It Happened One Summer

by Tessa Bailey

  Her bravado slipped a little. “I guess we’ll see about that.”

  “I guess we will.”

  She took her chin out of his hand and strutted up the walkway, which was just playing dirty. The clingy green material of her dress stretched and shifted over her ass, immediately making him question whether being a gentleman was overrated.

  Yeah, he wanted to take her to bed more than he could remember wanting anything. Every muscle in his body was strung tight at the sight of her gorgeous legs in the darkness outside his front door. But he couldn’t shake the intuition that going too fast with Piper would be a mistake. Maybe she even wanted him to give in, just so she could put him in a box labeled Fling.

  Worst part of it was . . . maybe he was only fling material for her. Tonight, she looked more suited to gliding around a Hollywood mansion than eating a homemade meal at his bachelor pad. He might be delusional trying to shoot his shot. If she was determined to go back to LA, there was no way he could stop her. But something inside him, some intuition, wouldn’t allow him to give Piper anything but his best effort.

  Brendan unlocked the door, flipped on the lights, and turned to watch her reaction. She’d be able to see most of it at first glance. The downstairs was an open concept, with the living room on the right, kitchen and dining room on the left. It wasn’t full of knickknacks or cluttered with pictures. Everything was simple, modern, but what furniture he did have was handmade locally with driftwood—and he liked that. Liked that his home was a representation of what the people of his town could do with wood from the ocean.

  “Oh.” She let out a rush of breath, a dimple popping up in her cheek. “Brendan . . . you set the table already.”

  “Yeah.” Remembering his manners, he went to the kitchen and took the bottle of champagne out of the fridge. She came to stand by the dining table, seeming a little dumbfounded as she watched him pop the cork and pour. “You’ll have to tell me if this is any good. They only had two kinds at the liquor store, and the other one came in a can.”

  She laughed, set her purse down, and removed the sweater in a slow, sensual movement that nearly caused his composure to falter. “Why don’t you have some with me?”

  “I drink beer. No champagne.”

  Piper edged a hip up onto the table, and he almost overflowed the glass. “I bet I’ll convince you to have some by the end of the night.”

  Jesus, she probably could convince him to do a lot of things if she put her mind to it, but he reckoned he should keep that to himself. He handed her the champagne flute he’d purchased that very afternoon, watched her take a sip, and the memory of their kiss rolled through him hard.

  “It’s fantastic,” she said with a sigh.

  Relief settled in next to need. He ignored the latter. For now. “Just going to put the fish in the oven, then I want to show you something.”

  “Okay.”

  Brendan opened the fridge and took out the foil-covered baking dish. He’d already prepared the sole, drizzled it with lemon juice, salt, and pepper. In Westport, you learned young how to make a fish dinner, even if you never honed another skill in the kitchen. It was necessary, and he thanked God for that knowledge now. As he turned on the oven and slid in the dish, he decided his kitchen would forever look boring without Piper standing in it. She was something out of another world, posed to seduce with her killer body angled just right, elbow on hip, wrist lazily swirling her champagne.

  “Come on.” Before he could give in to temptation and lift her onto the table, forget about dinner altogether, he snagged her free hand, guiding her through the living room toward the back of the house. He slapped on the light leading to his back patio and opened the door, gesturing for her to precede him. “Thought I’d show you what’s possible with the outdoor space at the bar, if you wanted to add some greenery.” It occurred to him then that maybe gardening wasn’t exactly a sexy trait for a man to have. “I just needed something to do on my days off—”

  Her gasp cut him off. “Wow. Oh my God, Brendan. It’s magical out here.” She walked through the roughly cut stone pathway, somehow not tripping in her heels. The ferns, which he really needed to get around to trimming, grazed her hips as she passed. The trickling sound from the stone water feature seemed to be calling her, and she stopped in front of it, trailing a finger along the surface. There was a single wrought-iron chair angled in the corner where he sat sometimes with a beer after a long trip, trying to get his equilibrium back. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a gardener, but now I can see it. You love your roots.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “You’ve got everything carved out just the way you like it.”

  Do I?

  He would have thought so until recently.

  His going through the motions, doing the same thing over and over again, had become less . . . satisfying. No denying it.

  “I do love this place,” he said slowly. “Westport.”

  “You’d never think of leaving.” A statement, not a question.

  “No,” he answered anyway, resisting the urge to qualify that definite no somehow.

  She leaned down to smell one of the blooms on his purple aster bush. “What about a vacation? Do you ever take them?”

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. “When I was a kid, my parents used to bring me camping on Whidbey Island. They moved down to Eugene, Oregon, a while back to be closer to my mother’s family.”

  “No leisure trips since childhood? Nothing at all?”

  Brendan shook his head, chuckling when Piper gave him a scandalized look. “People take trips to see the ocean. I don’t need to go anywhere for that. She’s right here in my backyard.”

  Piper came closer, amusement dancing in her eyes. “My mother warned me all about you king crab fishermen and your love affairs with the sea. I thought she was being dramatic, but you really can’t resist the pull of the water, can you?” She searched his face. “You’re in a serious relationship.”

  Something shifted in his stomach. “What do you mean, she warned you?”

  Her shoulder lifted and dropped. “She loves her husband, Daniel. But . . . I think there was some unprocessed grief talking. Because of what happened to Henry.” She stared off into the distance, as if trying to recall the conversation. “She told me and Hannah that fishermen always choose the sea. They go back over and over again, even if it scares their loved ones. Based on that, I’m guessing she wanted Henry to quit and . . . you know the rest.”

  This wasn’t a conversation he’d planned on. Would he ever give up the more dangerous aspects of his job? No. No, battling the tides, the current, the waves was his life’s work. There was salt water running through his veins. Making it clear that he would always choose the ocean, no matter what, put him at a deficit with Piper already—and they hadn’t even eaten yet.

  But when she turned her face up to the moonlight, and he saw only honest curiosity there, he felt compelled to make her understand.

  “Every year, I get a couple of greenhorns on the boat. First-time crabbers. Most of them are young kids trying to make some quick cash, and they never make it longer than the first season. But once in a while, there’s one . . . I can see it from the wheelhouse. The bond he’s forming with the sea. And I know he’ll never get away from her.”

  She smiled. “Like you.”

  A voice whispered in the back of his head, You’re screwing yourself. He was an honest man, though, often to a fault. “Yeah. Like me.” He searched her hairline. “That bruise on your head is finally gone.”

  She reached up and rubbed the spot. “It is. Did I ever thank you properly for sending Abe to pad the upper bunk?”

  “No thanks necessary.”

  Piper eliminated the remaining distance between them, stopping just shy of her tits touching his chest. She was soft, graceful, feminine. So much smaller than him. With her this close, he felt like a tamed giant, holding his breath and waiting, waiting to see what the beautiful girl would do next. “You could have just kissed
it and made it all better.”

  His exhale came out hard, thanks to all the blood in his body rushing south to his cock. “You told me your flirt was broken with me. It doesn’t seem like that’s the case tonight.”

  Her lips curved. “Maybe because I came dressed in body armor.”

  Brendan tilted his head and let his gaze sweep across her bare shoulders, legs, and back to her low, tight neckline. “That armor couldn’t protect you from anything.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. “Couldn’t it?”

  She sailed into the house, leaving her seductive scent in her wake.

  Brendan had always thought battling the ocean would forever be his biggest challenge. But that was before he met Piper. Maybe he didn’t know the how or the what of this thing between them yet, but his gut never lied. He’d never lost a battle with the water when listening to his instincts, and he hoped like hell those same instincts wouldn’t fail him now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Piper watched Brendan take a seat on the opposite side of the table and frowned.

  The boat captain didn’t appear to be easily seduced. When she’d picked this dress out, she hadn’t even expected them to make it through the front door, but here they were, sitting in his charmingly masculine dining room, preparing to eat food he made himself.

  And he’d bought her champagne.

  Men had bought her jewelry, taken her to nice restaurants—one eager beaver had even bought her a Rolls for her twenty-second birthday. She’d made no bones about liking nice things. But none of those gifts had ever made her feel as special as this homemade meal.

  She didn’t want to feel special around Brendan, though. Did she?

  Since arriving in Westport, she’d had more frank conversations with Brendan than anyone in her life, save Hannah. She wanted to know more about him, to reveal more of herself in return, and that was intensely scary.

  Because what could come of this?

  She was only in Westport for three months, almost two weeks down already. Tomorrow he’d leave for two weeks. Then back in and out to sea, three days at a time. This had all the makings of a temporary hookup. But his refusal to put a label on this thing between them left the door of possibilities swinging wide open.

  She actually didn’t even know how to be more than a temporary hookup.

  That impossible-to-ignore white tan line around his ring finger and the fact that she was his first date since taking it off? It was overwhelming for someone whose longest relationship had only been three weeks and had ended with her confidence shot full of holes. Whatever he expected to happen between them . . . she couldn’t deliver on that.

  And maybe that was the real problem.

  The burly sea captain waited in silence for her to take the first bite, his elbows on the table, totally unpracticed at being on a date. A muscle ticced in his cheek, telling her Brendan was nervous about her reaction to his cooking. But every thought in her head must have been showing on her face, because he raised an eyebrow at her. She rolled the tension out of her shoulders and dug her fork into the flaky white fish, adding a potato, too, and pushing it between her lips. Chewing. “Oh. Wow, this is great.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Totally.” She took another bite, and he finally started eating his own meal. “Do you cook for yourself a lot?”

  “Yes.” He ate the way he did everything else. No pussyfooting around. Insert fork, put food in mouth, repeat. No pausing. “Except for Monday nights.”

  “Oh, the Red Buoy is a scheduled weekly event. I should have known.” She laughed. “I make fun of you for your routines, but they’re probably what make you a good captain.”

  He made a sound. “Haven’t been in my routines this week, have I?”

  “No.” She considered him. Even warned herself against delving too deeply into why he’d changed things up. But her curiosity got the best of her. “Why is that? I mean, what made you decide to”—take off your ring?—“rearrange your schedule?”

  Brendan seemed to choose his words. “I’ll never be impulsive. Consistency equals safety on the water, and I got comfortable abiding by rules at all times. It makes me worthy to have lives in my hands, you know? Or that was my reasoning in the beginning, and it just stuck. For a long time. But recently, here on land . . . someone kept throwing wrenches in my routines, and the world didn’t end.” He studied her, as if to judge her reaction and whether or not to continue. “It was kind of like I’d been waiting for a shoe to drop. Then it dropped, and instead of chaos, I just, uh . . .” A beat passed. “Saw the potential for a new course.”

  Piper swallowed hard. “The shoe dropped, but it was a peep-toe stiletto?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I can harness my chaos for good. I might need you as a character witness at a future trial.” Her words didn’t quite convey the levity she was hoping for, mostly because she sounded breathless over his admission. Piper Bellinger had had a positive effect on someone. He’d admitted it out loud. “But it’s not just me that forced the change,” she said, and laughed, desperate to dull the throb in her chest. “There had to be other factors.”

  Brendan started to say something and stopped.

  Since meeting this man, she’d suspected he never said anything without a reason. If he was holding back, she could only imagine how important it must be. She found herself setting down her fork, wanting to give him her undivided attention. “What is it?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m purchasing a second boat for next season. It’s being built now. I’m going to check on the progress while I’m in Dutch Harbor—that’s the port in Alaska where we’ll wait a week after setting our traps.”

  “That’s exciting.” Her brow wrinkled. “How are you going to captain two ships?”

  “I’m not. I’m going to put Fox in the wheelhouse of the Della Ray.”

  Piper smiled into a sip of champagne. “Does he know yet?”

  “No. I can’t give him time to talk himself out of it.”

  “Would he? He seems . . . confident.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying he’s a cocky asshole. And he is. But he’s smarter than he thinks.” Brendan paused, looking down with a knitted brow. “Maybe handing over the Della Ray is a good way to distance myself from the past.”

  Piper stayed very still. “Why do you want to distance yourself?”

  “Apart from it being time? I think . . . a part of me feels obligated to remain in the past as long as I’m captaining Mick’s boat.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, laughing without humor. “I can’t believe I’m saying it out loud when normally I’d just bury it. Maybe I should bury it.”

  “Don’t.” Her mouth was dry over this man opening up to her. Looking at her across the table with rare male vulnerability, as if he truly valued her response. “You don’t have to feel guilty about wanting some space after seven years, Brendan,” she said quietly. “That’s a lot more than most people would give. The fact that you feel guilty at all just proves you’re a quality human. Even if you wear a beanie at the dinner table.”

  The green of his eyes warmed. “Thank you. For not judging me.”

  Sensing his need to move on from the subject, Piper looked around the dining room. “Who am I to judge anyone? Especially someone who has a cool house his parents don’t own. Two boats and a life plan. It’s intimidating, actually.”

  He frowned. “You’re intimidated by me?”

  “Not so much you. More like your work ethic. I don’t even know if I’m pronouncing that right. That’s how not often I’ve said ‘work ethic’ out loud.” She felt the need to even the playing field, to reward his honesty with some of her own. His confessions made it easy to confess her own sins. “My friend Kirby and I started a lipstick line called Pucker Up, maybe three years back. Once the launch party was over and we realized how much work we had to do, we gave away our inventory to friends and went to Saint-Tropez. Because we were tired.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t
the right career path.”

  “Yeah, well.” Her lips twitched. “Professional napper was my fallback, and I nailed that. That’s partially why I’m here. But also because my friend Kirby ratted me out to the cops.”

  “She didn’t,” he said, his expression darkening.

  “She did! Fingered me as the ringleader from the shallow end of the pool. Appropriately.” Piper waved a hand around. “It’s fine, though. We’re still friends. I just can’t trust her or tell her anything important.”

  He seemed to be concentrating hard on what she was saying. “Do you have a lot of friends like that?”

  “Yes.” She drew a circle on the side of the champagne flute. “It’s more for image than anything, I guess. Influence. Being seen. But it’s weird, you know. I’ve only been out of Los Angeles for two weeks, and it’s like I was never there. None of my friends have texted or messaged me. They’re on to bigger and better things.” She shook her head. “Meanwhile people still leave flowers at Henry’s memorial after twenty-four years. So . . . how real or substantial is an image if everything it earns someone can all go away in two weeks?”

  “You haven’t gone away, though. You’re sitting right there.”

  “I am. I’m here. At this table. In Westport.” She swallowed. “Trying to figure out what to do when no one is watching. And wondering if maybe that’s the stuff that actually matters.” Her laugh came out a little unsteady. “That probably sounds amateurish to someone who would build a freaking boat and not tell a soul about it.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” He waited until she met his eyes. “It sounds like you’ve been uprooted and dropped somewhere unfamiliar. Do you think I’d cope as well if I was shipped off someplace where I knew no one, had no trade?”

  She gasped. “How would you get your fish and chips on Monday nights?”

  A corner of his lips jumped. “You’re doing just fine, honey.”

  It was the gruff honey that did it. Her legs snuck together under the table and squeezed, her toes flexing in her shoes. She wanted Brendan’s hands on her. All over. But she was also scared of going to him, because once again, the sexy smoke screen she’d been hiding behind had dissipated, leaving only her. Brendan was looking at her with a combination of heat and tenderness, and she needed to turn up the dial on the former.