Return to Magnolia Harbor

by Hope Ramsay

  “You’ll talk to Mom? ’Cause I’m not sure she wants me to do any kind of pirate project.”

  Topher nodded again.

  “Great. So, uh, can I play?” Jackie nodded toward the football.

  “Sure,” Micah said, handing Jackie the football. “And if you really want to know how to throw it, you should ask Topher. He was the quarterback who took the Rutledge Raiders all the way to the South Carolina state championship.”

  “Really?” The kid looked up at him with that expression he’d once seen on the faces of his classmates at Rutledge High. He hated that awe-filled look.

  What was wrong with people anyway? The ability to throw a tight spiral wasn’t enough to make a person a hero.

  And God only knew he was nobody’s hero.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Thursday night at six o’clock, Rafferty’s Raw Bar was chock-full of people. Outside, the skies had opened up with a cold rain that foreshadowed the arrival of autumn, so the diners who would normally have used the back deck were now waiting for tables in the main dining room.

  The crowd was extra heavy tonight because this weekend was the Last Gasp of Summer Festival, when the yacht club hosted a charity regatta. Sailors from all over the South arrived in town for the races, giving the local economy one last boost before the summer ended.

  Jessica scanned the mob, looking for Topher, but he hadn’t arrived yet. So she ducked into the entry vestibule and texted him.

  Jessica: I’m at Rafferty’s. It’s a zoo here. Did you call ahead for a table?

  She waited five minutes before a return text appeared.

  Topher: No. I’ve been circling, looking for a parking spot.

  Of course. Rafferty’s wasn’t far from Howland House, but he wouldn’t have walked in this rain. He would have gotten drenched trying to manage an umbrella and a cane at the same time.

  Time for plan B. She went back to texting.

  Jessica: Swing by the front. Do you like Chinese?

  Topher: Chinese? You can get Chinese in Magnolia Harbor?

  Jessica: Things have changed. Spicy or not?

  Topher: Not.

  Why did that surprise her? It seemed like a guy who had an eye patch and owned a yacht named Bachelor’s Delight should be down with super-spicy food. On the other hand, the letter-jacket boy of her memories probably liked his Chinese on the mild side.

  And that, in a nutshell, was her problem. She couldn’t decide if Topher was the evil jerk she’d painted him to be or a good guy who’d taken a wrong turn on a twisty road.

  If he hadn’t started the rumors about her, she couldn’t really hold him responsible for them, could she? And she couldn’t blame him more than anyone else for repeating gossip.

  Maybe she should thank him for clueing her in to what people were really saying about her and Colton. Jeez Louise. Did people really think she’d been sent away to have Colton’s love child?

  And were people still spreading that rumor? Or even worse, was that why everyone seemed so determined to see her and Colton together as a match? Were people trying to write a happy ending to a story that didn’t even exist?

  She didn’t know. But it was doubly disturbing. And really, there was nothing she could do about this gossip. She’d discovered that years ago. The best you could do was ignore the lies people told.

  So she decided not to raise the issue with Topher again. She’d let it go.

  She dialed the number for Szechuan Garden, the Chinese carryout on Tulip Street, and ordered dumplings, moo shu pork, and beef fried rice. Then she opened her umbrella and stepped out into the downpour.

  Topher pulled up a moment later in a brand-new black BMW X3, which was nothing short of her ideal car. But it sure wasn’t the sports car she’d expected him to drive.

  She hopped into the passenger’s side and sucked in the new leather upholstery smell, which was pretty heady stuff until she laid eyes on Topher.

  He wasn’t wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Tonight he looked like a refugee from Martha’s Vineyard in a blue oxford cloth shirt and a pair of Nantucket Reds. If they’d gone through with their plans to dine at Rafferty’s, he would have blended right in with the yacht club crowd who’d come for the sailboat races.

  “Hi,” she said, drawing in a deep breath filled with leather and something else mysterious and spicy.

  “So, Chinese?” he asked, lifting his right eyebrow just so.

  “Uh, yeah, on Tulip Street.” She summarized what she’d ordered and was relieved to discover that he was a huge fan of moo shu pork.

  “Does this place have a restaurant?”

  “No,” she replied. “I was thinking we could take it back to my place and—” She bit off the rest of the sentence when she realized what her words sounded like.

  She waited for him to say something snotty, but he remained steadfastly silent. Which only made her gaffe more embarrassing.

  “What I meant to say,” she said after an interminable moment, “was that every restaurant in town is going to be jam-packed, especially in this rain. So I thought we could eat out on the porch while we talk about your house.”

  She brought her hands together and interlaced her fingers, suddenly tense and unsure. She busied herself by watching his hands on the steering wheel.

  They were beautiful, with long, masculine fingers and nails trimmed all the way back to the quick. They gave the impression of strength and competence. But then, he’d been a quarterback, hadn’t he?

  “I make you nervous, don’t I?” he asked.

  She squeezed her hands together and remembered how futile it was to evade Topher Martin’s questions. “Yes,” she said.

  He didn’t ask her why. He lapsed into another silence as he drove through the heavy traffic and the downpour.

  She fervently wished he would turn on the radio. The silence was so thick she could hardly breathe. She needed to end it. But how? All she managed was an inarticulate “Um.”

  “What?”

  She cast around for something to say that wouldn’t get her into too much trouble and said the first thing that popped into her mind. “You might want to be aware that Caleb Tate is trying to reach you.”

  “I know. He’s left messages at the inn.”

  “He came by yesterday and wanted me to give him your phone number.”

  He glanced at her, surprise on his face. “You didn’t—”

  “No. I don’t give away client information.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So you don’t want to talk to him?” she asked, suddenly curious about Topher’s relationship with Caleb.

  “Who? Caleb? No. He’s a jerk.” There was a hardness to Topher’s voice that sparked a little flame of hope in her breast. Maybe they had never been friends.

  Should she tell him that Caleb did more than try to intimidate her? No. Topher wasn’t her protector, and she wasn’t gullible enough to fall for the he-man myth. Not that Topher classified as a he-man these days. But he probably still thought of himself that way.

  “Well, just so you know, Caleb is hot to get in touch. He’s a member of the South Carolina General Assembly now, and he thinks he’s entitled to your attention.”

  “No. He just wants my money.” The words were hard as Topher pulled to the curb in front of the carryout place. “I’ll get—”

  “No,” Jessica interrupted. “I’ll run in and get it.” She opened the door and escaped into the deluge. The cool, moist air cleared her head as she dashed from the SUV to the door.

  She needed to get a grip. She was starting to like Topher Martin, and that was unsettling in the extreme.

  * * *

  The rain beat against the roof of Topher’s car and hammered at his conscience. Caleb Tate was an asshole, and he’d done nothing about it back when he’d been captain of the team. Maybe it was time to remedy that failure.

  He didn’t really remember Caleb calling Jessica a slut, but he did remember a lot of stupid, sleazy things the star running back had done.
And his endless locker room talk.

  He’d be willing to bet that Caleb was the source of those rumors about Jessica. The thought turned his stomach.

  Tonight Caleb was probably up at the yacht club with a lot of Topher’s old sailing buddies. They’d be drinking beer and swapping stories. A little part of him missed all that. Not Caleb, but the camaraderie that he’d never have again.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Would he rather be up there at the club now, getting drunk and telling stories?

  No.

  He would rather be here, talking to his architect. Trying to figure out why he felt as if she’d been put in his path for some higher purpose. He didn’t believe in a higher power. He wasn’t religious. He hadn’t had a near-death experience that made him grateful for the life that had been spared the night he’d almost killed himself in the Ferrari. Or even after his harrowing experience out in the bay the other day.

  And yet Jessica tugged at him, as if there was some mystical string connecting him to her. She was good for him. Hadn’t he showered and shaved and dressed up for this dinner? He hadn’t dressed up for anyone in months.

  He turned in time to watch Jessica dash through the rain to his car. For once he didn’t envy the people in his old life. He would much rather be on his way to her place. He couldn’t help but stifle a smile at that thought.

  He made her uncomfortable. Was it because she blamed him for the rumors? Or because he’d touched her without permission? Or was it something else—the connection that had sparked between them when she’d handed him the scrap of paper with her address written on it?

  A deep rush of longing overwhelmed him, and he gripped the steering wheel. It was an established fact that he could be a total jerk. He should work very hard not to add idiot to the assessment.

  The scent of the rain and moo shu pork followed her into the car. “That smells good,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

  He fired up the engine and headed out onto the beach road. By the time he pulled into her driveway, the silence was like a thick, heavy blanket that might suffocate both of them.

  The rain had let up a bit, so he didn’t get totally soaked climbing the stairs to her front door. But when they got inside, the lights were out.

  “Oh, great,” she said with an audible groan. “I’d like to believe this is a widespread power outage, but I’ll bet there’s a fuse somewhere that’s blown.” She reached into her purse, withdrew her cell phone, and launched the flashlight app. “But I’m not letting perfectly good moo shu pork go cold while I figure it out.

  “You stay here,” she instructed. “I’m going to get paper plates and matches. There are candles out on the porch.”

  “I can make my way to the porch,” he said.

  She gave him the once-over. That look made him itch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know the way,” he interrupted.

  She nodded, and he turned away from her. He headed toward the porch and lowered himself into one of the Adirondack chairs. Rain dripped from the eaves with a relaxing sound, and beyond the curtain of drizzle, the Atlantic crashed against the sand with a rhythmic roar.

  He could get used to sitting out here.

  She arrived a few minutes later with a tray filled with paper plates, food cartons, and a couple of beers. She lit a bunch of citronella candles, which flickered in the moist breeze. The light cast a golden glow over their corner of the world.

  She handed him a beer and then a thick, rigid paper plate heaped with food. “Chopsticks?” she asked.

  He nodded, and she handed him one of the disposable sets that had come with the food. Then she sat down next to him and tucked into her dinner.

  They ate in silence until he finished his food and put the empty plate on the floor beside him. “So, I’ve been thinking about what I want,” he said.

  “Not a castle, I take it?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry about that. I just…” He looked out toward the ocean. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought everything through last week. But I think I have a much clearer picture now.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “The thing is, I like this house. I think this is exactly the kind of place my grandfather wanted to build out there.”

  “So a Carolina Coastal house, only smaller and not on stilts.”

  Her words irked him in some deep way. But then again, she’d watched him struggle up the stairs a few moments ago. But he didn’t want to focus on that, so he leaned forward and asked, “Why smaller?”

  “Well, this house is ridiculously large. Probably six thousand square feet. I rattle around in here. And I’m pretty sure we’ll have a zoning limit of five thousand square feet. But even that’s kind of large, since it’s just going to be you living out there, right?”

  “I want a bigger house.”

  She jumped a little, and he regretted his dictatorial tone. He was out of practice when it came to being in polite company. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “No, it’s fine,” she interrupted. “You’re the client. You should get what you want, but there are challenges to building a large off-the-grid house.”

  “Those challenges weren’t a problem with your castle?”

  “My castle, as you put it, had only three bedrooms and was maybe three thousand square feet.”

  He studied her. There was a tiny glob of plum sauce at the corner of her mouth, and he fought the urge to wipe it away. Or maybe lick it away.

  Damn. He pushed the idea out of his head and focused on the issue at hand. “Well, the thing is, I want a big house with a wraparound porch.”

  “How many bedrooms do you want?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Five. Six. More.”

  “So, um, are you planning to raise a family out there or what?”

  * * *

  Topher barked out a bitter-sounding laugh that suggested he hadn’t gotten her intended humor. He turned his gaze beyond the porch railing at the ocean, now a dark-gray shadow as the rainy evening edged toward night. Jessica took this moment to truly study him.

  He was a big man, tall, broad shouldered, and unquestionably male in every respect. He commanded her attention even to the smallest detail, the way his lashes outlined his eyelid, the way the scars marred his jaw, the way his lips pressed together. Was he angry?

  Or hurt?

  Now, there was an odd thought. She’d been so busy being angry with him that the possibility of his hurt had only brushed against her thoughts.

  He turned his gaze in her direction, and she caught her breath. Although it was nearly dark, the blue of a summer sky had gotten into his eye, and she lost herself in the endlessness of it.

  “You’re staring,” he said. “Do you think I’m a monster?”

  “No. You’re handsome, but you can also be rude and selfish and—” She stopped talking before she said anything else. What was wrong with her? She knew better than to speak her mind.

  “I am selfish,” he said. “And you…” He paused for a moment. “You are crazy if you think I’m handsome.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been so blunt, but your question wasn’t fair.”

  “It didn’t stop you from answering.”

  A raging fire crawled up her face. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Do you think I’m redeemable?” he asked.

  What an odd question. How could he need redemption if he was truly blameless? “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I think you have the power to redeem me,” he continued.

  Oh, that was a seductive thought, but she knew better. “I think you’d have to take redemption up with God,” she said.

  Topher snorted a laugh. “I don’t believe in God.”

  She held her tongue. She knew better than to say anything else.

  He shook his head and looked away, releasing her from the difficult and bizarre conversation.

  She cleared her throat and reached for her
best professional-architect voice. “Okay, to summarize, you’re good with Carolina Coastal and some number of bedrooms to be determined?”

  He pushed up from the chair and moved to the porch railing. He leaned forward on it, the rain from the broken gutter dripping over his fists.

  “I want five bedrooms.”

  “That many?”

  “You don’t have to know why,” he muttered. “I want them because I want them. I don’t need a reason. Remember I’m a selfish asshole,” he said like a petulant child.

  “Okay.”

  He turned, looming over her. “And don’t think you can soften me up by lying to me.”

  Now she was annoyed. She stood up and took a step toward him. “I’m not a liar.”

  “You said I was handsome.”

  “You are.” And she meant it. Yes, he was scarred, but the beautiful boy was still there, tempered by something that was deep and masculine. Something that appealed to her female sensibilities. And she hated to admit it, but there might be something redeemable beyond the surface.

  He shook his head. “No. But you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “That’s the truth. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.” He lifted his hand and stroked the back of his index finger down her cheek. His fingers traced a line of fire over her skin.

  He smelled like the trade winds on a summer day, spicy and salty and so delicious that she leaned into him. For a crazy moment, she thought he might kiss her, and she wasn’t even frightened by the prospect.

  Instead he took a step back. “It’s late,” he said, even though it wasn’t. He turned, heading for the porch door in his uneven gait.

  A wave of disappointment crashed over her with the roar of the surf behind. She wouldn’t have stopped him. Good grief, she wanted him to kiss her.

  When he reached the double doors, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “We’ll sail out to the island on Monday, and you’ll show me plans for a five-bedroom house with a porch like this one.”

  He turned and let himself out into the storm.

  Chapter Twelve

  Topher awakened on Friday with a growl. He lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling fan, endlessly turning, sending cool air over his hot, sweaty skin.