
"Come on, old man, you're holding up the game." Zack snickered.
Smith clenched his teeth and forced a smile. "Be right there."
Wren gripped Smith's hands, entwining her fingers in his, and met his gaze. "Don't let him into your head."
He nodded. "We've got this."
Zack and Sophie went first. He sunk his ball in only three strokes, and she did it in two.
Damn. How often did these kids play mini-golf anyway? Didn't they have normal teenage stuff to do, like play video games and screw around in the back seat of a car?
Wren smacked her ball with the putter. It rolled over the first hill, sunk below the tunnel, then popped up and over the next hill, stopping just outside the windmill. Taking her time, she waited for the blade to spin past the hole, then tapped the ball in and pumped her fist like she'd sunk a birdie at the Masters.
Smith took his place and stared at the windmill at the end of the course. This was it. There was no room for error. He had to sink this in two strokes or less or they'd tie—or worse, lose—to these little jerks. Pride was on the line.
He gripped the putter and drew a deep inhale to center himself.
"Quit wasting time and hit the ball, grandpa," Zack yelled.
"Getting nervous you're about to lose?" Wren shot back.
"No, just bored," Sophie answered. "We'd like to ride the Drakon before this place closes."
Wren shrugged. "You can always forfeit. We'll take the win."
"You're hilarious. I'm not leaving until we beat your ass," Zack said.
Oh, that was it. These punks were going down. Smith swung the putter and smacked the ball much harder than he intended. The ball flew over the first hill, zoomed through the tunnel, then bounced over the next hill and headed straight for the windmill.
Shit. It was moving too fast, on course to slam into the spinning blade then boomerang back to the beginning of the hole.
Except it didn't. It rolled straight for the hole in the shingled windmill, and with perfect timing, snuck between the blades and slid through the open door.
Hell yeah. A hole in fucking one!
"Yes!" Wren screamed. Tossing her putter, she ran toward him with her arms outstretched. He snatched her up, lifting her off her feet, then swung her around. "Oh my God, you did it!" she cried, then clasped his face with her hands and planted a kiss on his lips.
It went from friendly to hot, sensuous, and passionate in less than a second.
Which was fine with him.
Following her lead, Smith stopped in place, tightened his grip on her beautiful body, and kissed her back. Their tongues collided, then darted past each other, exploring in a frenzy. Wren made a soft whimpering sound, then nipped at his bottom lip, and pulled it into her mouth with her bottom teeth.
Heat and want surged through him as his body responded to her passion. The front of his jeans strained. This woman was driving him crazy. He wanted to take her far from this place, bury himself in her, and whisper all the things he'd dreamt of saying but never had the chance.
But then she broke the kiss. "I don't know how that happened." Wren's eyes were filled with confusion and a tinge of panic.
Smith smiled. "I do."
"I do too, but I thought we weren't going to do that again." Her cheeks were an adorable shade of pink.
"But we did."
"But we shouldn't." Wren didn't sound convinced.
Smith tilted his head. "You sure about that? It seems to happen pretty easily. And you can't deny it isn't hot."
"It is hot. So hot." Wren sighed with longing, then paused for a moment, brushing her fingertips along his shoulder. "Yes, I'm sure. Friends is best. We should definitely stay friends."
Bending slightly, he set her on the ground. "As you wish."
Wren wasn't ready. But there was definitely an attraction between them, and a part of her that was willing to give in to it, if only for a few minutes. That was something to build on.
So he'd bide his time, being the best friend he could until—or if—she was ready for more.
Chapter 4
Wren ducked into the Heron Harbor library on Monday afternoon in search of something decent to read. Coming to the island with nothing more than a few Italian language CDs had been a mistake. After listening for a couple hours this morning, it'd gotten old fast. She needed a mental escape, like a good, racy romance about a sexy Highland Scot, or a dangerous duke in Regency England.
Not that she needed a real romance in her life. A fictional one would do just fine, thank you very much. Which is why, once again, she'd resisted Smith's knee wobbling kisses at Fun Town. It was no small feat, especially since his lips had the power to wipe her memory of why she was resisting in the first place.
"Can I help you find something, dear?" an older woman's voice yanked Wren from her thoughts as she crossed in front of the reference desk.
Wren turned, hoping to see a familiar face, but was disappointed. "No, thanks. I'm just browsing. Is romance still next to biographie
s?"
"Yes. We just got some new titles, too. Some really hot stuff," the white-haired librarian winked.
"Thanks." Wren chuckled as she headed to the section. The smell of old books and dusty shelves enveloped her, transporting her back to her childhood. After the beach house and her father's bird watching shelter in the sanctuary at the tip of the island, the library was Wren's next most favorite place to spend her time. By the time she'd turned twelve, she'd read every middle grade and teen book in the collection, and had started reading adult titles, guided in her selections by the supportive head librarian.
Wren selected a couple books. At the end of the aisle, she turned the corner and nearly bumped into a cart filled with returns and the woman pushing it.
"Wren? Is that you?" the woman asked.
She'd know that voice anywhere. "Mrs. Connors! I didn't know if you still worked here." She embraced her old friend, the head librarian, who also happened to be Smith's mother. The middle-aged red-head looked wonderful. Fit and perfectly coordinated as usual, she'd always been one of the most fashionable women on the island.
"Please, call me Madeline. And of course, I'm still here. What else would I do with myself?"
"I don't know, take up a hobby? Volunteer? You always said you wanted to open a boutique."
Madeline waved her hand. "Books are my hobby. And I spend so much time volunteering with our literacy program, I'd never have time to run a shop. It's better I stay on the payroll here. Come sit." She guided Wren to a nearby table. "How are you?"
Wren set the books down then knitted her fingers together and plastered on a smile. "Good."
Madeline's head tilted. "You sure about that? Sounds like there's more to the story."
Leave it to Ms. Connors—Madeline—to see through her. Over the years, the librarian became more than Wren's conduit to great books. She was a sort of surrogate mother, a shoulder to cry on when Wren's sisters said something mean, or her father didn't understand the needs of an adolescent girl.
But all that ended the summer Wren turned fifteen and the Donovans stopped coming to the island with regularity. Her father never explained why he didn't want to continue his research on the island's bird sanctuary, but the effect was the same. Wren didn't return until she was in college and could travel without her family, often bringing along a boyfriend or a group of friends for a girls' weekend.
Wren smiled, for real this time. "No, really. The firm is great. I should make partner soon."
"And how's your personal life?" Madeline asked, no doubt recognizing Wren's attempt to dodge the subject.
Wren paused, debating how much to share. Hell, there was no sense in lying. It wasn't her fault her engagement ended in a hot, ugly mess. "Uh, less than good. But that's all behind me. From now on, I'm not going to waste time on relationships when I can preserve my energy for things I can control, like my career."
Madeline nodded, her brow creased. "Hmm. How long will you be here?"
"Until Sunday."
"Does Smith know you're here? I'm sure he'd love to catch up."
Wren attempted to suppress a smile. "Yes. We already have.”
And then some.
They could catch up a whole lot more, too but Wren had sworn off any more kisses with Smith. For good. And she really meant it this time, even though he was, hands down, the best kisser she'd ever had the pleasure of locking lips with.
Perhaps not coincidentally, he was also the hottest man she'd ever kissed. Plus, he smelled so damn good. Like fresh sea air, piney deodorant, and strong, sexy male. A deadly combination.
But he was also her friend, and given her track record with other friends who'd swept her off her feet, then smashed her heart, it was best to keep him firmly in the friend zone.
Madeline reached across the table and gripped Wren's hand. "I don't mean to bring up a tender subject, but I never got to tell you how sorry I was about your father's passing. I hadn't seen him in years, but the news still came as quite a shock." Her eyes grew misty.
Wren's heart squeezed at the memory of her father and the pain of his loss. She lay her free palm over Madeline's hand. "Thank you. It happened so fast. When he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, we hoped he'd have a year, but he was gone four months later."
Madeline shook her head. "Such a shame. Francis was a good man. One of the best I ever knew. I miss him dearly." A tear escaped her eye. She pulled a tissue from her shirt sleeve and dotted it away.
It was sweet of her to say, considering she and Wren's dad were barely more than polite acquaintances. Still, Wren appreciated the sentiment. "Me too. It's hard to believe it's been two years. It seems like both yesterday, and a million years ago."
Madeline shifted her gaze toward the windows that overlooked Main Street. "Things could have been so different..." Her voice trailed off.
When Wren was a teenager, she wondered why Madeline and her father never got together. They were both widowed, had children around the same age, and seemed to get along when they bumped into each other on the village streets or at the beach. But for some reason, her father and Madeline never clicked on a romantic level. Or least, not that Wren and her sisters ever saw.
Given what Madeline just said, perhaps there was more to their story than Wren ever realized. As she was gearing up to ask, a familiar voice filled the library.
"Can you tell my mother I've got a delivery for her?" Smith was leaning on the reference desk, charming the septuagenarian reference librarian with his smile. A large shopping bag sat at his feet.
Madeline waved him over. "Smith," she hissed in a loud whisper. "Look who's here." She pointed at Wren.
His grin stretched across his face. He snatched up the bag and stalked across the library to their table. "Ms. Donovan, fancy meeting you here." He set the bag on the table in front of his mother.
"I needed some reading material," Wren answered.
His gaze dropped to the shirtless men on the covers of The Laird's Passion and Daring the Devilish Duke. "Nice abs."
Wren couldn't help smile. "Very." Though if what Raven said about Smith's six pack was true, those cover models had nothing on him.
A sudden urge struck to slip her fingers under his shirt and see for herself.
Which was so wrong.
Because friends didn't feel friends up.
Unless...one of them was hotter than lava and kissed liked the Roman god of passion.
She had to stop this before she drove herself crazy. She'd made her decision. Now she had to live with it.
Forcing the image of his rock-hard midsection from her mind, Wren cleared her throat. "What's in the bag?"
"Some things for the library's silent auction this weekend," he answered.
"We always hold it during the homecoming parade. Everyone's out on Main Street anyway so it's easy for them to stop in and bid. We're running low on items this year so I asked Smith to bring a few extras...in addition to his date." Madeline smirked.
"His date?" Wren asked.
Smith's cheeks flushed an adorable shade of pink. "It's dinner. Not a date date."
Madeline flicked her wrist. "Call it what you want, it raises us a whole lot of money."
Smith leaned toward Wren. "I usually end up having dinner with a lovely retiree. Last year it was a knitter. She made me a cardigan."
"I hope you didn't break her heart. Those ladies have big needles and they aren't afraid to use them." Wren laughed.
"Ha ha. Mom, are you going to help me out here?"
"No, you're a big boy. You can handle it." Madeline chuckled as she dug into the bag and pulled out several bottles of Harbor's Edge custom blended spices, a handful of gift certificates, and three identical spiral-bound booklets that looked like they'd been printed at the local copy center.
Wren reached for one of the books and gazed at the image that lay beneath the clear plastic cover. It showed Smith standing cross armed in front of his restaurant under the title, Recipes from Harbor's Edge.
Wre
n looked up at him through long, luscious lashes. "I didn't know you wrote a cookbook."
Smith's chest tightened as she flipped through the pages. Wren couldn't possibly know how much the paper in her hands meant to him or how hard he'd worked to put the pages together. It'd taken forever, or at least the last five years of his life. But that's what happened when writing and reading were about as difficult as sailing the ocean in a row boat. Not impossible, but a major headache.
"It's not official. Just something I've been playing around with."
Wren scanned a recipe for one of his signature dishes, a mixed greens salad topped with fresh-caught, chilled and marinated seafood, asparagus, grape tomatoes, and hearts of palm. "This looks amazing."
His heart pounded as she skimmed the description of where he was when he first thought up the dish and how it had evolved over time. It was one thing if a few locals from Heron Harbor read his so-called book. They wouldn't care about a stray typo or a wrong or missing word. But Wren was different. He didn't want her thinking he was an idiot.
He reached for the bound collection in her hand. "Mom convinced me to make some copies for the auction. Who knows how much it'll bring in."
Wren yanked the book from his grasp. "Are you kidding? They'll raise a fortune."
Smith forced a laugh. "I'm not so sure of that. It's a pdf with a report cover." The longer Wren held the book, the more he regretted bringing it to the library.
But not writing it. He'd never regret that. This book was a personal fucking best he never thought he'd complete.
Wren flipped forward to the main course section then through the desserts. "It is now. But Harbor's Edge is famous. I bet you could get a fat publishing deal. One of my clients is a literary agent. She could sell this in no time." She handed the spiral-bound book back to him. Finally.
"I'll think about it." Probably not. Documenting his recipes and memories was something he'd needed to do for himself. Smith never intended the project to go beyond his own kitchen.