Chapter 1
One week later.
Rick Parrish was coming home.
Tugging at the knot in his tie, he loosened it a few more inches, then unbuttoned another button on his shirt. He couldn’t wait until he stored these clothes, pulled on his cargo shorts, and started the yearly process of putting his memories of Angie a little further back in his heart. The annual visit with her parents never got easier, but at least this year’s visit was finally over.
He strained for his first glimpse of the mile marker for Malabar Key, and stepped down on the accelerator the moment he saw it. Like a white bullet, his Jeep sped onto the last bridge before home. A week away from Malabar Key was one week too long. And he was so close now, he could smell it.
The first thing he was going to do was have a frosty mug of beer at Pappy’s Crab Shack. After that, he’d check on his marina. Life was beginning to feel normal again. Tapping out the rhythm of "Margaritaville" on his steering wheel, he drove from the bridge and onto the highway. That "almost home" feeling settled over him, as familiar and welcoming as his chair at Pappy’s. He turned up the volume on the radio, and the smile that had been threatening to surface for the last two hours eased across his face.
Turning onto Marina Road, he hit his horn twice, announcing his return to the group he knew was gathered at Pappy’s. A roiling cloud of dust followed him into Pappy’s empty parking lot.
Rick’s smile left his face before he had a chance to jam his foot on the brake. Yanking off his sunglasses, he waved away the dust billowing over him and stared slack-jawed through the windshield.
He was hallucinating.
He had to be, because Pappy’s Crab Shack had been here a week ago and now it was gone. Or at least the peeling paint was gone, and being replaced with a second coat of banana yellow. He recognized the painter. Tweed should have been inside along with the two men who were hanging a new sign.
CHEZ MADISON
DISTINCTIVE CUISINE IN THE HEART OF THE KEYS - OPENING SOON
"Tweed!" Rick shouted, switching off the ignition. "What the hell’s going on?"
Gesturing with his paintbrush, the man on the ladder said, "Plenty. And you’re not going to like any of it." Tweed winked. "Well, maybe a bit of it. But you go inside and find out for yourself."
Rick vaulted out of the Jeep. His momentary shock was turning into an uncomfortable tingle across his shoulders. What was Pappy Madison up to? Striding across the parking lot and onto a newly laid, petunia-lined brick walkway, he felt a growing sense of apprehension.
When his foot landed on the first step, he hesitated, then slowly tested the next step. The creak was gone. A disgusted snort left his nostrils. The entire staircase had been replaced. So had the shaky handrail. Taking the steps two at a time, he crested the top one, stepped inside the bar, and choked back a groan.
It was worse than he could have imagined. The beer-stained floor had been sanded clean, the rickety tables removed, and the naked mermaid mural blotted out with more of that banana-yellow paint.
What horror was next? he wondered, scanning the room.
The ultimate insult struck him like a boom in the chest. The dark pine captain’s chair, which everyone on Malabar Key knew to be his, his poker chair, the chair that held him while he bragged about his fishing, the chair he’d passed out in a few too many times, was splattered with yellow paint and shoved in a corner like a piece of discarded history. His heart sank, then rebounded to its rightful place, bringing with it a need for an explanation… and a burning desire for retribution against the perpetrator of the blasphemous act.
"Pappy, get your sorry ass out here before I—" Rick’s words blended with those of a willowy redhead who was backing through the kitchen door with an armload of cloth napkins.
"All deliveries through the back entrance, please," she was saying. "And could you—oh!"
He’d startled her, but no more than she’d startled him. In that swelling moment of silence Rick took her in, front and back, with the aid of a new wall mirror. She was sleek yet curvy, with an aura of sophistication he sensed instantly. Hell, her trendy hairstyle alone could have told him that. The feathery fullness of it appeared to defy gravity, framing her shocked expression with what looked like curvy auburn sunbursts. He wasn’t surprised when she blinked first. Under the weight of her thick, curly lashes, it was a wonder her eyes hadn’t closed before he took note of their clear amber color.
"Pappy’s not here," she said regarding his empty hands with cautious interest. When she let go of the napkins, most of them fell into a basket at her feet. "I’m his granddaughter, Bryn."
His gaze followed her ladylike yet provocative stoop near his feet. As she gathered up the napkins from the floor, he watched her cropped top move up and down her back. He’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands of women in skimpy bathing suits, but this peekaboo view of her flesh was different. Every movement was an invitation to touch her right there at the base of her spine. Each time she reached, he dug his nails into his palms and hoped it was the last time. He gave himself permission to breathe after she tossed the last napkin into the basket she now had perched on her hip. Rising, she smiled and extended a hand as if nothing had happened.
And nothing had. Yet.
Rick had seen her type at his marina. Just brimming with gracious enthusiasm until sea spray dampened her makeup or the first stiff breeze destroyed her hairdo. Take-your-breath-away beauty or not, he told himself to expect much of the same from this one. He was never wrong about these things.
Then she touched him.
Her perfectly manicured hand slipped into his, her fingertips wrapping around the side, before gripping him in a capable hold. She gave one solid shake that told him his theory didn’t apply to her. No dead fish here. This was a live one. With each passing second her touch sent him more disconcerting messages. Confident. Competent. Assertive. Challenging. Threatening.
Threatening? Where had that idea come from? Where had any of those ideas come from? He knew nothing about her except that Bryn rhymed with win, and that she smelled like cool cream and cinnamon. "I’m Rick Parrish," he said, in a raspy voice he didn’t recognize as his own. He cleared his throat.
"Is there something I can help you with, Rick?"
He was sure there was something, but he couldn’t remember what that something was. He was far too busy trying to figure out why her spirited handshake and blended scent were still knocking him off his center. That dead-calm center he guarded with his life. The reason had to be more than Bryn Madison’s confident smile and the self-assured way she jutted her hip to brace the basket. His gaze strayed to the mirror behind her, giving him a periscopic view of the way her short skirt curved so lovingly around her hips. Slim, firm hips that made his palms itch. She reminded him of Pappy’s mermaid mural. In fact, she could have been the model for the mural.
Rick fought the temptation to totally immerse himself in the mirror’s stolen view of her backside. Of course, he wasn’t breaking any law by looking. Even so, he knew he was asking for trouble if he didn’t quit it—right after he compared Bryn’s backside to the mermaid’s. Turning toward the wall, he bit down and exhaled sharply. He’d been staring at Bryn’s body for so long, he’d forgotten that the mermaid mural no longer existed.
With that thought burning in his brain, he looked back at her. She was the cause of this. And the reason adrenaline was roaring through his body. He watched her as she riffled through the whites and pastels in the basket, and followed her to the bar.
"If you’re looking for a job bartending or as a cook, I’m afraid we’re not—"
"I’m not looking for work. I want to know what’s going on. And where’s Pappy?" he asked, losing the battle to keep his voice all business.
She stopped her riffling and looked up at him. Her lips lifted at the corners into a proud grin that made his stomach flip-flop. Damn it to hell. If he wasn’t going to fixate on her perfectly curved behind, neither was he going to get hung up on her
mouth. Her lush, red mouth smiling in a way that was adding confusion to his growing list of complaints.
"What’s going on here is a much-needed remodeling. And none too soon," she said, with a don’t-you-agree tilt of her head. "Pappy’s still in the hospital, so we won’t be able to reopen until—"
"Hold on right there," he said, turning an ear in her direction. That cold and queasy feeling started in his gut when he heard the word hospital. "Run that one by me again. What’s Pappy doing in the hospital?"
"He broke his leg when his foot went through a rotted step. Of course, I immediately had both staircases replaced." She lifted her chin. "Then I started in on the rest of this."
A sharp, sibilant curse left Rick’s lips, causing her eyebrows to lift and hold. He shook his head in a halfhearted apology, but more to clear it of those images of Angie. Those images that he’d fooled himself into thinking were gone for another year. "Is she…?" He closed his eyes to make the moment disappear, but he knew in the same instant that certain things never would. "I mean, is he going to be okay?"
"The orthopedic surgeon’s assured me Grandfather will be fine, but he’ll have to stay in the hospital over on Marathon for a few more weeks. Are you a regular customer of his?"
"I’m his friend. I own Parrish’s Marina. I do fishing-boat charters." Lifting his chin in the direction of the north rail and its view of the marina, he waited until she had a look. "I’ve been away," he said.
"Rick Parrish. Of course. I’ve been preparing the box lunches for your charters since Grandfather’s accident. I’d love to take a boat ride one of these days when I’m not so busy. Maybe—-"
"What happened to Misty and Shaniqua? Why aren’t they doing the lunches?"
"The waitresses? I’m afraid I had to let them go. They’ve gotten work at a resort over on Islamorada. I think it’s called Conch Castle. If they’re still interested, I’ll consider rehiring them when we reopen. In the meantime," she said, "life must go on."
"So I’ve been told," he murmured, looking around the room again, then throwing up his hands. "This is unbelievable."
"I know. I hadn’t taken a good look at the place in quite a while, so when I walked in this time, I couldn’t believe how things had deteriorated," she said with a disapproving roll of her eyes. Placing the basket on the bar, she pulled out a lime green napkin, and picked off its price sticker.
She wasn’t getting it. But she would. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and considered her blissful ignorance. He could be patient. As soon as she stopped fooling around with that napkin and started paying attention to him, he would tell her how things worked around here. By the way she was concentrating on the napkin, it wouldn’t be any time soon. He could be very patient.
He watched the precise way she was rolling, folding and tucking the cloth until, turning it over, she smoothed it for what he hoped was the last time. Her nails made a line of cherry red ovals when she pressed her slender fingers against the lime green cloth. His thoughts strayed to the kind of attention she could pay to him with those fingers. Those exquisitely feminine, deftly moving fingers that were turning a plain piece of material into a three-dimensional work of art. Concentrating on her hands, he indulged himself in a few seconds of erotic fantasies. The provocative ideas stirred his blood with shocking speed.
"See what a little inspiration and perspiration can do," she said, holding up the napkin she had folded to resemble a bird. She jiggled it, making its wings flap. "A miracle."
"Yes, but can it clean up after itself?" he asked, hoping she’d pick up on the tinge of sarcasm in his voice. She didn’t. Her soft laughter volleyed his sentiment back to him, making him feel contrite. Or more to the point, plain nasty for trying to bring her down when all she wanted was to share a lighthearted moment with him. He’d turned away too many opportunities for lighthearted moments, but this one felt different.
"While we’re on the subject of birds, where’s Miss Scarlett?"
"A Mr. Latham volunteered to take her until things are a bit more settled here. And that won’t be too much longer once I pitch the rest of that stuff and the new furniture is delivered," she said, pointing to the battered furniture and dusty beer signs piled in the corner. Leaning her elbows on the edge of the bar, she dropped her chin on her laced fingers and turned her face to his. "Amazing what a bit of elbow grease and determination can accomplish in so little time, isn’t it?"
"Amazing?" He tested the sandpapery texture of his chin, running the back of his hand across it, then down over his Adam’s apple. "You could put it that way," he said, his gaze straying over her. He told himself he wasn’t interested in the way her hair moved when she looked into the basket, or the way her eyes got all dreamy when she was talking about the place. Or even the way the toe of her one sandal balanced behind the other. And he was especially not interested in the way she was again rolling another napkin beneath her flattened fingers, then manipulating the ridged hem to produce some desired effect that was making her smile again. He was mad. And more than slightly aroused, which made him madder still.
Straightening up, she reached into the basket and exchanged her half-folded blue napkin for an apricot one. Looking pleased with her selection, she flicked the folds from the napkin, spread it out on the bar, and began again.
"Color is so important in setting the right mood, don’t you agree?" Her cautious look returned when he didn’t speak. "Well, you do agree that Pappy’s Crab Shack needed a face-lift, don’t you?"
"What you’ve got going here is much more than a face-lift," Rick said, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Pappy’s going to have a fit when he sees the place."
Her laughter rippled through him like an unexpected shiver.
"Pappy is not going to have a fit, Rick. He’s given me carte blanche to do over the Crab Shack." Pushing away from the bar, she motioned with her hands. "My specialty is hotel restaurant design. I usually have to work within established parameters on those jobs. Now, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate that discipline, but no one is telling me what to do this time."
She stopped to look at him, giving him an exuberant smile. He fought the urge to smile back. She didn’t appear to notice his tight-lipped expression as she continued telling him about her plans to ruin Pappy’s.
"It’s going to be stunning. Light and airy, but cozy." She wrinkled her nose in dismay. "That is, when I can find someone to do a drop ceiling and close in the walls. I’m willing to keep it a tad tropical, but I’m aiming for mostly French colonial. Oh, and there will definitely be a wine bar to replace that mess," she said, waving off the area where rows of rum, gin, and assorted liquors used to be.
Rick watched her move around the room, pointing out more changes to come. Once she got on a roll, her energy was astonishing. With each new idea, he felt his world rushing toward extinction.
"I’ll limit the menu at first. No more than four entrees. And no peanut shells anywhere. I found peanut shells in the rest rooms. Can you imagine?" Clapping her hands together, she brought them under her chin, then turned back toward him. Suddenly she looked as if she’d tripped on something. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
He slipped his sunglasses on the moment she began stroking that place below her breasts. It should have been easy enough to look at something else, anything else, but he couldn’t stop watching her touching herself that way. One moment she was posturing and talking like a madame president, and the next she reminded him of an excited kid at summer camp. The first image was as intriguing as the second was poignant. He adjusted his sunglasses, thankful that they prevented her from knowing that he continued to stare at that place below her breasts, wishing he could stroke it too.
"Did you say that Pappy hit his head?" he asked, taking off his suit jacket and tossing it on the bar.
"No." Lowering her hand to her hip, she gave him a quick and suspicious once-over. Her wistful moment dissolved, replaced with that instructive tone he was already beginning to hate
. "I told you, his foot went through a rotted step."
"I think he hit his head," Rick said, nodding as if he had just been convinced of it. "Yes, ma’am," he continued, walking over to where his old chair was and dragging it out into the center of the room. Sitting down, he lifted his feet to rest them on the sawhorse, then folded his arms. "As a matter of fact, I think Pappy must have whacked it good and hard to let you do this to his place. Bryn, take my word for it. This distinctive, French colonial crap isn’t going to work."
Bryn stared hard at the broad-shouldered man relaxing in the battered captain’s chair. She pressed her lips together, fighting back the urge to pull in a sharp breath. Rick Parrish was arrogant, opinionated, and not a little antagonistic. Those things alone should have been reason enough to dismiss him, but there was something else about the man that stopped her from telling him to get out. Forget that he possessed the most effective packaging for testosterone she’d even seen. Forget that his permanent tan, his sun-streaked hair, and his handsome face, made all the more handsome with its weathered touches, had been inviting her stares since the moment she’d seen him. And forget that his own blue-eyed gaze had her warm and tingly and strangely alert. All of it, she told herself, was nothing but an overblown reaction to the man’s overpowering presence. The most fascinating thing about Rick Parrish was his passion and the way he was trying to hide it. And the fact that he couldn’t.
She watched as he stripped off his tie and began rolling it into a neat bundle. When he stuffed it into one of his trouser pockets, he strained the open V of his shirt, giving her a peek at his curly chest hair. Without warning, she found herself picturing him unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it off to reveal a light and springy mat of hair covering a supremely masculine chest. A chest to stroke. Tickle. Kiss. And when he opened his arms and whispered her name, a warm and waiting chest for her to press her face against. The mesmerizing images continued until she pressed her fingers to her forehead and willed them to stop. She blinked.
"Crap? Did you actually just say crap?!" she asked in a distinct hiss.
"Bryn, honey," he said, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his knee, "I know what I’m talking about. You’re wasting your time and Pappy’s money. Open your eyes and stop this before we can’t fix it. You’re making a big mistake."
For one shattering moment all she could focus on was his casually delivered endearment. Honey. She hadn’t heard that word since her last close relationship. Maybe it wasn’t her fiancé’s fault that the excitement he generated was usually one-sided. His side. But she hadn’t had a problem tossing the ring in his face when he’d accused her of loving her career more than she loved him. That was three years ago, and although her biological clock wasn’t clanging the alarm, she didn’t like to be reminded of what she still lacked—a man to love and be loved by, a baby, and all those sweet endearments that came with the both of them. And now Rick Parrish, this man she hardly knew, tossed off "honey" in such a cavalier way that it made her cheeks sting with angry heat. He was attempting to knock the wind out of her sails by telling her she couldn’t handle a simple, albeit enjoyable, renovation for her grandfather. To top things off, he was also making it clear that her ideas were categorically wrong.
Rick Parrish wasn’t going to get away with mocking her expertise. She’d kill him with kindness first!
"Well, Rick, honey, I disagree," she said, infusing her words with as much politeness as she could manage. "I think Malabar Key needs an upscale restaurant. Someplace special—"
"People can go over to Key West if they want special," he said, lowering his feet to the floor. As if her work weren’t worth a full wave of his hand, he lifted only his fingers to indicate her changes to the restaurant’s interior. "But they don’t want this kind of special here. They want Pappy’s."
"And how do you know what people want?" she asked, monitoring her composure with each strained word.
"Because I’ve lived here most of my life, and I know. What they want is a place where they can put their feet up, throw their peanut shells on the floor, and play the jukebox good and loud." Twisting around for a look at the back corner of the room, Rick did a double take, then came out of his chair, knocking it over in the awkward move. Pulling off his glasses, he dropped his voice to an unforgiving whisper. "What did you do with the jukebox?"
"I had it moved downstairs to the storage room. Someone’s coming over from Grassy Key to look at it tonight." She leveled a look at him that was meant to tell him she wasn’t backing down. "Does that meet with your approval?"
"You’re selling the jukebox?" Before she could reply, he gestured toward the empty corner with his sunglasses. "That jukebox is not leaving Malabar Key," he said, his voice climbing again.
"Is that an order, Mr. Parrish, or an offer to buy it?" she asked. Picking up the basket of napkins, she walked calmly toward the kitchen door, her bejeweled sandals making slow, soft tapping sounds. Once inside she waited for him, certain that he wasn’t going to give up. Not like some men she’d had to stand up to in her career. Not with his fiery personality. Rick Parrish didn’t disappoint her, and that made her feel all the more triumphant when she heard him approaching.
"It’s the truth," he bellowed, slamming the door back against the kitchen wall.
Bryn set the basket on the butcher-block table, slid it back a few inches, and took a measured, calming breath before facing him again. She would have missed the tremor in his hand if she hadn’t looked at the door first. He was holding his fingers flat against the wood panel, but lowered his arm when he stepped into the room. If this had been any other man, she would have been impressed with her ability to illicit such a show of emotion. But Rick Parrish had bypassed that kind of self-indulgent reaction and hit her where it mattered. In her reawakening libido. The burst of energy was invigorating. "You’re walking around here like the man in charge, but you’re not in charge. Not here anyway." She tapped that place below her breasts. "I am. And my eyes are open. This place was in shambles. The accident opened Grandfather’s eyes too. He realizes it’s time for a change. And I’m only too happy to be the instrument for that change."
"Change?" Shoving his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, he rested his hands on his hips and lifted his chin toward her. "Except for a few minor repairs, there wasn’t a need for this much change. This is a local bar, for locals. Friends. Real people."
"I have no problem with that. They’ll be more than welcome at Chez Madison," she said, folding her arms as she backed up and bumped into the butcher block. "As long as they don’t insist on a bucket of peanuts for an appetizer."
"Look," he said, his voice searching for a reasoning tone. The muscles of his jaw twitched with effort. "I know these people and I know Pappy. I think you ought to stop all of this remodeling business and wait until Pappy sees how far overboard you’ve gone."
"Pappy knows what I have in mind. What I want to know is, how does this concern you?"
"I’ll tell you how," he said, tapping his chest with his fingertips. "Anything that happens on Malabar Key is my business." Striding to the opposite side of the butcher block, he leaned over it toward her. "Lady, wake up. People here don’t want or need a formal, fancy-ass fern grotto with an unpronounceable menu, expensive wine list, or," he said, taking a folded napkin from the basket, "these toy sailboats, for crissakes."
She tugged the napkin from his hand. "This one is not a sailboat."
"Well, pardon me. A bird."
"It’s a bishop’s hat. But more importantly, it’s made of cloth and has no dirty limericks printed on it." She made a face to lighten the tension, but he wasn’t nibbling. Sighing audibly, she allowed a frown to replace her attempt at humor. "Can’t you give Chez Madison a chance? I’m not closing the place, I’m simply giving it style."
"Pappy’s Crab Shack had style," he said dryly.
"Well, now it will have a different style," she said as evenly as she could manage. "This key needs an upscale restaurant, and not only for the
pleasure it will bring to the people living here. It’s bound to attract tourists, seasonal residents, and perhaps locals from some of the other keys."
"More outsiders are not what we need around here."
"If it brings prosperity—"
"That remark just goes to show how little you know about this community. If people were interested in that kind of prosperity, they’d have sold their land to developers long before now."
"What is it specifically that bothers you about my changes?"
Rick shook his head. "Can’t you see? You’re setting up a situation here that Pappy won’t be able to handle. He’s an old man. He and his staff can boil crabs, tap a keg, and shoot the breeze. And that’s about it, Bryn. Don’t you care that you’re going to set up this place, then leave him with more than he can handle?"
He’d sneered at her plans. He’d insulted her common sense. He’d even managed to steer her thoughts close to libidinous mutiny. But he wasn’t going to get away with questioning her love for her grandfather.
"I would never do that to that dear man. I love him too much to ever allow such a catastrophe to happen."
"I’m not saying you don’t love Pappy. You’re simply not thinking this through from his angle." Pointing at her, he said, "And don’t tell me you care about Malabar Key or its people, because you’ve already proved to me that you know nothing about them. There’s a way of life here worth maintaining, Bryn. What you’ve got in mind will only disrupt it, and your venture will fail."
"Rick, we’re only talking about a restaurant."
"No," he said, turning in frustration to slam his palm on the wall. "You’re talking about a restaurant; I’m talking about a community institution. Pappy’s Crab Shack is… is…" His words trailed off as he plowed his fingers through his hair, then reached for the edge of the block again.
He glared at her and failed to contain a low growl. And she glared back, certain that her eyelashes must be on fire. Rick Parrish was the most stubborn, most guarded, and most gorgeous man she’d ever met. And for any and all of those reasons, she wasn’t giving in or giving up. Not now. Not later.
Tapping her nails on the wood surface, she slowly shook her head. "I still think there’s something else you’re not telling me. Besides your concern for Pappy and your devotion to the people of Malabar Key, what really bothers you about this?"
"What are you talking about?" he asked, eyeing her closely.
She started to circle him. As he turned his head to follow her with his eyes, Bryn watched his light brown hair play against his collar. When she was behind him, he gave up trying to look at her and took a deep breath instead. She was surprised that he held it so long. She sensed Rick Parrish wasn’t the type to turn his back on many people. He most likely took things head on, yet she had managed to provoke him to a tense silence.
He continued holding his rigid posture, keeping the fabric of his shirt taut over his shoulder blades. The message he wanted to convey was lost in the truth she saw before her: Rick Parrish needed touching. The knowledge streaked through her like a tiny lightning bolt. But she wasn’t going to touch him. She wasn’t going to run her hands over the masculine delta of his back or trace the contours of his spine with her fingertips. Or her mouth. She felt for the back of her earring, pinching it hard enough to make an indentation on her thumb. Rubbing the mark, she silently applauded herself for removing the treacherous idea. She’d spent too many years building her professional reputation to commit such a rash act with a stranger. Walking around to the other side of him, she stayed close enough to see the muscles begin twitching in his jaw again.
"Rick, are there personal reasons—" She left off in midsentence when he jerked his head in her direction. Suddenly he was in charge of the moment, holding her in his dead-on gaze.
If he kept on staring like that, she would most definitely have to touch him to prevent herself from keeling against him. All five feet seven inches of her vibrating female form against his six-feet-plus wall of stubborn masculinity. And he would have to catch her in his arms, but he couldn’t do that because he was folding them tightly across his chest.
Turning fully in her direction, he lowered his chin. Under other circumstances, he could have been lowering his head to kiss her, or inviting her to kiss him. From the intensity of his expression, she was certain kissing wasn’t on his list of things to do to her. For one wild moment, she thought, With lips like yours, it should be on your list of things to do to me. The brazen idea had her cheeks scalding.
Rick considered pulling back from her, but he hadn’t been near this much life in years. He closed his eyes long enough to remind himself about the important things in his world, and this woman was not one of them. "If you cared about Pappy, this place, and these people… but you don’t."
She inched up closer to him. "But I do."
He lowered his face nearer hers. "The hell you do!"
"Will you please stop swearing?" she asked, scissoring her hands between them.
"Will you stop meddling?" he asked, countering her with his rising voice.
"Meddling?! I am not meddling. You – you just want someone to blame because you won’t have your favorite hangout to do whatever you do. You’re not at all concerned about the people –"
A third voice broke in, startling both of them to near-military attention.
"If you two cared any more about the people on this key, we’d all have to get earplugs."
Rick felt the breath rush from his lungs the second he realized who it was at the barroom door. Malabar Key’s oldest cheerleader. "Hello, Liza. I didn’t see you there."
"I’m not surprised," the gray-haired woman said before chuckling. "If you two can pull yourselves away from this engaging display of emotion and step out of the kitchen away from the knives, I’d like to talk with you."
He hadn’t missed the not-so-hidden message in the older woman’s voice. She was talking about the volatile male-female chemistry building between Bryn and him. A chemistry he could neutralize any time he wanted. Except for that unwanted physical arousal, he could turn off this feeling. What was bothering him had nothing personal to do with this flighty female with the expensive haircut and obvious time on her hands. Yes, she’d managed to stir up forgotten needs and touch him down deep in those dark and lonely places in less than twenty minutes, but that didn’t mean a thing. Dammit to hell. He didn’t want Bryn Madison.
All he wanted was his bar back!
Taste of Love: A Romance Sampler Page 2