by Chris Chegri
“I’d just be fishing,” he said. “The fish will be here when I get back. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Kelly hung up, determined to change Steve McCarthy’s first impression of her, while keeping her attraction to him at bay. She hurried around the small cottage, tidying up so he wouldn’t think she was a slob as well as a shrew. She bathed and dressed and pulled her hair into a ponytail, letting it tumble down the back of her head in a fountain of black waves.
The travel and first couple days on the job had exhausted her. During lunch hour, she’d opened bank accounts, studied real estate maps and scoured the News Journal to get a better idea of the type of articles her boss expected from her. Her days had started early and ended well after midnight. Bone tired, she hoped the weariness didn’t show on her face.
In the pressroom, she’d been assigned a desk and a computer to share with another reporter. Sharing was no big deal to Kelly. She had a laptop and often worked at home anyway, preferring the peace and quiet there to the circus-like atmosphere of the pressroom. The newspaper office was canned insanity at its best, with phones ringing, computers beeping, people talking in loud excited voices, reporters rushing in and out day and night, like the old Marx Brothers movies her grandfather used to watch. Concentration was impossible for anyone requiring a tranquil environment for creativity. Still, the News Journal’s pressroom seemed almost calm compared to the nerve-racking tempo at the San Francisco’s Chronicle. But first impressions weren’t always accurate, and although the pressroom of the News Journal seemed quiet by comparison, the schedule of events wasn’t.
Ted Willis, editor in chief and Kelly’s new boss, had assigned her a small story right away. When she returned from San Francisco, her first big assignment called for a road trip to Summer Springs, just north of Crystal River on Florida’s gulf coast, where manatees were swimming in one of the public utility’s discharge canals.
She hadn’t the slightest idea what a manatee was, but she knew enough not to ask. She’d listened while Ted Willis expounded on the value of the rare, endangered animal often called the sea cow. At least now she knew a manatee was an animal. It could have been a vegetable or a ship for all she knew. With a leap of imagination, she’d surmised the manatee might somehow resemble a cow, although she found this hard to imagine, since cows and oceans shared nothing in common. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough to pique her curiosity and give her a starting point. A good reporter didn’t need much more. She would Google manatee and do some research. Right now, she needed to get ready for Steve McCarthy.
Chapter Six
Steve McCarthy had spent most of his life in Daytona and knew just about every landmark in town, so locating The Glades wasn’t a problem for him. When he spotted the sign, he wheeled into the gravel drive that years ago had been palmetto-covered dunes. He drove straight back to the last bungalow on the right, confirmed it was cottage number five, cut the engine and climbed out.
Two teenage girls hurling a Frisbee back and forth on the dune stopped and stared, goggle-eyed at him. Steve grinned and waved. Used to being admired by females, he never took it too seriously, although at thirty-five he appreciated knowing he could still turn a head. Giggling, the girls ran down the path leading to the beach, their teenage laughter echoing on the sea breeze.
Steve crossed the small yard, soft sand filtering through the straps of his sandals. He hoped he wasn’t under dressed for Mt. McKinley—the nickname he’d dubbed Kelly with after her volatile display at Murphy’s. She seemed a little haughty, even a little unstable, and he was afraid she might expect him this morning in full suit and tie instead of white shorts and a casual shirt. If so, he hoped she took disappointment well.
He pulled his sunglasses off and rooted them in his thick hair. Actually, there was a lot about Kelly Pearson he liked—besides her looks, which he admitted he found pleasing. Most women with black hair and blue eyes appeared anemic, but her face was soft, almost innocent, making the stark contrast between hair and eyes more magical than a curse. More than just pretty, he’d detected vitality, a determination to survive, which he didn’t quite understand but respected, and a vulnerability he surmised she wanted no one to see. All combined, Kelly Pearson had touched his masculine instincts.
Despite her obvious attempts to spurn him, Steve had been attracted to her the moment he’d seen her, and he’d sensed her attraction to him as well, at least until she’d turned into an ice mountain and treated him as if he were a fire-breathing dragon. In the past, specifically his post Linda Harper era, he’d made it a rule to avoid woman exhibiting psychotic tendencies. But something about Kelly Pearson drew him in against his better judgment, and he decided to give her a second—no, third—chance, more out of curiosity than concern for her housing situation. Oh well, time was the great revealer of truths, he reminded himself as he neared the cottage door and rapped his fist against it.
***
Kelly jumped at the knock on the door, her nerves rattling with the glass jalousie panels. She’d been ready for five minutes, which was all she’d needed to convince herself this meeting was a mistake, but it was too late now.
She checked herself in the mirror again, knowing Jill Wagner would have a good laugh if she could see how nervous Kelly was about a house hunt with a pseudo-real estate agent. She gave the front room a final check, moving a vase of faded plastic flowers from the kitchen to the closet, and hurried to open the front door.
“Hello, Pearson.” Steve’s McCarthy’s eyes matched the lush encroachment of tropical foliage behind him, his teasing smile inviting.
Her voice caught in her throat, the strongest reaction she’d had toward a man since her divorce, and this unnerved her.
“Hey, Steve.” Her gaze lingered on his face. “I appreciate your helping me out.”
“Not a problem. It’s a beautiful day.”
Kelly’s mind stalled. She shifted her gaze to the tight shirt stretched across Steve’s toned chest. He’d pushed the three-quarter length sleeves up to his elbows, exposing strong, tanned lower arms. He’d stuck his sunglasses in his tawny hair. Almost GQ. Kelly found that scary.
“Well, are you going to invite me in?” He halted Kelly’s appraisal.
“Sure. Of course,” she stammered and realized the error of her past. No woman, no matter how adamant about staying single, should deny her sexuality for six years. It wasn’t normal. Since stumbling across Steve McCarthy, she showed signs of snapping. Her hormones had gone wild. “I’m ready. Come on in. Want some coffee before we leave?”
“Love some.” He closed the door behind him and glanced around the little beach cottage. “This place isn’t bad.”
Embarrassed about her meager accommodations, Kelly replied, “Not exactly the Hilton, huh?” She was glad she’d hidden the plastic flowers.
“Definitely not the Hilton, but it is authentic Florida.”
“I like it,” she admitted. “Rustic, while homey, and inexpensive, too. I couldn’t see spending ten days in one room and eating out every day.” She poured him a cup of coffee. Sensing his gaze on her, she glanced up. Emerald green. No man should be allowed to have such fabulous eyes.
She handed Steve the cup, pointing to the sugar and creamer on the counter. “So, where do you think we should begin? I suppose I should start small, not too expensive, but I’d love to live close to the beach.” She laughed at herself. “Probably can’t have both, huh?”
“Actually, you’re already in the right place if you don’t mind some old folks for neighbors.”
“I wouldn’t mind. Why?”
“Ormond Beach is lined with small communities along A1A. Built in the fifties, the homes are small and so are the rents. Best of all, they’re close to the ocean.”
She leaned back against the kitchen counter. “So, what’s the drawback? I can hear a “but" in your voice.”
“Well, not all the houses are kept up well. There aren’t any homeowner associations, and many of the older residents can
’t get out and do regular lawn work. Those neighborhoods are turning around though. Younger people are grabbing the houses as soon as they become available.”
“Sounds okay to me. I don’t need fancy, and having a few grandmas on the block might be nice for Lacy.” Excitement rippled through her. “What are we waiting for?”
Steve doctored his coffee with sugar and creamer. “You’re right. It’s so great outside. We shouldn’t waste another minute. Can I take this with me?”
“Sure, let me get my bag.” She hurried into the bedroom and returned, purse in hand. Crossing over to the window, she switched off the air conditioner, pausing for one more peek at the sea.
Steve joined her. “You can’t beat the view.” He sighed. “God, I love the ocean. I couldn’t live anywhere else.”
Kelly smiled. “Just looking at it calms me. I loved the Bay Area and the California beaches, but the water is so cold Lacy’s lips would turn blue in fifteen minutes. She shakes like a vibrator for half an hour after she gets out, even after I wrap her in blankets.” She laughed. “I won’t miss the fear of my six-year-old daughter catching pneumonia.”
“I think California’s overrated—mud slides, earthquakes, icy water, surfer eating sharks, forest fires—”
She whirled to face him with a grin curving her lips. “Okay. Okay. I get it. You’re not a fan.”
They both laughed.
“You’re right,” she conceded. “The water here is warm and inviting, but I know you have your share of shark bites, too.”
Steve conceded with a shrug.
“Like I said, I guess I could have stayed somewhere nicer, but the view of the ocean on The Glades’ web site, plus the low price, won me over instantly. I’ll take this kitchen and the extra space over a one room luxury hotel room any day.” She crossed back to the kitchen. “Besides, I’m into midnight snacks,” she openly admitted her sin. “Somehow I always seem to get the munchies after the stores close.”
Steve chuckled. “I’ve been known to succumb myself. Matter of fact, I keep a ready supply of microwave popcorn and M&Ms on hand at all times. Never know when the mood will hit, although it definitely will during a football game.”
Kelly’s heart lurched at the mention of football. He’s one of those men, like Ken, remote in hand, glued to the television during football season. Her spirits took a nosedive. Ken hadn’t even watched the games at home but at the sports bar on Monday nights, a friend’s house on Wednesdays, and all day Saturdays somewhere else. She never actually knew where.
“Okay.” She tried to alter the path of her thinking. “Ready?”
“Your carriage awaits, milady. Do you have any idea what we’re looking for today?”
“Well, I only need two bedrooms, but I’d prefer two baths if possible.” She locked the cottage door and climbed into the passenger seat. “I have a feeling I may be bringing a lot of work home, so three bedrooms would be ideal. I could use one for an office. A roomy kitchen and a screened-in porch are also a must. I’ve heard rumors that the mosquitoes here are radiation mutants.”
Steve’s laugh was seductive, rippling through Kelly’s brain, reminding her of a stone skipping over water. She looked away, letting his effect on her fade, hoping her face revealed nothing of the physical attraction he stirred in her. She wouldn’t deny the fact. Any woman with a normal hormone level would react the same way—the very reason she was so uncomfortable. Actually, she was counting on Steve being a complete bore, devoid of personality. Even a beautifully wrapped box, if empty, was easy to throw away. Empty or not, she couldn’t stand the thought of Steve McCarthy, or anyone else, thinking she was a bitch. Childhood hang-ups again.
“You’re in luck. Screened-in porches are standard equipment in homes and apartments around here. Unfortunately, our mosquitoes are not our only mutants.”
Kelly knew he meant the giant water bugs thriving in Florida’s warm, humid climate.
“La cucaracha? We’ve already met. I chased two down this week and dealt them both lethal blows with my shoe. I’m not thrilled about wearing the shoe again,” she joked. “I suppose I’ll get used to it. I’m a survivor. You can’t live on the west coast without being adaptable.”
“As long as you understand there are no bug-free guarantees, we should have you and your daughter in a home in no time.”
As they drove, Kelly avoided looking at him, chanting the mantra, he’s a football lover. He’s a football lover, in her head.
Chapter Seven
First stop was a mainland real estate office managed by an old high school classmate of Steve’s. Jerry Rowland refilled their coffee cups and settled them at a table in the back office. He handed them a file of sales and rentals, set up access to the computer listings, and gave them some information on a couple of rentals that had called in shortly before they arrived. Kelly read the descriptions aloud while Steve scribbled frantic notes.
When he’d filled two pages with addresses, they thanked Jerry and drove back across town toward The Glades to look at several properties in Daytona's neighboring communities of Flagler Beach and Ormond by the Sea.
The first few houses they saw were either too small or had been badly neglected. The lawns were so overgrown with weeds Kelly joked of having nightmares of a vegetation takeover. Well past noon they exhausted their list and stopped for oyster burgers and beers at Steve’s favorite seafood restaurant in Flagler before returning to the real estate office to build a new list.
Forty-five minutes later, armed with a new list of possible rentals, they headed back toward the intercoastal waterway and turned onto the Granada Bridge. Two-thirds of the way up the steep incline all traffic had stopped, but the westbound lanes were empty and there was no through traffic coming over the bridge.
“Wonder what’s going on. There’s way too much traffic backed up for a Sunday,” Steve mumbled, dropping the car into first gear and inching to a stop. “Must be bad. Everyone’s turning off their engines and leaving their cars. Let’s walk up and take a look.”
Steve jumped out of the car and walked around to Kelly’s side. She grabbed her purse, as he took her hand and helped her out, a gallant act which she thought contrived, since, in her mind, chivalry was dead in the new millennium. The act was no doubt meant to impress her. She easily could have climbed out without any assistance. The vehicle had no doors.
She was about to say something sarcastic until he turned around. No smugness gleamed in his eyes, only sincerity. The guy was a genuine gentleman.
They headed up the incline, Steve striding ahead of her, assuring Kelly that this indeed was no date in his mind. This action put her at ease, especially after she had discovered his passion for football. If he so much as tried to hold her hand, she would bite his knuckles. In her experience, men often became possessive too fast, trying to touch and hold hands, when all she’d done was follow them to the copy machine. As attractive as Steve McCarthy was, she wasn’t in the mood to play the dating game. If he hadn’t been a realtor by hobby, she wouldn’t have seen him after their luggage swap.
“It’s an accident,” Steve yelled over his shoulder from the top of the bridge. “There’s a fire truck, a couple of paramedics and a police car in the oncoming lanes. Doesn’t look like anyone’s critically injured,” he said when she joined him. “But we aren’t going anywhere for a while. Looks like someone crashed through the lane partitions. There are chunks of car all over the place.”
Behind them, vehicles packed onto the bridge bumper-to-bumper, leaving no way to turn around. Eastbound and westbound lanes resembled parking lots, and the next nearest bridge lay six miles to the south. They would have to wait until the wreckage was cleared.
Steve swung around and glanced toward the car. “Do you fish?”
“I used to love fishing, but I haven’t done much lately. Why?”
“We’ve got some time to kill.” Steve walked around to the back of the Jeep, and Kelly followed. He rummaged through a duffle bag, pulling free two collap
sible fishing rods and a tackle box. “Come on. I’ll refresh your memory.”
A number of people had emerged from their vehicles and now were wandering around the bridge, watching the police direct traffic and clear away the accident.
“Are you sure it’s okay to fish off the bridge?” Kelly asked, noticing a No Fishing sign posted half way up.
“Not really, but the police are busy, and we’re pretty far back.” The car sat halfway down the bridge.
Kelly hesitated.
“Pearson, this isn’t the big city. We’re pretty laid back here. Come on. Let’s have some fun. Maybe you’ll catch dinner. Besides, there are already a few old geezers pulling out their rods behind us.”
Clutching the fishing gear under his arm, Steve scaled the concrete lane divider with ease and reached around to offer Kelly a hand.
Kelly eyed him with skepticism.
“Come on.” He grabbed her wrist. “I’ve got you.”
“I don’t know…” The divider looked about three and a half feet high. “I’m not feeling particularly athletic at the moment.”
“Give it a try. Wedge your foot against the wall, and when I say jump, you jump. I’ll haul you over.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Yeah, sure, and if I fall and break my neck, I’m never speaking to you again.”
“Trust me. I won’t let you fall.”
Kelly wished he’d said anything but trust me. Trust was a four-letter word to Kelly—especially rolling off a man’s lips. Those old warning flags waved again in the back of her mind.
“Come on,” he urged, hand extended.
She evaluated the soles of her tennis shoes for tread. Nikes. Almost new. Lots of grip life left in them.
“Okay.” Here goes. She pulled up the legs of her calf-length pants to allow better mobility.
“Jump!”
Steve grabbed her, scooping her up and over the barrier. She cleared it by a foot and landed in his arms. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his thighs for a second, then slid down his body, envisioning a fireman’s pole and fighting off a grin. He was hard in all the right places.