by Melody Grace
Down, girl.
This was what happened when she spent her whole life working; she had inappropriate thoughts about the first vaguely attractive man to cross her path. OK, very attractive. But still, that was no excuse. He wasn’t her type at all, with that knowing smirk, and clean-shaven jaw, driving a car that was probably worth more than her student loan.
And that was really saying something.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t be friendly. “You should check out Sweetbriar Cove while you’re here,” she found herself suggesting. “It’s a cute town, just a few miles farther. There’s a great pub, and the bakery is world-class. The sticky buns aren’t to be missed.”
“Really?” He gave her that wicked smirk. “What man could resist an invitation like that?”
Eliza blinked. “I didn’t mean . . .” she said, flushing again, but luckily, she was saved by the buzz of his cellphone.
He snatched it up and pressed it to his ear. “Philip, can you hear me? How about now?” He moved away, trying to get a clear connection.
Eliza finished up with the wheel and went to stow his tools in the trunk of his car, still feeling flustered. She looked around for a rag to wipe her dirty hands on, but of course, the car was empty and spotless, save a leather overnight bag on the backseat, beside a stack of papers.
Eliza couldn’t help but lean in to sneak a look, curious about the man who could rattle her so effortlessly—and look good while doing so.
Expansion proposal . . . Revenue projections . . . Prescott Foundation Agenda . . .
Wait, Prescott?
Eliza reached in the open window and moved his briefcase aside to get a clearer look at the papers below.
The envelopes were all addressed to Calvin Prescott IV.
She paused in disbelief. Seriously?
The handsome stranger was her boss.
Correction: her ex-boss. The reason she’d been fired from her dream job, perp-walked out of the building, and was currently broke, homeless, and unemployed.
Bastard!
Eliza quickly stepped away from the car, checking Cal hadn’t noticed her snooping. He was still pacing by the roadside, bellowing into his phone to be heard.
Typical. She should have known it the minute she clocked his fancy suit and expensive watch. Men like him thought they could just bulldoze their way through life, never mind who got crushed underfoot. And to think she’d actually helped him!
Well, maybe it was time karma paid a little visit.
Eliza glanced around again, and then paused by the wheel. She reached down and felt her way to the tire valve, then quickly unscrewed the cap and slipped it in her pocket. She could hear the faint hiss of air escaping as she stepped away. It would take a little while to deflate completely, so he had a chance of making it to the next town. Or maybe not, and he’d have a chance to break in those leather shoes of his.
Either way, it would give him plenty of time to take stock of his life.
“I’m heading out,” she called over to Cal.
He paused and lowered his phone. “Oh. Well, thanks . . . ?” He waited for her to fill in her name, but Eliza just gave him an innocent smile and got back behind the wheel of her car.
“Welcome to the Cape,” she called. “I hope you have an . . . interesting trip!”
2
By the time Eliza turned down the bumpy dirt road that led to the beach house, her triumph had faded . . . and an annoying streak of guilt was flickering in its place. Cal Prescott would be fine, she reassured herself. He had probably already called in a private helicopter to airlift him to town, or whatever else it was that billionaire media scions did when they got into a jam.
She put him out of her mind as the house came into view, framed by sand dunes and an overgrown scattering of seagrass. The simple frame was modest compared to some of the mansions that had sprung up along the shore, but Eliza loved every inch of it, from the faded blue shingles to the old swing in the corner of the front porch. She pulled up in front and took a deep breath of the salty ocean air.
It felt like coming home again.
“Lizzie?”
“Hi, Mom.” Eliza wasn’t even up the front steps before her mom appeared on the porch and smothered her with a hug.
“Look at you!” Linda beamed, giving her a once-over. Her smile slipped. “Did you cut your hair again, honey? I thought we agreed, you look so much nicer with it pulled back off your face. And did you get that article I sent about the new low-carb diet? Your metabolism isn’t what it used to be—”
“It’s great to see you too, Mom.” Eliza hauled her bag past her into the house. “Paige?”
“In here!”
Eliza followed her voice to the kitchen. Her sister had her blonde hair pulled back in a Mom-approved braid, and she was pouring iced tea. “Five seconds,” Eliza hissed. “Five seconds before she started criticizing me. That has to be a record.”
Paige winced. “Remember, empathy. Did you tell her about the newspaper yet?”
“What about the newspaper?” Their mom bustled in.
“Nothing, Mom,” Eliza said loudly, and gave her sister a warning look. “The place looks great,” she changed the subject quickly. “Did you redecorate?”
“Just a little sprucing,” Linda replied. She opened the doors out onto the back porch. “It needs so many repairs, your father always said . . . Well, we’ll talk about that later.”
Eliza placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. Paige was right, however sad she was to have all these reminders of their dad around, this must be a hundred times worse for Mom.
Linda turned back with a brisk smile. “You should get settled in, and then maybe do a grocery run to town? There’s a list on the fridge.”
“Sure, Mom.”
“And then you can tell me all about what’s been happening at the newspaper.”
Eliza backed away. “I’ll get my things. But Paige has plenty of news, don’t you?”
Paige rapidly shook her head, but it was too late. Linda turned, brightening. “Tell me you gave Doug another chance! I knew you two could work it out.”
“No, Mom—” Paige was trying to protest.
Eliza mouthed “sorry” and ducked out, leaving Paige to face the inquisition alone. She brought in the rest of her things and headed for the stairs, but she stopped in the hallway by the door to her father’s old office. The door was open, and the room was untouched: mismatched books lining the shelves, and light streaming onto the sun-bleached rug. For a moment, she could almost believe he’d stroll out from by the corner with some old book in his hand and take a seat at his desk, still piled with old newspapers and files.
“Eliza!” Her mom’s voice called out again. “Don’t leave it too late, or they’ll be out of the good bread again. I thought we could have the McAllisters over,” she added, appearing in the hall. “Did you know their son, Tommy is back from college? Strapping, too.”
Eliza opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Empathy.
“I’m on my way,” she said instead, and gently closed the office door.
She could survive her mother for a little while. At least she could be happy that wherever Cal Prescott was, he was having a worse day than her.
* * *
By the time Cal had hiked two miles along the highway to call his buddy Declan to come pick him up, he was hot, sweaty, and had more blisters than he cared to count. So much for small-town hospitality: that woman had been more like a siren—tempting him onto the rocks and leaving him for dead. Well, leaving him for dehydrated, at least. This place should come with a warning. He’d been so distracted by her teasing gaze and lush red lips, he hadn’t noticed her sabotaging his tire and leaving him in the dust. It almost made him want to turn around and head straight back to Boston . . .
Where his uncle was waiting, with an army of lawyers and a long list of Cal’s responsibilities as head of the Prescott Group.
Maybe not.
“What happened to you?” Declan asked, snorting with laughter.
“Don’t ask.” Cal shook his head and climbed in. “And since when do you drive a truck?”
“I need the extra space now that I’m hauling supplies for the restaurant all day,” Declan answered cheerfully in his Australian drawl. He put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the highway.
“And the beard?”
“It’s this country air,” Declan grinned. “I’m a new man, mate. And the country women aren’t too bad, either,” he added with a wink.
Cal chuckled. Declan was a virtuoso chef, but Cal was more used to seeing him prop up the hottest bars in the city than out in nature. They’d met when Declan catered a big event for the Prescotts—and wound up drinking Cal under the table. “Just as long as you haven’t lost your edge,” Cal said. “How is the restaurant doing?”
“Business is booming. Best investment you ever made.”
“Good to hear.” Cal nodded approvingly. Most restaurants failed in the first three years, so backing Declan had been a calculated risk, but already reviews were buzzing and there was talk of awards for his food. “Ready to open the next one?”
“Easy there,” Declan laughed. “You’re the businessman, I just want to cook.”
“Sure.” Cal snorted. “Cook, and make the front cover of every culinary magazine around.”
“Can you blame me?” Declan shot back. “Who am I to deprive the world of this face?”
Cal shook his head. Clearly, Declan had found his groove on the Cape . . . and not drawn the wrath of any local temptresses. Cal’s mind went back to that mysterious woman. She clearly had no idea who he was, which was refreshing in itself. Thanks to the gossip columns and a few too many “most eligible bachelor” features, it felt like every woman he met already knew all his vital stats, like a baseball trading card. Calvin Prescott IV, 31, heir apparent to the Prescott media empire. His uncle had taught him to wear the family name like a badge of honor, but these days, it was feeling more like a dark cloud. One he was hoping to get out from under with this last-minute trip to the Cape.
“So, what’s your plan out here?” Declan asked, after Cal gave him directions and they turned off the main highway.
“I don’t really have one,” Cal admitted. “Relax, unwind a little.”
Declan snorted. “No, really, mate.”
Cal glanced over. “Am I that much of a workaholic that I can’t take a break?”
“No comment.” Declan grinned. “But if you mean it, you’ve come to the right place. A few beers, some time on the water . . . and of course, the best cuisine in the tristate area, courtesy of yours truly.”
His arrogance would be irritating if Cal didn’t know he could back it up. He glanced out of the window. They were heading through a leafy hollow, with a sign reading Welcome to Sweetbriar Cove.
“Sweetbriar . . .” Cal recognized the name. “Someone mentioned this place earlier.”
“Cute little town,” Declan said. “Even if they do lay on the town spirit pretty thick. I swear, these guys celebrate the mailman coming with a parade.”
Cal chuckled. It looked picture-perfect, that was for sure: cute stores arranged around the neat green of a town square, with a clear view all the way down to the harbor. There were banners and ticker-tape advertising a 50th Annual Lobsterfest, and he wondered for a moment if he’d see his mystery brunette strolling by.
If he did, he would give her a piece of his mind.
“So, where’s this place you’re staying?” Declan asked, turning along a narrow country lane. “I would have figured you for a fancy hotel.”
“My godmother has a place here,” Cal replied. “She’s traveling, so she suggested I take some time to get away.”
Suggested, or rather, gave him his marching orders. Marion had been his mother’s oldest friend, and ever since his parents passed away, she’d taken it on herself to look out for him. Make sure the Prescotts don’t shove that stick too far up your ass, as she put it—irreverent and brash as always.
“Should be just ahead here . . .” Declan slowed the truck. Suddenly, he hooted with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Cal asked, but then the cottage came into view, and he didn’t have to wonder anymore.
It was pink.
Not just a pale, blush pink, but a bright shade of raspberry that stood out like a neon beacon against the leafy yard. And it wasn’t just the lurid shingles; there were pink roses spilling over the pink picket fence, pink seashells crushed into a winding path to the front door, and even a row of plastic flamingos welcoming him on the porch. It was Disney-meets-Candy Land. On acid. And it was all his for the month.
“Home sweet home,” Declan sniggered. “Good luck bringing any girls back here.”
“Believe it or not, that’s not at the top of my priority list,” Cal said wryly, but even so, he could just imagine the look on the siren’s face if she saw this place. She would probably laugh her head off—and then demand a tour.
He got out and grabbed his bags from the back. “Think my car will be OK with the tow people?”
Declan made a vague gesture. “They take their time, but you’ll be fine. Call them tomorrow. And stop by for a beer, first one’s on me!”
He drove away, stereo blasting, and Cal turned to face the Pink Palace alone. He hunted down the key beneath a seashell on the porch—just the way Marion had left it—and let himself in, bracing for another explosion of pink. To his relief, the palette inside was a little more varied. A yellow sitting room opened up into a bright blue kitchen, and a green bedroom in front, complete with a ceiling-high ocean mural. His phone rang just as he was stepping onto the back porch, and he answered to hear his godmother’s mischievous voice.
“So, how are you settling in?”
Cal chuckled. “A little warning would have been nice.”
“And rob you of your first impression? I wouldn’t be so cruel.”
He took a deep breath of salty sea air and admired the view of the ocean. Pink aside, the cottage was well-located and full of creature comforts. And, most important of all, a long way from home.
“Thanks again for letting me stay,” he told her, his voice turning sincere. “Let me know when you need to kick me out.”
“It’s yours for as long as you need,” Marion insisted. “I’m just glad you’re finally taking a break. I hate to see you working non-stop like this.”
“You don’t need to worry, I’m fine,” Cal protested.
“Really? All the travel, the late nights, and that accident last month . . .”
“It was barely a scrape,” Cal said firmly. “I just need a few days to unwind and look over this paperwork, that’s all.”
“Hmmm.” Marion didn’t sound convinced. “Well, you have fun. And find out the local gossip for me. Just tell June and Debra I want all the juicy details.”
“Will do,” Cal promised before hanging up. Immediately, his phone buzzed again—with a flurry of incoming emails, calls, and texts. He’d only spent a couple of hours on the road, but already he knew his voicemail would be full to bursting, with questions and plans, updates from the new acquisitions, and financials that needed approval. His fingers itched to get to work, his brain already ticking over on the endless to-do list he carried in the back of his mind, but he forced himself to take another breath.
The Prescott Group could wait.
He would never admit it, but his godmother was right. Work had always been stressful, but the past few months had passed in a blur of sleepless nights and bad takeout and staring at endless financial forecasts until his head ached. The Boston Herald takeover was only the half of it; it seemed like everywhere he looked, there were new fires to put out, and his uncle’s stern reminder that these were his decisions now. His name on the letterhead, his signature on every pink slip.
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It kept him up at night, every night. Running on empty. And then came the wake-up call, a near miss that showed him just how ragged he was running himself. Another late night in the office, another two a.m. drive home—only this time, the stress and exhaustion had caught up with him, and he’d drifted off to sleep at the wheel. Just a couple of seconds, lights blurring on the freeway, but that heartbeat was enough to send the car slipping into the next lane, straight into the path of a speeding truck. Cal had jolted back to life to find a horn blaring, as he wrenched the wheel for dear life and held on tight until danger had passed and he could safely pull over on the shoulder, his breath coming in wild, desperate gulps.
It had been close. Too close.
So, even though there was still a mountain of work waiting for him, and his uncle calling every day, he’d let Marion talk him into this time away. Just a couple of weeks, that was all he needed, then he could return refreshed and ready to lead.
Cal took another lungful of the cool, salty air and felt his tension ease, just a little. From the hustle of city life, to the calm, wide-open shoreline, it looked like he’d found the perfect vacation spot. No stress, no conflict . . . His blood pressure would finally have a chance to get back to normal.
After all, what kind of drama could he find in a town named Sweetbriar Cove?
3
It only took the weekend for Eliza to remember why she kept her family visits few and far between. Her mother was in full force, and by Monday, Eliza had her hair restyled, learned all the things that would give her cancer and/or render her barren, and fended off Tommy McAllister (who’d grown into a lanky, beer-guzzling guy with very wandering hands).
“You’re getting too old to be so picky,” her mother sniffed when Eliza explained that random groping hadn’t set her heart aflame. “When I was your age, I was already married, with Paige in diapers and you on the way.”
“Maybe I’ll never get married,” Eliza teased. “I’ll just live here alone and have scandalous affairs with the deckhands down at the harbor.”