by Lindsey Hart
He’d found her beautiful, as soon as he met her, days before the morning she’d pulled him from the water. After she’d saved his life, he knew that was it. He’d never wanted to be married, but he knew he wanted Chelsea as his wife. He loved her instantly, from the moment he opened his eyes and found her face hovering over him, soaking wet, water beading the ends of her hair, eyes wild with fear. She’d smiled, when he’d taken that first choking breath, laughed triumphantly after, wrapped his shoulders in her arms and turned him onto his side so he could retch up the water he’d taken on.
She’d been so tender, so kind. Maren had been there too, a few feet away. She was soaking wet, he remembered, her hair plastered all over her body, sitting on the sand, staring out at the water. As Chelsea helped him to his feet, their eyes met briefly, but she looked away, back at the horizon. Her lips pressed into a thin hard line and he recalled watching a visible shiver rock her sodden frame.
And then Chelsea had steered him away, exhausted, back up to the bed and breakfast, her energy unflagging even after the hard swim out to reach him, after pulling him back to shore.
Owen stumbled away from the window, back to bed. He peeled back the sheet and the light comforter, oddly disturbed, as though something wasn’t right about that day.
He shook his head. If anything wasn’t right, it was that he’d married a woman he hardly knew on the basis that she’d saved his life. He’d hoped that was enough of a connection to hold them through the years, through the struggles, but it wasn’t. He’d married a stranger and found out the hard way just how much it hurt when the person he loved wasn’t who he thought she was.
Chelsea had a past. One he knew nothing about until Maren told him on the beach. She had a past just like the rest of them. It now made sense why she couldn’t settle down with him. Maybe she never had meant to hurt him.
It was a comforting thought, one Owen clung to until he fell into an exhausted sleep.
CHAPTER 6
Maren
The first thing Maren noticed the next morning when Owen emerged in the kitchen just after nine, was that he had deep black smudges under his eyes. He was dressed, more casually that she guessed he usually was, in dark green khaki shorts and a black t-shirt which was tighter and more fitted to his muscular frame than she would have liked it to be. He hadn’t shaved, and dark stubble stood out on his jaw. His eyes were bleary, red-rimmed, as though he’d slept little.
“Good morning,” she said, trying to keep her voice from being overly cheerful since she figured it would be abrasive and annoying if he truly hadn’t slept well. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
“Or several,” he said sardonically. He made an attempt at a wayward grin and though it was awkward and forced, it was still far too dazzling.
Maren’s gaze flew down to her hands, which were busy cutting up peppers, mushrooms and onions for an omelet. She already had the coffee brewing. Being raised in the bed and breakfast meant that she’d become sensitive to anticipating the needs of her guests. As soon as she heard footsteps in the room above, she’d put the coffee on. Not sooner, so that it would grow bitter and cold, or too late, so that she had to scramble to do it and he had to wait.
She left her half-cut vegetables, washed her hands in front of the white farmhouse sink, and brought down two mugs out of the cupboard.
“How do you take your coffee? I know you said black yesterday, but I thought that might have been because you needed it that way then.”
She sensed his smile in his voice. “Maybe a touch of cream if you have it.”
“It just so happens, I do.” She always had cream. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but she didn’t truly care. She felt good that morning. Better than she had in months. Though the same worries were still heavy on her shoulders and early that morning there had been a phone call from creditors. But she refused to let stress get the best of her.
Owen took a seat at the island. The kitchen wasn’t huge, but it was big enough for an L-shaped row of cabinets, a large fridge, a gas stove, a huge sink and a massive island. She would have preferred to serve breakfast in the dining room where it was supposed to be, with an actual table and fancy settings, antique paintings and a chandelier, but if Owen wanted to make himself comfortable, she supposed that was alright, given that he was her only guest.
She set his coffee down in front of him. He reached for it automatically and took a long pull. “That’s really good.”
“Yah. Thanks. I get it from the farmer’s market. It’s not exactly local, but it’s fair trade. It’s more expensive, but I think it’s worth it. Plus, I use less, so I guess it all evens out.”
“A farmer’s market? That sounds interesting.”
She couldn’t tell if he was just trying to be polite or not. “It’s actually on this afternoon. It’s pretty good. Most of Monterey comes out, or at least it feels like that.” She resumed cutting up the vegetables for the omelet.
“And you usually go?”
“Yah, I usually do. I get a lot of the things I use here from there. I try and support local businesses as much as possible. My grandma used to take me out all the time. It was something we loved doing. That and thrift stores. My grandma was a bit of a treasure hunter.” Maren was surprised at how her easy laugh filled the kitchen. It wasn’t tinged at all with sadness, like most of her memories were, at the woman who no longer filled up her life.
“That sounds… really nice.” Owen sipped his coffee and she chanced a glance at him. He was looking down, studying the nearly full cup.
“Sorry. Maybe that’s awkward.”
“No.” He looked up then and his eyes met hers. She felt his gaze like a shiver rooted deep inside her stomach. Her hands tingled and she gripped the paring knife a little tighter to keep from dropping it.
“I’m going around one. You’re welcome to come if you want, though you’ll have to put up with Hettie and I gawking over everything. We aren’t fast shoppers, I warn you.”
“Who is Hettie?”
“My neighbor. She was my grandma’s best friend. She’s kind of like a second grandmother. We’re really close, even though we’re so far apart in age. I kind of feel like ever since I’ve truly become an adult, that she’s been less like a grandma and more like a best friend.”
“I get that.” Owen looked wistfully towards the window and Maren glanced away, a little disappointed that she couldn’t read what he was thinking or feeling. He looked somewhat lost, as though he had no one he could truly trust.
Maren cracked eggs from the waiting carton into a bowl. She added a little milk then whisked hard. Salt and pepper were next and then her cut up vegetables were added to the mix. She walked over to the stove, turned the front burner on and placed the cast iron frying pan over the open flame.
“Do you… what is your family like?” She didn’t turn around but wished she could take back the words, as they sounded intrusive, far too personal. She almost thought he wasn’t going to answer her and then he spoke.
“My parents are very wealthy. I was their only child. I was raised mostly in private schools then packed off to university as soon as I graduated. I had to take business since that was the only appropriate avenue of study other than law or something. I went to an Ivy League school. My mom never really worked. I don’t even know what she did all day. When I was young, I had nannies. My dad was never home. He made his fortune in overseas investments. He was always busy.” Owen coughed. “I really didn’t understand until I was much older, what busy meant. He was always having affairs. My mom probably was too. I don’t even know why they stayed married. It was just a sham. They came from money, both of them. My grandparents, both sets, had passed away before I ever knew them. I guess that’s how they were raised, to keep up pretenses, to save face. It wasn’t my thing. I swore I’d never go down that road. I never wanted to be married. I buried myself in business and I became very successful. I haven’t seen my parents in a very long time. Although my mom did write
me- actually write, expressing her condolences and her disappointment when I got a divorce.”
“Jesus.” Maren definitely wished she hadn’t asked. She busied herself pouring the first omelet into the pan and watching it so it didn’t burn.
“Sorry. Maybe that was too much.”
She spun, flipper in hand, to find Owen studying her. Something about his intent gaze made her feel flustered or flushed. She wasn’t sure which.
“No. It’s fine. I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to pry.”
“You told me about your family yesterday. It’s only fair.”
Maren swallowed hard. She half turned, keeping a wary gaze on Owen and the omelet at the same time. “My grandma and I never had a lot of money. We got by fine, but we weren’t rich or well off or anything. If we didn’t have guests, things could get pretty tenuous, but we were always so happy. Chelsea said that to me once. That she envied the love in this house more than anything.”
“That makes sense.” Owen sighed heavily. “That was the one thing I always missed growing up. It’s hard to feel loved by parents who don’t want you around. I was just the product of them doing their duty. After me, they never had any more kids. They probably never even looked at each other again.”
“I’m… sorry.” What the hell am I supposed to say to that. She flipped the omelet, her throat achingly dry, her entire body rigid with discomfort.
When she placed Owen’s plate in front of him he shrugged, as though to say he didn’t truly mind talking about it. For him, the past was just the past, like it was for her. It was just a repeating of facts that still stung a little, but it was, for the most part, therapeutic, a relief to finally get it out there, to tell someone who didn’t know where she had come from, to prove, even in a small way, that her start in life didn’t define her. Rather, she looked on it happily, as a gift of love, the reason she was who she was.
Maren quickly whipped up her own omelet. She wasn’t sure if she should pull out the stool beside Owen, which seemed far too familiar, but she eventually settled for it. She set her plate down with a dull thud.
“Is this alright? Eating with you?”
“Of course.” Owen’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “I think we’re a little beyond the business side of things. You know, after all that’s happened.”
But none of that happened to you and me, even if it possibly should have. Maren studied her plate. She said nothing, but the silence that filled the kitchen was no longer awkward or tense.
They didn’t speak again until they were both done. Owen pushed his plate away and sighed. “That was pretty much the best breakfast I’ve had in years.”
Maren flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“You should teach me a thing or two. I’m hopeless when it comes to cooking.”
“What do you do? Eat out all the time?”
“No. I had hired a cook, but uh- I’ve recently told her to stop coming. The last thing I wanted to do these past months was eat.” It came again, that squirming, tight feeling that she’d overstepped somehow, but Owen waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss it. “I might as well get used to talking about it. The whole world is.”
“Well, that’s just a product of having lots of money. They talked about all the good things too. I know that you’re a philanthropist. I know that you fund start-up companies sometimes. I know that you have scholarships set up for inner city kids who excel.”
Owen blinked and Maren wanted to give herself a good shake. What was she doing, spurting off nonsense like that?
“It seems like you’ve followed me.”
“No. Not really.” She shrugged casually, too casually. “It’s just that- people talk. I’ve heard about it in Monterey. And even though we’re kind of out here, away from the city, I still use the internet and read magazines and papers and whatnot. I get the paper here every day, for my guests, just in case. You’re big news since you make it in even all the way across the country.”
“Like you said, people love to talk.”
“I just meant that it kind of evens out. The news is just whatever is happening that day. It’s surprising that good things even get printed. It’s not so surprising that your divorce made it in there.” She swallowed the rising lump in her throat. She knew she should clear away their plates, but she didn’t move to get up. “It must be hard, having people read about all the things you’d rather keep private. I always thought having a little more money would be nice, at least, less stressful at times, but I don’t know if it’s worth that. I would hate that if I saw those things printed about me.”
“I guess you just get used to it, over time.” His voice said he was anything but used to it. “Anyway, enough about me. Let me clean up these dishes for you.”
“No, I can’t do that! You’re a paying guest.”
“What if I wanted to?”
“I… I guess I wouldn’t say no… I mean, if that’s really what you want. Although, I have a list a mile long of stuff that I’d rather have you do.”
One dark brow arched and that shadow of a smile that made his black eyes twinkle, was back. “What would that be?”
“Garbage, raking the yard, transplanting some flowers that are overgrown, although Hettie will probably help me with that. I have some baking to do, sweeping, mopping, laundry, beds to make.”
“So… dishes?” He laughed and the sound was large and genuine and filled up the kitchen. It hit her hard, square in the chest, that she loved the sound of it. “I can’t say I really do much of anything at all other than work. I’m not proud to admit that I pay people to clean my house and make my bed, do the laundry, or rather, dry cleaning, all of that.”
“At least you’re providing people with jobs. There’s nothing wrong with that. I wish I had the budget to hire someone to help me here.” Maren cut herself off, aware that she’d said too much. She didn’t want to go down that path. It seemed far too much like skirting around the topic that Hettie had raised. She still didn’t even know if she could ever ask Owen if he wanted to invest in the bed and breakfast. It felt a little like what he’s shared with her, about his parents, also extended to friends, or rather, the friends he didn’t have. She kind of gathered that he didn’t have many people in his life who didn’t use him for one thing or another and for some reason, she wanted to be one of those people.
“You might have to show me what to do. With the dishes, I mean.” She hesitated, hand already reaching for his plate. He laughed that hearty, rich laugh again and her stomach cramped up even more. “I’m kidding. I know how to do that.”
“Okay.” She smiled because she couldn’t not smile at him when he was looking at her like that, with actual genuine happiness on his face. “I’m going to start my list then. Come find me, around noon and I’ll take you over and introduce you to Hettie and we’ll go to the farmer’s market if you still want to. I have a feeling she’ll be completely enthralled with you.”
Owen groaned. “Why do I get the feeling that might not be a good thing?”
She laughed again, feeling happier and lighter than she had in a long time. “Well, in case you couldn’t tell from what I said, you’re a bit of a celebrity around here in Monterey. Don’t worry though, I’ll keep your adoring fans away. No one is going to hunt you down for a photo or anything.”
Owen pushed back his chair. He stood and paused and their gazes met. For just a split instant, something deep and abiding, far too intimate, passion, longing, sorrow and joy passed between them. She blinked and tore her gaze away and it was gone.
Maren hurried out of the kitchen, leaving Owen with the dishes.
She found safety and refuge in the yard, out of the house, out of the same space he shared. What would he do or say if he knew the truth? She’d often wondered. It was pretty obvious to her, that if she ever told him, she’d lose him for good, the man she’d spent five years wondering about, dreaming about, reading about. She couldn’t shatter what was le
ft of a heart she already sensed was wounded. She couldn’t ask him to invest in the bed and breakfast. She didn’t want him just as a business partner. What she wanted, she knew she could never have.
CHAPTER 7
Owen
The farmer’s market itself was quaint and charming, exactly what he expected. It had that small town, authentic feel, with people of all ages and all walks of life hawking their wares. There were even a few buskers.
What he did find disconcerting was the way Maren’s ancient friend or pseudo grandmother, or whatever she was, kept looking at him. She cast him sidelong glances the entire walk from the bed and breakfast and well into their first spin around the market. She looked at Maren as well, from under lowered lids, when she wasn’t paying attention. It was a little confusing like she knew a secret that they weren’t privy to and she wasn’t about to share the information.
“You have to try some of this jam! It’s amazing!” Maren held up a cute little jar, complete of course, with a red and white checkered fabric top.
“Alright.” Owen didn’t bat an eye. He’d been walking around for a good half hour and he didn’t even actually need anything. Maren filled up her bags with purchases, coffee beans, tea, jam, cookies and muffins. She’d brought a little metal wheeled cart that she pulled behind her. She shuffled along like Hettie, their two heads often bent together, deep in conversation. He trailed behind them but didn’t feel at all like an outsider.
“You don’t even want to know what kind it is?” Maren’s full mouth curled up in a smile and he was horribly tempted to step forward, lean in and cover her lips with his. A white-hot bolt of desire ripped through his veins and he was once again thankful for the protective layer of denim that hid his arousal from the view of everyone at the damn market. He was annoyed by his body’s unexpected, raw response to Maren. It was like she was some kind of stimulant that seeped through his blood by osmosis. It didn’t help that his thoughts went straight to her on the beach that night, the moonlight shining down on her hair and shoulders…