* * *
“LAST ONE,” SAM said, hefting the deck board level with the truck bed. “Easy does it.”
He raised his end onto the stack and then moved down the length of the board, shifting his grip, taking its weight. She tried hard—she’d always been a worker, Meggie—but she was small and female. Fun to watch, with the quick energy of her movements, the shape of her breasts under her sweat-dampened top.
Her shoulder brushed his as he nudged her aside to slide the board into place. Her arms were smooth and bare. She smelled distractingly of sweat and woman, of rosemary and Meg. He wanted to turn his face into the curve of her neck and lick her. All over.
He shoved the board hard onto the top of the pile.
He turned and caught her staring. Her cheeks were pink from embarrassment or the sun. With those big, wary, fascinated eyes, the strands of hair sticking to her forehead, she looked less like some hotshot New York executive and more like the girl he used to know. He grinned.
Her eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Your face is dirty.”
She rubbed at her cheek with the back of a borrowed work glove.
“Here.” He chuckled and stepped in, tugging off his own gloves. With his thumb, he brushed at her warm cheek. She went very still. For one electric moment, he could imagine how she would feel under him, taut and trembling, silky hot. He could remember.
“Thanks.” She broke eye contact and stepped away, leaving him half hard and wanting.
Not just wanting sex, he realized. Wanting Meg, her affection, her admiration, her trust, all the things he’d once had and taken for granted.
“It’s pretty here.” She looked around at the waves of sea grass capped with spiky yellow flowers. A sandy track wandered beside a makeshift fence to the deep blue water of Pamlico Sound. “I never really explored this site before.”
“You never will, if the old man gets his way.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “His way?”
Shit. He didn’t want to talk about this now. Most of the time he avoided thinking about it. The old man hadn’t beaten Sam’s convictions out of him yet, but their countless battles—and Carl’s illness—had persuaded him of the futility of the fight.
He jerked his chin, indicating the undeveloped acres of land, thick with vegetation and birdsong. “Dare Plantation. Gated community. No public access.”
“‘An overpriced, overblown luxury development,’” she quoted back at him softly.
So she’d listened last night. She remembered.
“Multimillion-dollar houses with big lawns and private pools and piers,” Sam said. Houses like the one he’d grown up in. Who was he to throw stones?
She pursed her lips, not judging so much as thoughtful. Or maybe he was kidding himself. “Are you saying that you wouldn’t build here?”
“No.” Her eyes rested on him, inviting him to continue. He shrugged. “I’d go with a different kind of project, that’s all. Higher density, more affordable housing that would conserve the shoreline and the open space instead of chopping it up into little parcels with their own docks and septic tanks.”
“I never pictured you as an environmentalist.”
“I’m a builder,” Sam said, trying not to hear the old man’s voice in his head. Fucking tree-hugger. “We need jobs on the island, good jobs, construction jobs. And we need more moderate-priced housing for year-round residents,” he said, warming to his topic. “People who live on the island, who work here—fishermen, firemen, teachers like Allison—are getting squeezed out of the market.”
Meg nodded. “It makes sense when you explain it. Why don’t you do it? You said yourself that luxury homes aren’t selling now.”
She was like a kid with a stick, he thought, exasperated. Stirring things up, poking things in the water to see if they moved.
Sometimes it was better to let them die.
“Maybe I don’t care enough,” he suggested.
She tilted her head thoughtfully, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. She had a great neck. “I don’t believe you.”
“Ask my old man.”
“He’s not here.”
Exactly. Carl Grady had never been there for his family. He was too busy making a living to make a life, to make time for his wives or his son. Too busy building his fortune to see what his ambitions cost the island.
It wasn’t something Sam spent a lot of time thinking about. Why focus on something that couldn’t be changed?
“Look, you’d have to get a project like that approved,” he said. “Dare Island is incorporated. The town board has to sign off on any new development. And then you’d have to convince investors it would pay. They only know big houses and hotels. We’ve never done a moderately priced development on the island.”
“You can talk anyone into anything. And they’d listen to you. You’re a Grady. Grady Realty and Construction.”
She didn’t understand. She’d always had her family’s support. “You’re getting me mixed up with the old man. And he doesn’t want any part of it. He’d rather sit on the land and wait for the market to improve.”
“Is that why you left?”
Yes. But if Sam admitted that, he’d have to admit how badly he’d failed. “What’s with the questions?”
“I’m interested.”
He grinned at her, deliberately misunderstanding. He hadn’t brought her out here to discuss his relationship with his father. “That’s promising.”
She stuck her nose in the air. “Interested in the island.”
“Why? You don’t live here anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion. That I don’t care.”
“Sugar, nobody ever said you didn’t have opinions.”
“Huh.” But her lips twitched, like she was trying not to smile.
Encouraged, he moved closer, leaning over her. Her soft dark curls tickled his chin. “I like that you care about things.” He spent too much time playing it cool, pretending not to care. “You’re passionate.” His mouth wandered to the edge of her jaw, found the corner of her mouth. Her lips were full and moist. “Exciting.”
She inhaled, making her chest lift against his. She was so soft, so warm against him. He wanted his hands on her. He wanted . . .
She turned her head away. “I told you, I’m not doing this. I have a boyfriend.”
“You have a roommate. You need more.”
She flushed. “Let’s not argue over semantics. The point is, I’m with somebody.”
“Yeah. Me.” He sniffed her hair behind her ear. She smelled really good, like sun and rosemary, warm and sharp at the same time.
“At the moment,” she said breathlessly. “Not permanently.”
He spread his hand across the small of her back, not really listening, nudging her against him, letting her feel how she affected him. She made a sound in her throat and hitched against him. His hand slid lower, over the smooth, firm curve of her butt. His hard-on lodged against her hip. “I’ll take what I can get,” he muttered.
“You always did.”
The words were as effective as a slap. His fingers tightened before he dropped his hand from her bottom. “Nothing that wasn’t offered.”
Her cheeks went from red to white. “I suppose I deserve that.”
Sam kicked himself. He was trying to seduce her, not insult her. “What you deserve is a guy who will be there for you all the time, not just when it’s convenient for him.”
She drew back, her blue eyes cool again. “Are you referring to yourself or Derek?”
Sam sucked in his breath. Okay, so he’d screwed up eighteen years ago. He hadn’t had the control to resist her or the balls to face her the next morning. Rejection wasn’t his thing. He couldn’t undo what he’d done. He couldn’t make things right. So he’d run, using the excuse of school to avoid confronting both her family and his own failures.
“I’m talking about you.” He met her gaze steadily. “You deserve somebody
who won’t take advantage of you.”
“Which is why Derek is perfect for me.”
Sam felt a sharp, unpleasant stab. “Perfect, how?”
“He’s the company’s chief financial officer.” Like Sam gave a crap about the guy’s job description. “We’re equals. Partners. We share the same goals.”
“Getting married is a goal for some people.” But not for her, he remembered. Never for her.
“For your stepmothers maybe. I’m not waiting around for some man to propose. Derek and I have been focused on our careers. It’s important to have a solid professional and financial foundation to build on.”
“Fine. But you’re, what, a vice president now? How far up the ladder do you have to climb to become Mrs. Chief Financial Officer?”
The faint lines beside her mouth dug in. “You don’t understand.”
He hitched his thumbs in his belt loops. “So explain it to me.”
She looked away. In the bright sunlight, the shadows under her eyes were dark as bruises. Like she wasn’t getting enough sleep, he thought with a twist of concern. “My situation right now isn’t . . . settled,” she said.
He frowned. Meg was straightforward to the point of bluntness, honest to a fault. It wasn’t like her to beat around the bush. “What, you get fired?” he joked.
* * *
A RUSH OF TEARS closed Meg’s throat. She stared at him, speechless.
Sam went still. His broken bottle green eyes sharpened on her face. “Meggie?”
Oh, God. She shook her head. Blindly, she turned away, fumbling for the handle of the truck.
Sam swore. His arm came up, bracing against the top of the door, cutting off her escape. An aggressive gesture, but his voice when he spoke was deep and gentle. “Does your family know?”
His body was hard and close behind her. She fought a ridiculous urge to bury her face against his chest and bawl her eyes out. “I don’t want to worry them.”
Silence.
Her heart pounded in her ears. She risked a peek over her shoulder. For once, Sam’s charming grin was nowhere in sight. He frowned at her thoughtfully, that lock of dark hair falling over his forehead.
She wished she knew what he was thinking. And yet it didn’t really matter. A shameful, shaking relief swept over her because he’d guessed. She didn’t have to pretend anymore.
Sam was family at the same time he . . . wasn’t. He knew her, but he wasn’t counting on her. Her success or failure ultimately meant nothing to him.
The sense of release was enormous.
“When?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “Monday.”
“Your first day back?” The incredulous edge to his voice was unexpectedly gratifying.
She nodded.
“Assholes.”
His anger warmed her. Steadied her. Derek, she recalled, had not been angry.
She pushed the thought away, feeling vaguely disloyal. Derek’s own career was on the line. He couldn’t afford to lose his cool on her behalf. Sam had nothing at stake, nothing to lose by taking her side. But his unquestioning championship soothed her all the same.
“It was a bad time for me to be away,” she said. “The company recently acquired one of our competitors. I should have been there to handle the PR.”
“But you were on leave, right?” Sam said. “Family emergency. Is it even legal for them to fire you like that?”
Years of protecting the company, of putting the best possible spin on things, made her face him. “We were shedding head count anyway. Mine was a redundant position.”
Sam raised his brows. “There is no ‘we,’ sugar. You’re not playing for the team anymore. You got fucked.”
Yes.
The surge of anger was thrilling. Liberating. Disturbing. Anger wouldn’t get her where she needed to go.
“They wanted someone cheaper,” she said.
“Younger,” he guessed.
She ground her teeth together. “Yes.”
“Somebody who wouldn’t take ten days off because her mother got hit by a damn drunk driver.”
Yes. Bitterness choked her. Three strikes, and she was out. She swallowed. “I don’t know that. Didn’t know that. Not that it would have made any difference,” she added. “Mom needed me.”
Sam smiled.
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“That’s my girl,” he said and kissed her, a brief, hard kiss on the mouth.
She was not his girl. But the kiss was nice, and the warm approval in his eyes was even nicer, and she was tired for the moment of fighting.
“We should get back,” she said.
His gaze searched her face before he nodded.
She let him open her door, watching through the windshield as he walked around the truck.
He slid in beside her and started the truck. “You’ve got to tell them.”
Them. Her family. She shuddered in rejection. “No.”
“You were there for them, they’ll be there for you.”
Of course they would be. Years of moves and deployments had taught the Fletcher siblings to stand back to back to back. But Meg hadn’t run to her brothers to defend her in twenty-five years. She stood on her own. She was the family success story, the one who’d made it.
She could not bear to be a failure in their eyes.
“Mom’s in the hospital,” she said. “Luke’s in Afghanistan. Matt’s trying to take care of the inn and Taylor on top of his charter business. They all have enough to deal with right now.”
“So by keeping quiet, you’re protecting them.”
“Yes.”
A sideways look. “Or yourself.”
She straightened her spine, resisting the pull of the soft leather seat. “I don’t want my family worrying about me.”
“Won’t they do that anyway? Sooner or later, they’re going to wonder what you’re doing here.”
“I’m here to help out,” Meg said firmly. “As long as I’m needed. As long as it takes me to find another job. Then I’ll tell them the truth. That I accepted another position.”
“What are you going to say if you have to relocate?”
“I won’t.”
I can’t. She stared out her window at the pine needles and vines, at the headstones sprouting randomly along the road, Nelson, Oates, Fletcher, Grady . . . Family names. Dare Island names. She knew every one. And they knew her, knew the girl she used to be, smart, ambitious Meggie Fletcher, Queen of the Try Hards.
There was no going back for her.
She tightened her hands in her lap. “I belong in New York. My life is there. My condo. Derek.”
“He get fired, too?”
“No.” The word hung baldly in the air. “He’s in the C-Suite,” she added to fill the silence. “CEO, CFO, COO.”
Sam slanted a look at her. “I took business classes. I know the jargon.”
“Right. Anyway, they couldn’t fire him. He’s on the transition team.”
“But he didn’t protect your job.”
“No, but . . .” She floundered, driven on the defensive. “The acquisition put Derek in a very difficult position. He’s vulnerable, too. Any indication of partiality—”
“So which is it?” Sam interrupted. “They can’t fire him, or his job’s at risk?”
She glared. “Does it matter?”
“It would to me.”
“You don’t know him. You don’t know anything about him. You can’t judge.”
“I don’t need to meet him to recognize the type,” Sam said quietly. “You’re an accessory to a guy like him. Like a Rolex, something he can show off on his arm. He doesn’t have your back, sugar. And somebody should. Deep down, you know that. That’s why you’re here.”
Hot pressure burned the backs of her eyes. With the exception of her assistant, Kelly, no one from the office had been in touch with her since her firing. As if being laid off were a disease they could catch. Even though Meg told herself that her office friends
didn’t have her new cell phone number, she couldn’t help feeling all the old insecurities of being the new kid in school. With every redeployment, it took time to establish your place, to find someone to eat lunch with, to win the liking or at least the respect of your teachers and classmates.
She’d always made good grades. It was harder to make friends.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You should tell your family. You could talk to Matt,” Sam said.
Matt had given up his own chance at college when Josh was born. She didn’t want her brother to know what a mess she’d made of her own opportunities. “No.”
“Then I will,” Sam said.
“No. You can’t tell him. You can’t tell anybody.” She met Sam’s eyes. Memory throbbed between them. Don’t tell Matt.
“Meg . . .”
She didn’t really believe that Sam would betray her confidence. But Sam and Matt had been best friends since high school. She’d been the one on the outside, two years younger, sharp and skinny, driven to keep up, desperate to be noticed. “Please.”
He held her gaze a long moment before the corner of his mouth quirked up. “What’s one more secret between friends?”
Meg exhaled. “Thank you.” She risked a touch on his warm, muscled arm. “I’m grateful.”
The creases in his cheeks deepened. “How grateful?”
She should have found his cockiness annoying. But she was disarmed by the understanding in his eyes, the laughter in his voice. Sam didn’t take the question or himself too seriously. This once, maybe she shouldn’t take herself so seriously, either.
“I’ll bake you some cookies.”
“Your mom’s chocolate chip?” he asked hopefully.
She felt a moment’s unreasonable resistance, as if committing to Tess’s recipe somehow committed her to . . . What?
Flashback to fifteen-year-old Sam, hanging around her mother’s kitchen, swiping raw dough off the mixer blade. You make the best cookies, Mrs. Fletcher.
And her mother, laughing, batting his hand away from the bowl. Because they’re made with love, Sam.
Meg shook her head. She was not her mother, dispensing affection along with the batter. Sometimes a chocolate chip cookie was just a cookie.
“Deal,” she said.
Dare Island [2] Carolina Girl Page 8