by Drea Stein
She was a good girl. Not in a prim way, not at all, judging by the way she had responded to him. Still, he just knew that Darby Reese was a good girl. The type of girl who ran her dad’s restaurant for him while he was on vacation. The type of girl who everybody liked, who baked cookies to help out the team, who probably kept her books sorted in alphabetical order
He ran a hand through his hair. She was a good girl, which was exactly the reason he needed to stay away from her. She deserved better. Yes, he was trying to be a better person, but he wasn’t there. Truth was, when he had punched Will Green, all he had thought was that the guy had deserved it, that it had felt good. Very good to feel his hands connect with another person’s face. Just like old times. In fact, if some of the busboys hadn’t pulled him off, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stop.
Before that moment, he had thought he’d put his past behind him, that he’d never become the kind of man he’d been shaping up to be. And then one little worm of a guy had pushed his buttons, and he’d gone right back to being the type of hothead who couldn’t be trusted.
But with Darby it was all of a sudden important to him that she thought more of him. The knowledge surprised him. He walked to the railing of the dock. A mother duck and her ducklings were swimming around. He knew they often came here, looking for handouts. Sean pulled the lettuce he had set aside from the pocket of his chef’s uniform and tossed it into the water. There was a flurry of interest, some quacks, and soon momma and babies were happily feasting.
He smiled at the scene, and then his thoughts turned to her again. He’d gone to explain himself, and suddenly he’d been thinking along entirely different lines. Like how her freckles were like flakes of cinnamon dusted across her pale skin. How the sun, before it had been subsumed by the clouds, had gilded her hair red, and how all he had wanted to do was twine his hands through it.
And her lips. She had licked them and then bitten them as she had listened to him, with an intensity that told him she was taking it all in, and it had driven him crazy. He hadn’t been able to stop himself—and well, she hadn’t exactly told him no, had she? No, she had damn near given him a gold-stamped invitation.
He scrubbed his hands through his hair. He didn’t know why he cared what she thought. She had accepted his apology. In fact, she was only here for a little while, and perhaps with any luck, so was he. He hadn’t come here to get involved with a woman. He’d come here to do a job. An important one. Getting involved with someone like Darby Reese wasn’t on his agenda. Couldn’t be on his agenda. He had his own redemption to work on. He couldn’t bring anyone else along for the ride. Except there was something about her, something that had made him want to ask if they could start over.
Someone called his name from the inside. Swearing to himself, he put his hat back on and went into the heat of the kitchen.
Chapter 12
Quentin Tate was a big man. Darby had always wondered if he’d been born that way, ripping through his poor mother’s body and entering the world with a lusty cry. Because everything about Quent was larger than life, from his laugh, to his hands, to the way his voice bellowed when he was telling a story.
“So, I hear you’re in charge, girl.” Sure enough, Quentin’s voice boomed out as he entered The Dory.
She barely looked up. It was after the early morning rush and there was no one else seated inside the café. Everything was in order, her muffins baked, her scones cooling, while a crockpot held warming oatmeal, and a glass jar contained her own special blend of granola. So far, everything had been a hit, and no one had minded the fact that she had priced all the specials just a bit higher than normal.
Quent strolled up and stood with his feet braced apart, hands on his hips, surveying the array of good she had arranged in the glass counter. He looked like the bartender he was, with his shaved head, dark, hard eyes, and biceps so big they could probably crush an elephant. He had his usual five o’clock shadow, even this early, and Darby noticed that there were now a few wisps of gray dusted in.
“So, lassie, you send your father out of town, and you take over the place,” Quent said, with what, for him, passed as wit.
“Quent, what a surprise to see you up so early.” She said it as sweetly as she could, knowing from experience that the best way to get rid of him was to humor him.
Quentin’s Pub was open until last call, and that meant that Quent was not a morning person and didn’t usually make an appearance around town until at least noon.
“Everyone’s been talking about how Reg’s little girl is back in town, baking up a storm. I heard your scones were lighter than air and just thought I’d check them out,” he said, taking a seat at one of her tables, pulling the newspaper out from under his arm, and looking like he was more than prepared to settle in for a while.
Quent had shown up in Queensbay half a decade ago, single and unemployed. He’d affected something of an Irish accent when he’d first arrived and took over behind the bar of what had been called the Rusty Nail. He was cryptic on the details of his background, but word was he always seemed to have plenty of cash to throw around.
Soon after, the original owner had sold out to Quent and retired to Florida. Now Quent held court in his own establishment, selling beer, burgers, and clam chowder to the mariners and locals.
“We have plain and cranberry-orange,” she said, trying not to let her irritation show. She knew her father sometimes fished with Quent, but Quent’s fake chumminess and phony Irish accent grated on her nerves. Not to mention that he was forever making subtle digs at just about everyone.
She knew that Quent had put out a “friendly” offer to buy The Dory more than once, but so far, her dad had said he wasn’t ready to sell. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than knowing Quent owned The Dory.
“I’ll just have a plain one with some butter and a cup of your coffee.”
She brought the scone around and set it on a plate in front of Quent, the side of butter in its little dish and a napkin with the flatware wrapped up inside.
“Well isn’t this fancy. Seems like you’re already putting your own stamp on the place and your Da only gone a couple of days.”
She decided to ignore him by focusing on what the weather was doing outside the large plate glass windows. It was going to be a hot day. Yesterday’s squall had washed away the humidity for only a little while, and now, even though it was early, the air was hot and wet, surrounding her like a musty blanket. She sighed. She didn’t need Quent poking around. Like most bartenders, he had a talent for ferreting out secrets.
“Place could do with a bit of a change. Old Reg seems blind to the fact that there’s competition moving in, that the clientele is changing.” Quent smiled as he said it, but she still felt a chill run through her.
She didn’t like the way he called her father old. Quent himself wasn’t that much younger than Reg anyway. Besides, her dad wasn’t old. Just set in his ways.
“And this is coming from a man that runs a bar. You couldn’t get the smell of stale beer out of there if you tried,” she said tartly, even though it wasn’t quite true.
With his wad of cash, Quent had cleaned the bar up when he took it over, redoing the floors, painting, buying new furniture, adding TVs, and serving satisfying pub food. All in all, it was a fairly classy place, as far as bars went, and business had been good for him.
“Oh, I try.” Quent gave a laugh, and then fixed on her with his hard, dark eyes. “Just wondering how a busy young lawyer like you manages to have a few weeks free. Doesn’t that fancy law firm your Da’s always talking about need you on a case?” Quent waited, expecting an answer.
She wasn’t about to fall into that trap. She had seen it with witnesses on the stand all too often, the need to fill in a silence, to answer a question, to supply more information than was necessary just because a question had been asked. The less you volunteered the harder it was to trip you up.
“I’m between jobs.” She let the lie run off h
er tongue easily. “I’ll be starting up again after Labor Day. I saved up quite a bit of vacation time.” She took a towel and wiped down a table that was already clean.
“Well, must be nice to have that kind of life. Don’t get that working in a restaurant, do ya?” Quent gave her a wink and took a bite of his scone.
In spite of herself, she waited, wanting to know what his reaction was. She watched as he took a bite, saw his eyes open in surprise, and then a smile come over his fierce face.
“Well, just about as good as me old grandma made,” Quent said, washing down his scone with a sip of his coffee.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” she said absently, her eyes fixed on the figure she could see through the window, making his way straight toward The Dory. It took far less time than she would have thought for him to make it here.
The bell above the door jangled as he entered the room.
“Good morning,” Sean said, a trace of a smile curving his lips. “Rumor is you have scones today.”
“That she does, laddie,” Quent interjected.
She quashed the desire to slap out at him with a towel. Her heart had started hammering the moment she saw Sean, her stomach had jumped doing a happy dance, and her legs felt just the tiniest bit weak. Sensations, normal reactions to someone I shared a kiss with, she thought, her rational mind cataloging them, filing them away to be assessed and evaluated at another time. She had to remember that he’d kissed and run, that she didn’t, shouldn’t even owe him the tiniest bit of interest. But he was here now, looking at her, gauging her reaction. Just stay cool, she told herself. Strong, cool, sexy, confident, she chanted in her head, turning away from him to buy her some time.
He looked as if he had just arrived from the shower. His golden hair was somewhat tamed, and he was freshly shaven. She could catch the smell of soap and shaving cream on him as he came and stood just a little too close for comfort, setting off more heat in her than a five-alarm fire. She moved out of his way to pick up an empty tea cup and dump it in the service bin. There was no reason for her to be nervous, she reminded herself. Just the fact that they had practically ripped each other’s clothes off the night before. Still, it was a surprise to see him standing here, his root-beer-colored eyes fixed on her, watching her, looking like he might just want to eat her up.
Sean tore his eyes away from hers and glanced over at Quent, who was smiling possessively at her. Once again, she fought the urge to snap at him with her towel.
“Don’t you have a bar to open up?” she asked, hoping Quent would get the message and leave her alone with Sean.
Quent just smiled. “There’s plenty of time. It’s best not to start serving alcohol too early in the morning.”
Quent then turned his attention to Sean and stuck out a meaty hand. “Quentin Tate, but everyone calls me Quent.”
Sean shook it, nodding. “You own the pub?”
“That’s me,” Quent boomed out. He stood up, took his paper, and folded it neatly under his arm. He glanced between the two of them, his shrewd eyes missing nothing, “Well, lassie, I’ll be sure to tell your father that you’re carrying on just fine without him. Seems like you missed your talent, taking a law degree instead of going into baking, since your scones are as light as an angel. I’d tell you that you’re in the wrong line of work, but I know how proud your dad is of you. Nice of you to help out one last time before your Da sells it.”
She froze, the words taking a moment to sink in. “What do you mean, sell it?”
Quent smiled again, and this time there wasn’t even a trace of warmth to it. “You haven’t heard then? Your father, he’s ready to retire, you see, and I’ve made him a fair offer. Better than fair, seeing how we’re fishing buddies. He’s all but accepted it and I’m just waiting for him to get back to sign the papers. He was going to take the trip away to think about it, and I bet when he knows what’s it like to be able to fish every day, he’ll be more than ready.”
“But he can’t,” she said. “It’s the family’s business. He can’t just sell it without talking to the rest of us.”
Quent shrugged. “Well, I don’t want to get involved in that, but I think your Ma’s on board. You know how she’s always after him to travel more, do more things besides work. And since you’re all set with your own big-time career, doesn’t seem like there’s much of a discussion to be had, does there?”
Her legs really did feel boneless now, and it was only pride that kept her from sliding into her chair and throwing her head into her hands. Her father selling The Dory? Without even a word to her?
“And a good day to you.”
She was dimly aware that Quent was saying his goodbyes, clapping Sean on the back and giving her a smile as he walked out the door.
Chapter 13
“Maybe you should sit down?” Sean didn’t like the look on Darby’s face. All the color had drained from it, and she looked as if she were going to be sick.
“I’m fine.” Darby waved her hand, took a step, and then sank down into one of the chairs, facing the windows.
“Here.” He moved quickly, economically, and grabbed a glass and a pitcher of ice water from the counter. He poured a glass for her and all but shoved it into her hands. If he’d had a bottle of brandy, he would have poured her some and made her drink that instead.
“You look as if you’ve had the rug pulled out from under you,” he said, worried when she didn’t respond right away.
Darby looked up, and he felt slightly reassured. The green color was gone, and there was a fierce look about her.
“I didn’t think my father was really thinking of selling. I thought I had more time.”
“Time for what?” He was puzzled. He knew he should have stayed away, if he truly thought that he wasn’t good enough for her. But he couldn’t, hadn’t wanted to. In the cool light of the morning, he had woken up and his first thought had been of her. Not even a series of sprints along the beach or a round of pull-ups and pushups had driven her from his mind.
So he had come up with a plan, a way to make it possible to ease into things with her. However, the thought of taking it slowly was warring with his desire to pull Darby close to him. He reached out a hand across the table, but Darby moved hers away before he could touch her.
Undaunted, he found her hand and pulled it close to him, turning his body toward her so that their knees were touching. He took his other hand and brushed back a strand of hair that was falling across her face. Her green eyes held his, and he thought he detected not fear, but wariness in her eyes.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“For the scones?” he answered, keeping his voice light.
“If you came to apologize again, don’t. I think you’ve insulted me enough. I thought you wanted that kiss as much as I did. Then you ran away. Was it the thunder? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little thunder. Or is it me? I don’t bite—and, well, we certainly know you’re not afraid of saying what’s on your mind.”
“Darby,” he started. She tried to pull away from him, but he pulled back, so that she looked at him. “I was trying not to be an ass.”
“A what?” she breathed.
“An ass, you know, like you said? I was trying to apologize, and that was it.”
“So you didn’t follow me home to put the moves on me?” Darby’s eyes scrunched together.
“That wasn’t the only thing on my mind,” he said carefully, wondering how the hell a man was supposed to answer that and live.
He shook his head at the confusion in her voice. “No, I can most definitely assure you that I’ve been thinking of putting the moves on you since I first saw you. But I was trying to be, you know, a gentleman. I thought I would apologize, let you think about it, and then try and put the moves on you again.”
He flashed a smile. “It’s just being with you, I guess my timeline got a little compressed. But, for the record, I’m glad it did.”
But Darby only nodded, and then seemed to pull herself
back into her own thoughts. “Okay,” she said, but the frown remained, and he sensed that her mind was moving in another direction.
“Now,” he said, “Since I am trying to be a sympathetic example of the male species, do you want to tell me what’s on your mind? Because if that guy Quent upset you, I’ll—”
“Go punch him out? We know that will only get you in more trouble.” She shot him a rueful smile.
In spite of himself, he laughed. “I suppose I could serve him some bad clams, give him a case of food poisoning he’d never forget.”
She smiled at him and he felt his heart jump. “But I don’t think that’s going to solve your problem,” he added.
“I don’t want my dad to sell The Dory to Quent. I want to work here with him, or if he wants to retire, I’ll buy it.”
“Sell it to you? Why wouldn’t you just take it over from him?” He was puzzled. Most restaurants that were family affairs were handed down from generation to generation, without a question.
Darby shook her head. “My father never wanted me to have anything to do with restaurants. He wanted me to go to school, get good grades, and get into an excellent college. Become a lawyer. You know, make something of myself.”
“And?”
“I did all that. Everything he wanted. I became a lawyer because he wanted me to. But I can’t do it anymore. I want to cook and bake. I want to make things that make people happy. I don’t want to write briefs or threatening letters, or come up with contracts that try to protect every party from every possible thing that could ever possibly happen.”
“Your cookies are amazing,” he said, savoring the feel of Darby’s pulse in her wrist as it beat under his thumb. His own heart was racing, as he thought about the way she had looked at him last night. The connection was there between the two them, something different than he had ever felt before. Sure, there was lust, but something more. He wanted to make this right for her. Whatever it was that was bothering her, he wanted to fix it.