by Nina Lindsey
Still muddled, Rory stepped aside. Grant strode into the apartment and set the boxes down. Hands on hips, he swept his gaze over the room with its mattress on the floor, strewn clothing, and crumpled bags of chips and fast-food.
“Where’s your stuff?” he asked.
Rory closed the door. “My stuff?”
“Your stuff.” He extended a hand to the mattress. “Furniture, books, pictures. Stuff.”
“This is my stuff.” She dragged her hands through her tangled hair. “Look, you don’t have to…”
He stalked into the kitchen and yanked open the cupboards to reveal a half-eaten jar of peanut butter and a bag of pork rinds. “Did you move everything to your mother’s? Or put it in storage?”
“No. This is all I have.” Impatience flicked through her. “I just have to pack up my computer.”
She jabbed her thumb at the shiny, huge computer that presided against the wall.
Grant frowned. “You’ve been living here for two years, and this is all you have?”
Rory grabbed a few crumpled panties from the floor and tossed them into her open suitcase. “Grant, I work at Sugar Joy and I work here. I don’t need plants and books and stuff.”
“But you criticize the fireplace booth and tell me my singing fish is ugly?” A thunderous look descended on his face.
Uh oh.
Rory scratched her head. “You have customers at the Mousehole. It’s a public place. I just live and work here alone.”
“You don’t even have sheets on your mattress.”
“One less thing to wash.”
“That’s incredibly gross.” His gaze slipped from the mattress to her.
“You’re not the one sleeping here, so what’s it to you?”
Belatedly, she realized she’d just brought up the image of Grant in her bed. Heat rose to her face. She bent to throw the other strewn articles of clothing into the suitcase. A waft of air suddenly made her remember she was wearing her usual sleepwear of an overlarge T-shirt with nothing underneath.
Jerking upright, she pulled her shirt farther down her thighs. “Look, I can do this alone.”
“I know you can, but you don’t have to.” He picked up a box. “It’ll be faster if we do it together, and my truck is already downstairs.”
Internally, Rory conceded that the faster she was out of here, the better.
Grant peered at the computer. “Do we have to take this apart?”
God in heaven.
“Don’t touch that,” she said firmly. “You can deal with my other stuff.”
She pulled the empty original boxes from her closet and set to work dismantling her computer, monitor, speakers, and laptop. In less than fifteen minutes, Grant had taken a box of her meager food items, her suitcase, and her mattress downstairs.
He stood in the open doorway, hands on his hips. The stupid sun spilled into the room again, burnishing his hair with a golden sheen. Rory’s stomach flipped. She didn’t often see him outside the Mousehole.
He was wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt the blue shade of a robin’s egg. The color was magnificent against his tanned skin and darker, hair-roughened forearms. She wondered if he knew it.
Since when did she notice things like that anyway?
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming so early?” She closed the box containing her monitor. “Don’t touch that.”
He backed away from the power cord. “Nine is not early.”
“It is when you were up until four working. Don’t touch that.” She wrapped up and boxed the cords and her laptop, setting them beside the door. “Don’t take any of this down without me. I need to get dressed.”
“Does your mother know you live like this?”
“Does your mother know you’re incredibly judgmental?”
“I’ll take that as a no.” He folded his arms, his mouth twisting.
“So will I.” With a huff, she grabbed jeans and a T-shirt from the floor and strode into the bathroom.
As she pulled her clothes on, she realized that she didn’t have many…okay, any dressy-type stuff at all.
“When do we have to leave for San Francisco?” Fastening her hair into a ponytail, she left the bathroom and picked up her monitor box.
“Tomorrow at noon.”
“I have to stop at Callie’s. I don’t have anything appropriate to wear to a wedding.”
“You don’t say,” he replied dryly, as he took another box and followed her downstairs.
“If your family is trying to set you up with women of good breeding and all that, I’m guessing it’s going to be a high-class wedding.”
He set the computer boxes in the truck bed and secured them with bungee cords. “It’s an expensive one, if that’s what you mean.”
“Are you in it?” She followed him back upstairs.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My brother knew I wouldn’t want to be.” He picked up the last boxes and surveyed the room. “Do you want to take the desk apart?”
“No, it came with the apartment. The desk chair is mine, though.”
“I’ll take it last.” He started back downstairs.
“I’ll meet you back at the Mousehole.”
Rory made a quick stop at her sister’s house. Neither Callie nor her husband Jake were at home, so she grabbed three dresses and matching shoes from the closet and put them in her car. Hopefully, Callie wouldn’t notice before she was able to return them.
She drove to the tavern and parked in the back next to Grant’s car and truck. He’d already transferred her meager belongings to the cottage, which was small and spare with weathered hardwood floors.
One room with an attached bath and a kitchenette, there was a queen-sized bed and nightstand, a couple of stools lined up under the counter, and just enough room for a narrow sofa in front of a stone fireplace.
“I thought you said this place wasn’t even habitable.” She ran her hand over the back of the sofa.
“You should’ve seen it two days ago.” He set her suitcase on a chair. “All the cobwebs are gone now.”
Rory blinked. “You mean you fixed it up for me?”
“I paid someone to fix it up for you. I’m many things, but a slumlord isn’t one of them. Keys to the tavern are on a hook by the door. Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen since there’s no fridge here.” He pointed his thumb toward the window, where the front porch of his house was in view a short distance away. “If you need anything, I’m right over there.”
He left, shutting the door behind him. Rory watched him cross to his house, his stride long and certain, as if he’d taken that dirt path countless times.
I’m right over there.
In the two years that Rory had been back in Bliss Cove, Grant Taylor had always been right over there.
She’d first met him less than a month after her father died. The relatives who’d come to stay with them in the immediate aftermath of the accident had all returned to their own lives by then, but shockwaves of grief would ricochet through their family for weeks to come. Eleanor was insistent about wanting to shut down Sugar Joy, but she’d had no response to her daughters’ questions about what she would do instead.
After a painful, emotional afternoon trying to help her mother clear out some of Gordon Prescott’s clothes and belongings, exactly two weeks after the funeral, Rory had taken a long evening walk and ended up at the Mousehole. She’d heard the tavern had been sold, but she’d never met the new owner. The moment she saw Grant behind the bar—something about the way he moved, like he was at home there—she knew who he was.
She’d hitched herself onto a barstool. She was exhausted to the marrow of her bones. Hollowed out. She still couldn’t believe her father had been here one minute and was gone the next. The fifth part of their lifelong quintet had left a jagged hole in their lives.
Grant placed a cocktail napkin in front of her. He pulled his eyebrows together, scrutinizing her intently before turni
ng to the ugly, mounted plastic fish she’d never seen before.
He pushed a button on the plaque. The fish turned its head and opened its gaping mouth. A nasally, high-pitched rendition of Elvis’s “Love Me Tender” rasped out.
Rory swallowed a bubble of laughter. “What the hell is that?”
“Singing fish. It usually makes people smile. Or at least, realize that they still can.”
“It’s pretty awful.”
He clutched his chest. “I can’t believe what I’m herring.”
This time she did laugh. Grant winked at her and walked away.
A few minutes later, he returned with a plate and a bowl, both of which he set in front of her. A golden-brown sandwich made with thick-cut bread sat on the plate beside a bowl of shimmering, crimson soup that smelled heavenly.
Rory stared at the food as if it didn’t make sense. “What’s this?”
“Tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.” He tossed a dishrag over his shoulder. “What’d you want to drink?”
“Uh, water, I guess.” She picked up a spoon. “Why…”
“Just thought you might need some good food. It’s more appealing than a singing fish, anyway.”
Rory ate every bite of the delicious food and felt a little better. She hadn’t gone back to the Mousehole for another couple of weeks, too caught up with trying to help at Sugar Joy and finish a remote contract job a former boss had given her.
Then she’d seen a news piece about the medical software system that had killed any hope for her own MedCure product, and her heart had shriveled into a hard little ball. She’d returned to the Mousehole and perused the menu for the grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.
“It’s not on the menu,” Grant told her when he came to take her order.
“But you gave it to me the last time I was here.”
“I had a pot of the soup back at the house, and I made you the sandwich.” He shrugged. “It used to be what I ate when I was feeling down. Still do, as a matter of fact. You looked like you could use it.”
She hadn’t wanted to ask him to make it again, so instead she’d thanked him and ordered the fried cheese curds.
“How about a salad with that?” he’d asked.
“How about a beer?”
Though he muttered a noise of disapproval, he went to the kitchen to place her order. As he passed the bar, a pretty brunette—Sally Gaines, who’d been in Aria’s graduating high-school class—stuck her leg out to block his path.
Her long, shapely leg enhanced by a blue jeweled sandal. Sally curled her hand around Grant’s arm and said something that could have been “Do you have any more ketchup?” but was probably closer to “I’m wearing a lacy thong. Want to see it?”
Grant detached himself from her and rounded the bar. He pressed the button on the singing fish. “Love Me Tender” rang out. Sally laughed gaily, like a little music box.
In that instant, Rory’s amusement over the fish turned into outright dislike.
Still, over the months, she continued to find comfort in the Mousehole—the cheerful conversation, the clinking of plates and silverware, the music coming from the old jukebox, the big stone fireplace. It was a reprieve from everything else in her life, even her mother and sisters.
She liked Grant’s constancy, too. He was always at the bar or taking and serving orders, bussing tables, seating guests. Even if he was cooking in the kitchen, he came out often to chat with customers or deliver a dish in person.
He knew everyone’s favorite drink, how they liked their steaks and burgers, what ingredients they wanted left out. And though he expressed his disdain for Rory’s love of fried foods, he always made sure her order was extra crispy and extra-large.
Now, even though Rory knew it was past time for her to leave Bliss Cove, she couldn’t banish the reluctance and fear tugging at her gut.
When she was living in the bustling, chaotic, traffic-fueled Bay Area again, immersed in work and gnawing on Twizzlers, with her family too far away for weekly dinners…Grant would no longer be right over there.
Chapter 4
Rory rubbed her sandpapery eyes. The numbers scrolling across her laptop screen were blurring into a sea of unintelligible data. Her stomach growled.
Stretching to pull the knots out of her neck and shoulders, she shut down the computer. Three-forty-three in the morning. Grant had said they should be on the road by noon, so she could catch a few hours of sleep before then.
First, food.
She picked up her phone and grabbed the tavern keys off the hook by the door. Since the cottage only had a hot plate, Grant had told her to store her food in the Mousehole kitchen and to help herself to whatever was in the restaurant fridge.
After pulling on her sneakers, she hurried outside and over the flagstone pathway. The moon glimmered through a layer of clouds. Cold night air brushed over her bare legs and cut through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. She unlocked the kitchen door and flipped on the lights.
Though small, the kitchen had an impressive array of state-of-the-art appliances, gleaming stainless steel counters, and an industrial gas stove, grill, and deep fryer. Everything was spotless and well-organized—knives, pots and pans, utensils, spices, mixing bowls. A desk with a landline phone and calendar sat along one wall.
Rory peeked into the walk-in fridge, which was beautifully stocked with fresh produce, cheese, meats, seafood, and a ton of other delicacies that somehow went into all the tavern dishes—Kalamata olives, hummus, capers, heavy cream, roasted peppers. Too bad she had no idea how to fry one of the onion blossoms.
She helped herself to a carton of sour cream and found the paper sack of food she’d brought from her apartment. Pulling out a crumpled bag of fried pork rinds, she sat on a stool at the counter to eat and check her phone messages.
The door leading to the front of the restaurant opened. Rory looked up, her heart jumping. Grant strode into the kitchen, wearing black pajama pants and a T-shirt, his hair finger-combed and messy.
“Do you ever go to bed at a normal hour?” he asked.
“Do you ever shave?”
He rubbed his stubbly jaw. “After I shower, yes.”
“Me too. Except I shave in the shower.” She dug into the bag for another pork rind.
Grant frowned, as if he were trying to figure out how they’d gotten from her bedtime to her shaving in the shower.
“Have you slept at all?” He skimmed his gaze over her gray Byte Me T-shirt and bare legs.
“Considering you’re still up too, that’s a hypocritical question.” She dipped a pork rind in the sour cream and shoved it into her mouth.
“My manager closed last night, so I left early and got to bed at ten.” He tossed a stack of papers and a pen onto the desk. “I woke an hour ago and couldn’t get back to sleep. Came here to get some work done.”
“Is that expenses and payroll?” She eyed the papers disparagingly. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you there are a million computer programs that would make that a lot easier.”
“My system works for me. What the hell are you eating?”
“Midnight snack.” She dragged another rind through the sour cream. “Want some? Oh, shit, sorry. I should have used a bowl.”
He shook his head. “When was the last time you ate something that required a bowl? Or a fork?”
“I don’t like bothering with dishes.” She held up a pork rind. “Hence, my appreciation for finger foods.”
“Did you eat dinner?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How are you still alive?”
“Preservatives.”
Muttering under his breath, Grant strode to the walk-in. He emerged with a carton of eggs, a brick of cheese, and an armful of vegetables. He dumped everything onto the counter, grabbed a mixing bowl, and turned on a stove burner.
“What are you doing?” Rory licked a drop of sour cream off her finger.
“Making you some real food.” He scowled at the ba
g of pork rinds. “Throw those away. For a smart woman, you make terrible nutritional choices.”
“It’s called prioritizing. I once worked at a start-up where the launch deadline was so crazy I almost never left the office. Our whole team was surviving on candy bars and this nutritional paste that came in these little tubes…but we worked our asses off and crushed the launch. You do what you gotta do.”
“Please don’t tell me you still eat tube goo.” Grant set a few sausage links into a pan and took a chopping knife out of the wooden block.
“No, I’ve upgraded to Top Ramen and pork rinds.” She leaned on the counter, watching with growing fascination as he sliced swiftly into a red bell pepper. “Where’d you learn to cook?”
“Kitchens all up and down the Pacific Coast.” He skimmed the blade over the interior of the pepper to scrape away the seeds, then began chopping it. “I’ve worked as everything from a busser to a head chef.”
“What made you decide to buy the Mousehole?”
His mouth twisted. “Cowardice.”
“I don’t believe that.” Not him. She was the coward, hanging around Bliss Cove much longer than she should have because she hadn’t wanted to battle the chauvinism of the tech industry again.
Grant sliced into the other half of the pepper. He continued chopping, one hand tight on the handle, the other holding the top of the blade.
He always moved with such confident ease through the tavern, whether he was mixing drinks or serving artichoke soup. Customers gravitated toward him, enjoying both his food and the welcoming atmosphere he created.
Rory had never seen him cook before, though. He was like an orchestra conductor, his movements sharp and skilled as he sliced and diced peppers, onions, mushrooms, and some green grass-like things. He tossed butter into a sizzling pan, cracked eggs one-handed, and grated cheese so fast his biceps flexed.
Actually, all of his muscles were involved in the cooking process. His shoulders and back rippled as he turned back and forth between the stove and the counter.
He reached for the salt on an upper shelf, and his T-shirt stretched over his broad chest. When he strode back to the fridge for a carton of milk, Rory couldn’t help letting her gaze drift from the triangle shape of his back to his firm ass.