This time Ford’s anger came from a very different place. “Does Delia know about it? If not, you need to—”
“Calm down. It’s not like that with them.” But her expression made it clear she thought it was interesting that he had thought as much. “Delia knows. I told her when I found out, because I knew she’d be happy for him. They’re close, good friends, but it never really went anywhere. Not, I don’t think, because they weren’t interested, but between his schedule and the demands of her life . . .” She shrugged. “When he left the Cove this last time, I think they’d both decided that anything more was too complicated and both seemed happy to have found a friend out of the deal. If anything, I believe Delia was the one who made that clear. She’s even less long-term of a person than Langston is. Or was, anyway. Like I said, Delia is happy for him, but I don’t think they’ve talked.”
“I get the picture,” Ford said, shortly. So shortly that his sister raised a speculative eyebrow, but wisely said nothing. He had every intention of changing the subject back to the diner and what should or shouldn’t be done about this latest curveball, but what came out of his mouth instead was: “How do you know? You’ve only been here a few months,” he clarified, already thinking he should just sew his mouth shut, and then take his boat directly back to Sandpiper.
“How do I know what?” Grace’s mouth curved in that knowing way again and it made him want to fidget in his seat. He, who was so expertly trained in the art of being completely still that he did so as second nature. His interns commented on it all the time. Not always to his face, but his ability to be still was envied. Of course, his interns envied it as it applied to wildlife observation. No need to explain that the training he’d received had been for the purpose of human observation. And not as it pertained to helping preserve life. At least not the lives of the ones he’d been ordered to observe.
“Do you mean, how do I know Delia’s not an LTR type?”
“LTR?” He instantly hated himself for asking.
“Long-term relationship. You know, you do get the Internet out on that pile of rocks. You should look into social media.”
He merely scowled at that, which perversely made his sister grin. “Yeah,” she said, “on second thought, maybe not.” She cocked her head. “Although, women do like that bad boy thing. All alpha and angry at the world. You put that face and the fact that you have a PhD on a dating profile and you’d have women swimming out to the island. Your screen name could be Crusoe. Leave the Dolittle off,” she advised, far too blithely, enjoying herself way too much. “Too many negative connotations.” She made a gesture with her forefingers, putting them close together, and then making a sad face.
He simply stared at her, unable to believe they were even having this conversation. All parts of it.
“You’re very cute when you’re annoyed with me. And I love that we’ve come far enough where I can tell you that. Of course, you’re annoyed with everyone, or so it seems. We still need to work on that. That’s not as cute.”
“I’m here,” he reminded her. “Not out on my pile of rocks, where I should be, and oh, so desperately wish I was.”
“Buried in binders full of nesting data. Sexy.” She feigned a yawn.
“At least binders of nesting data don’t talk back.” He flipped the top legal tome closed.
“Wait,” Grace said, instantly alarmed, her smile erased as she sat forward. “Don’t go off in a huff because I’m giving you a hard time. This is about helping Delia.”
“Who you just told me doesn’t want our help. Doesn’t, in fact, want to save her diner.”
“I said she wasn’t sure she wanted to save it. And that just means we have to figure out what she does want, what she needs, and shift our help accordingly.”
Ford knew better than to argue. He’d learned enough about Grace to know that she liked to work things through, puzzle out problems, by talking about them. Initially, he’d pressured himself to step in and offer solutions, thinking that’s why she’d come to him with whatever problem she was having. Only he’d quickly learned that the last thing she wanted was advice or, God forbid, actual help. She just wanted him to listen. She just wanted him to be . . . him.
Out of nowhere, Eula’s words came to him. Do you expect Grace to be something more than simply your sister?
It was a lesson he was still having a hard time learning. He’d been nothing to his sister; he’d abandoned her, so of course he had to be more than just her brother. Up to that point, simply being her brother hadn’t meant shit. But the way Eula had phrased it had had him thinking about it in an entirely different way. He had to be present. He had to be open. He had to be willing. To listen when needed, help when asked. Nothing more, but nothing less. The crux of it was he had to be there.
So, that’s what they needed to be for Delia. Only he wasn’t sure, in her case, that simply being present, being willing, and in Grace’s case, listening to her vent, or cry, was enough.
“So,” he asked, wondering for the hundredth, the thousandth time how, exactly, he’d ended up in the position he was presently in, “how do we do that?”
His mind spun to how and where they should talk to Delia. It should be both of them, he thought, him and Grace, so it was more like family than it was like . . . whatever that had been in front of her house. She hadn’t felt like family then. She’d felt like . . . heaven.
He abruptly steered his thoughts away from that, as he had every minute of every hour since he’d left her place. It would be him and Grace, for certain. They’d need somewhere private, quiet, where Delia would feel comfortable, secure, not ganged up on. No locals listening in. Maybe her house, her own turf. Grace could get her to relax, to open up, and he could . . . well, he wasn’t sure what the hell help he could be, but he knew Delia needed to have them both there, see them both there in front of her. Present.
“I think maybe she just needs to see how much she’s loved, how much the folks here really do want her to fight, not for them, but for herself. But she needs to really get it. Feel it. I think it will ground her again, renew her sense of purpose. I know!” Grace’s delight brightened her pretty face. “We throw her a huge, save-the-diner block party!”
Chapter 7
Delia climbed out of her car and hefted the strap of the backpack that did double duty as purse up farther on her cramping shoulder. She was so tired her bones ached. If she had to drink herself stupid to make the constant hamster wheel of thoughts racing through her mind shut down, she was going to find some way to sleep tonight. Only, no, she decided, no alcohol. She couldn’t afford the hangover. Charlie had already called to ask for the next day off, so she was short a short-order cook. She’d have smiled at that, but even the muscles in her face were too tired to move. Something she’d have to rectify as Fridays were always busy days, and Friday nights even busier. Fergus attracted the happy hour and TGIF crowd, but she had the family night and teenager hangout crews which, even without the alcohol, could get rowdy.
Normally, she enjoyed the weekends. As exhausting as they could be, they were also the times when she caught up with most of the locals. She enjoyed the weekend-is-here energy; it sparked her, rejuvenated her, even if weekends in her world meant her busiest workdays.
At the moment, however, the idea of facing a long Friday and two even longer days after that, made her want to kneel down, weep, and beg for mercy.
She’d like to think it was because she had her act that together, but it was utter exhaustion that kept her from squealing like a girl when Ford stepped off her porch and into the pool of moonlight. “We really have to stop meeting like this,” she said, her heart thumping. She paused, waiting for him to respond, but even the brief delay in forward motion was enough for her body to decide it was all done for the day. Her shoulders and calves started to cramp in earnest. She swallowed the grimace—she didn’t want a lecture about her work habits, or anything else for that matter—but ended up letting her backpack slide to the ground by her fee
t to relieve some of the burden.
His handsome face creased in concern as he stepped forward and snagged the nylon strap in those big hands of his. “You okay?”
She might have weaved a little on her feet. Delia knew she was made of some pretty stern stuff, even by New England standards, but averaging sixteen-hour days on less than two or three hours of sleep a night for the past few weeks had finally caught up to her. “Fine,” she bald-faced lied. A two-year-old could have picked up on that. “Just need to get inside. Long day.”
“And I doubt that’s anything new,” he said. “Come on.” He kept the backpack when she reached for it. “I got it.”
She said nothing to that and merely trudged by him, wincing as her tired feet and cramping calves protested every step to the front porch. She was beyond caring what anyone thought at this point, even Ford Maddox. She climbed the porch steps, swallowing the sigh as her lower back joined in on the aching and cramping chorus, then paused and stared dumbly at the door. Keys. What did I do with my keys? Oh, right. Backpack. She turned . . . and smacked right into Ford, her nose grazing his hard chest. It took enormous self-will to keep from turning her head and resting her cheek there, just for a moment. “You smell really good,” she thought. Or maybe she’d said it right out loud. Didn’t matter. She breathed in, and discovered her lips could indeed still curve. With proper motivation.
“Where are your keys?”
“Jump ring,” she murmured. “Loop. Side of the bag.” She realized as the soft flannel of his shirt rubbed against her lips that she hadn’t exactly straightened. Yet. She was working on it, though. Any moment now she’d get her second wind. Or her hundredth. Whatever. She’d lost count.
She heard a jingle. Her keys. Good. Almost there. She doubted she was going to need any help in the sleep department tonight. She just needed to get horizontal, and all would be right in her world. Or, at least unconscious. At the moment, that was good enough. The door swung open and she came perilously close to swinging in with it. Then a strong arm was wrapping around her waist.
“Hold on,” he instructed.
She had every intention of looking him straight in the eyes, telling him she could get inside her own house all by herself, thankyouverymuch. But that would mean opening her eyes. Which at some point . . . well, they weren’t open now. And, at the moment, it was beyond her to do anything about that. It made more sense to simply do as the man asked. Hold on. So she slid her arms around his waist. Yes, that was much better. He smelled good, and he was warm. Sturdy, too. Just give me a few seconds of this, and I’ll be good to go.
She thought she heard some muttered swearing; then she was suddenly airborne, or at least not on her feet any longer. “Don’t,” she protested with zero conviction. “I’m—”
“I’ve got you,” he said gruffly, and she could feel the words vibrate deep in his chest. Which was conveniently pressed against her ear. “Don’t wiggle like th—for God’s sake—just hold on.”
Delia gave up trying to pretend she was even in the realm of fine and allowed herself to enjoy the ride. Not that she had any choice in the matter. And that was okay with her, too. She was tired of choices. So many of them had to be made, too many things to figure out. What did she want? What didn’t she want? Who did she want? Who did she want to not want? And, most important, how did she stop wanting him?
If she hadn’t been so wiped out, she’d have been amused by the fact that she was presently trying to figure out how to stop lusting after the man who, at that very same moment, was carrying her into her house and, presumably, up to her bedroom.
“Wait,” she said, only, again, there was no real heat to it. Nope, all the heat she had was presently pooling somewhere else. In the one place that apparently still had some life left in it. Didn’t that just figure?
He ignored her. She let him. She’d make sure he understood that this whole carting-her-bodily-around thing was just a onetime occurrence due to extenuating circumstances. She’d spell it out for him, if need be, in explicit detail. Later. Just as soon as she got her second wind back.
“Hey.”
Delia smiled. She knew that voice. What she didn’t know was why she’d been so annoyed by the dreams she’d been having about that voice. And the extraordinarily complex and handsome man who was attached to it. They were nice dreams. Okay, who was she kidding . . . they were scorchers. But life was hard at the moment—with so many things happening, possible huge life-changing things, didn’t she deserve a little fun? Especially the kind that couldn’t hurt anyone. Namely, her.
She snuggled in more deeply. Maybe he’d do that thing he’d done last time, where he started with the tip of his tongue on the curve of her shoulder . . . and worked his way down. Slowly. With incredible, dedicated focus. Like he was cataloguing every freckle for future study. Who said scientists couldn’t be hot? Yeah, she’d liked that thing he did a lot. Or maybe he wouldn’t be so patient. Maybe he’d be demanding and intent on getting what he needed, and giving her what she needed, no waiting, no wooing, just straight up against the nearest wall, clothes stripped from her body, lifting her up, on . . . in. She squirmed, moaning softly, thinking Ford unleashed would be spectacularly satisfying. They could save the slow savor for the second round. Ford had remarkable stamina. Dream lovers were like that. Although she happened to know in reality he had incredible staying power. And so . . . so much more.
Sure, having these lengthy, incredibly detailed, highly erotic dreams about him made dealing with him now that he’d left his island for a stay in Blueberry a bit of a challenge. Every time she laid eyes on him her mind had the most disturbing way of flashing immediately to the most vivid scenes of them doing . . . oh, so many delicious and delectable things. She sighed. Even when she wasn’t laying eyes on him. Just knowing he was in town, that he could show up at any second, was keeping all of her nerve endings—the good kind—at a kind of fever pitch. So, yes, at some point, she should probably work on curtailing them. Every toe-curling, heart-pounding moment of them. And she would. Just as soon as she got a few other things off her plate.
“Dee.”
She wriggled down even deeper, wanting him like she wanted her next breath and damn the consequences. She liked it when he called her that, though she’d never tell him. Would make them both uncomfortable, probably. Except in her dreams. In her dreams, they were never uncomfortable. In her dreams, they both wanted the same thing. And they wanted it often. She let her eyes drift open. Yep, there was that face. Those eyes. They haunted her sleeping hours and a goodly number of her waking ones, now, too. “Hey, yourself,” she said, her smile warming, her body flaming hotter. Oh, yes, she needed these dreams. Sometimes she thought they were the only things keeping her from losing it altogether.
“Feeling better?”
Better? Had she been ill? She didn’t remember that part of the dream. Usually, when she dreamed about Ford, neither one of them had any, um . . . weaknesses. Well, except for each other, of course. “Mmm,” she said, wondering whether he’d mind if she pulled him down on top of her this time, beg him to take her and take her hard, and fast, and fierce. What was she thinking? It was a dream. Of course, he wouldn’t mind. In dreams she could have whatever she wanted, and dream he wanted it, too. And often. Oh, if only life were that simple.
Her lips curved as she dropped her gaze to his mouth, thinking—knowing—exactly how it was going to feel. Here. There. Everywhere. “Much better.”
“Good. Had me worried there, have to admit.”
She frowned, seeing the clear concern in his eyes. That wasn’t part of the dream. Well, whatever. Dreams weren’t supposed to make sense, anyway, right? His expression would change soon enough, she thought, twisting farther down and turning toward—her elbow hit something soft. In fact, the whole length of her body was wedged up against . . . something. Only it wasn’t Ford, because his gorgeous face was on the other side of her. She looked to her left. She blinked once, twice, even as her body stiffened. She looked
down at herself. She was lying on her couch. Fully clothed. She looked back at Ford, who was squatting beside the couch, wedged between it and Gran’s spindly old tea table, which he’d moved back a bit to accommodate his size. “You’re real,” she said, dumbly. Then she closed her eyes in hot mortification when she saw surprise, then a wink of humor flash through his dark eyes.
“Last I checked.”
She could never look at him again. “What time is—”
“Six.”
“In the morning?” She was alarmed, and all her fears of looking foolish fled. She started to sit up, only to have a very strong, well-muscled arm block her move.
He kept his palm planted on the back of the couch, just inches above her midsection. She looked from his arm to him. He was really close. And, dammit, he still smelled good. That part was very real.
“I have to get to the diner. I’m minus Charlie today, he had a dentist appointment,” she said, remembering. “I should have been in there an hour ago doing prep.” She glanced back at his arm, and then shot him an implacable look. “I appreciate your helping me last night. I mean that,” she added when he merely cocked a brow. “But I have to go to work.” Then another thought occurred to her. “Did you stay here? Last night?”
“You were pretty out of it.”
Oh, she’d been rather into it, actually. She forced that thought and every last image of what she had been into straight out of her mind. “That’s not an answer.”
“As I said, I was concerned. You work too hard.”
“I work hard,” she corrected him. “It’s what I do. What I love. I—I wouldn’t know any other way. And I’ve never needed a babysitter before.”
“You’ve never been in danger of losing what you love before.” The moment the words came out of his mouth, he frowned, looked away. “That was—I’m sorry. Thoughtless.”
Sandpiper Island (The Bachelors Page 10