No Ordinary Love: Sweetbriar Cove: Book Six

by Melody Grace

  “Those late nights will get you. You sit down.” Linda steered her to the back porch, where their salt-bleached old table was already laid with a cotton cloth, plates, and silverware. “I’ll bring everything out.”

  Eliza took a seat, suspicious now. Sure enough, there was a plate of bacon, a fresh newspaper at her place, and even a tiny vase with fresh-clipped roses adorning the table.

  Something was definitely going on.

  She nibbled a piece of bacon, thinking hard. She’d been so busy with shifts at the restaurant and the Caller, she’d barely seen her mom, and aside from last night—

  Eliza stopped. Of course.

  She stifled a groan, just as Linda bustled out with a heaped stack of pancakes. “Here you go,” she said, depositing them in front of Eliza with a doting smile. “You dig in. You must have worked up an appetite, staying out so late. I didn’t know you were seeing Cal Prescott,” she added smoothly, not even pausing for breath. “How long has that been going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on,” Eliza vowed, but her mom pulled up a chair and looked at her excitedly all the same.

  “The Prescotts!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t even know they had property here in town.”

  “They don’t,” Eliza answered, her mouth full of pancakes and maple syrup. “I think he’s looking for somewhere.”

  “There’s nothing he would want around here.” Linda frowned. “Except the Ashcroft farm, but that’s not ocean-front. No, he’d want to be by the water. Maybe that new development up near Truro? I heard they’re asking over three million, but of course, he can afford that. And it’s a nice family home, he’ll be looking to put down roots.”

  “I really wouldn’t know.” Eliza grabbed more bacon.

  “I checked, and he’s definitely single,” Linda gossiped. “He hasn’t dated anyone seriously since that Fortescue girl, the socialite. It’s the perfect time for him to get serious.”

  Eliza kept eating. She should have guessed her mom would take that brief glimpse of Cal and run with it. She’d probably spent all night on google, and all morning at the market gossiping with her friends.

  “Is he staying long?” Linda continued her stream of questions. “It’s just our luck that you’re in town for a while. See, I told you, sweetheart, everything happens for a reason. Eliza? Eliza!”

  Her head snapped up. “Hmm?”

  “Cal. Do you have another date planned?”

  “Mom—”

  “I know, I know.” Linda quickly held her hands up. “You don’t call it dating anymore. You just ‘hang out.’ But Cal Prescott!” She beamed, so full of excitement, Eliza didn’t have the heart to break it to her that Cal was most definitely not her future-son-in-law.

  “I’m not sure what our plans are, Mom,” she said vaguely. “You know he’s so busy with work.”

  Linda’s face fell, and Eliza took pity on her. “But if I see him again, I’ll wear my hair back from my face, the way you like.”

  “That’s my girl.” Linda reached over and tucked a strand behind Eliza’s ears. “And maybe the blue sweater next time? Red is so obvious, and he’ll be looking for a woman with real class.”

  The kind of woman who didn’t let the air out of his tires, or call him a spoiled, privileged brat? Eliza guessed that counted her out of the running.

  “Blue,” she repeated. “Got it.”

  She looked around for something to change the subject, and noticed the peeling paint on the porch swing, faded from years of salt air and spray. “We should fix that old thing up,” she suggested brightly. “Maybe give the whole porch a fresh coat of paint. Dad was always saying it could use a spruce.”

  Linda looked around, and her expression turned lost. “The whole place is falling apart,” she sighed dramatically, even though it looked fine to Eliza. “The roof has needed mending for years. And the boiler . . .”

  “So, we’ll make a list,” Eliza interrupted. “It could be a fun project for us. Now that I’m down here, I’ll have the time to help.”

  Linda put down her coffee mug. “Actually, sweetie, I wanted to talk to you about something . . .” She paused, but Eliza knew what was coming: more concerned questions about her future, or lack thereof.

  “It’s OK, Mom,” she said quickly. “I have a plan. The shifts at the restaurant will keep me busy, and I have the Caller now, too. I’ll find another job eventually. This is just a hiccup.”

  “It’s not that . . .” Her mom paused again, looking conflicted.

  Eliza reached across and squeezed her hand. “I know it can’t be easy, being back here without Dad. He was the one who took care of this stuff. But I’m here now,” she reassured her. “We can manage together. This place has been in the family for generations. I’m not going to let it fall apart on our watch.” She got to her feet. “I can tackle the porch swing today, and then we’ll figure out everything else, OK?”

  Linda nodded, looking reluctant. “I suppose it can’t hurt. But you won’t pick a gaudy color, will you?”

  “You mean, like Marion Hayes?” Eliza teased. Her mom clutched her chest.

  “Don’t even joke! You can see the pink halfway into town. I don’t know what she was thinking.”

  “That it’s fun?” Eliza reached for another pancake, but her mom whisked the plate away. “I haven’t finished!”

  “Carbs, sweetie. You need to stay in shape!”

  * * *

  Eliza spent the morning scrubbing and sanding down the swing, then drove into town to pick out some—muted, tasteful—paint. The original can she’d found in the storage cupboard was sealed shut with age, but Hank at the hardware store was able to match the pretty blue color, and find her some brushes and rollers, too.

  “Your roof could use patching,” he warned, ringing her up. “Ask Cooper, I’m sure some of his guys would take care of that.”

  “I’m not sure it’s in the budget right now,” Eliza said, pulling some crumpled bills from her pocket to pay the bill. “But thanks for the tip!”

  She should have gone straight home again, but she couldn’t resist taking a detour to the Caller offices, tucked high above the square. It had only been a few days, but already the cozy attic felt like her retreat, and her next issue was almost ready to roll. Thanks to Wilber’s excellent filing system, she had the articles edited and set, and had been writing up the Lobsterfest events and reaching out to old columnists to see if they would keep up their contracts. Luckily, all of them were thrilled to hear the Caller was getting another shot. “I was so sad when Wilber moved,” gushed Luann, their expert Miss Manners columnist. “I’m only halfway through my guide to thank-you notes.”

  It wasn’t exactly headline news. Eliza felt a brief pang just imagining the madcap bustle of the newsroom back in Boston. Right about now, they would be racing to prep the weekend edition, and glued to the AP wire for late-breaking stories. Sometimes, those sessions lasted late into the night: someone ordering in pizza, the interns fetching coffee, and everyone running on adrenaline and caffeine, racing the clock to get it all done in time. Other staffers griped about the hours, but Eliza never found anyplace better to be than right there, in the middle of the action. Come morning, they would stumble over to the diner down the street for greasy breakfast rolls, exhausted but elated at a job well done, before grabbing a few hours of sleep and heading back to the office to do it all over again.

  It was stressful and maddening, and exciting, and crazy, and Eliza had loved every minute.

  And now, it was all gone.

  She looked around the sunny attic, so quiet and still. She’d been trying to stay positive and busy ever since that humiliating perp-walk to the lobby, clutching her carton of notebooks and coffee mugs, but the failure of her firing still stung, aching in her chest.

  Her old colleagues would probably laugh to see her now. They were all still there, racing on without her, while she was sitting here, deciding which photo of Mrs. Anderson’s prize-winning roses to run on Page 1.


  Cal Prescott had a lot to answer for.

  Eliza scowled. Never mind their brief moments of bonding, he was still the one behind her sudden change in fortune. She should remember that the next time she was struck with the inexplicable urge to kiss him.

  Not that it would ever happen again.

  * * *

  Cal needed to kiss Eliza again.

  It was inexplicable. Irrational. And completely out of the question. But the urge was there all the same. He tried reading three different books, listening to a podcast, and even taking himself on a three-mile run along the windy shore, but still, his brain was drawn back to one thing. The moment on the beach with Eliza where he’d almost reached for her again.

  That split second, staring into her eyes when it felt like she saw him. Knew him. The empty places his parents’ deaths had left, and his determination to make them proud all the same. That unspoken drive, he could see it in her, too—along with so much more . . .

  It didn’t make any sense. Eliza had made it clear how she felt about him, and he agreed: they had nothing in common, except how irritating they found the other. Hell, they’d only just thawed enough to get along in public, so why had he come so close to ruining the détente?

  Maybe it was just timing. Moonlit ocean, a warm breeze, light reflecting in her teasing eyes . . . It was the textbook definition of romance, Cal decided. Of course he’d been swept up in the moment, he’d barely stood a chance. He should just be relieved her mother had interrupted them when she did—before he’d pressed her up against the porch railings and done something they both would have definitely regretted.

  But damn, that’s one regret he would have enjoyed.

  Cal arrived back from his run, sweating hard, but as he turned off the road to the Pink Palace, he found a car pulled over out front, and an older woman just walking back from the house.

  “Hello?” he called, approaching. “Can I help you?”

  “You must be Calvin.” The woman was in her sixties, perhaps, with dyed red hair and a vivid silk scarf swathed around her neck. “I’m June Somerville. I’m a friend of your godmother’s.”

  “Not the famous Aunt June?” Cal asked, shaking her hand.

  She laughed. “It depends who’s asking.”

  “I think I sampled some of your punch the other night,” Cal said.

  “Oh dear.” June’s mouth twitched, her eyes full of laughter. “Did you do anything you regret?”

  “No,” Cal replied. Unfortunately. “Would you like to come in?” he asked, remembering his manners. “I’m sorry I’m a mess, but is there something I can help you with?”

  June clucked appreciatively. “Of course, Poppy said you were a polite young man. Some of the younger ones these days, all they do is grunt.”

  “I try my best with complete sentences,” Cal said, amused.

  “I just dropped by to give you my card.” June plucked another from her purse and held it out. He glanced at the lettering. June Somerville – Sweetbriar Realty it said in swirling script. And was that . . . ? Yes. A seashell pattern around the edges.

  “I heard on the grapevine you might be looking for a place out here,” June continued. “I know I’m not one of those slick high-end firms, but I can promise you I know everything that happens around here. Everything. That means a head start on all the best property. For example, Julie DiMarco up in Truro just got herself a divorce lawyer,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially. “They have three thousand square feet, with room to build. Gorgeous views. I could make some calls, get you in to see it this weekend?”

  “I . . . hadn’t considered it yet,” Cal said. But it was true, he had been thinking about buying something. An investment, perhaps, or even a vacation place. “How about you put together some options?” he suggested.

  June lit up. “What are you thinking? Wait, don’t tell me. I have a knack for this.” She studied him thoughtfully, and—was Cal just imagining it, or did her eyes linger extra-long on his sweaty body? “You want a bachelor pad, all the bells and whistles. Something impressive, for the ladies. Or . . . a family home? Hmmm.” June cocked her head. “You haven’t decided just yet.”

  Cal blinked.

  “Well, never mind, we can look at everything,” June said, whipping out an old-school Filofax. “How’s Tuesday?”

  “I . . . sure, why not?” Cal realized he didn’t have anything scheduled.

  “Perfect.” June leaned in and kissed him on both cheeks, then rubbed her lipstick away. “You and I are going to have a fabulous time. I’ll even bring a flask of my punch.”

  Cal laughed. “That’s how you get your contracts signed, is it?”

  “Damn right it is.” June bustled back to her car. “I’ll call you!” she yelled through the open window, before revving the engine and driving away.

  Cal watched her leave and chuckled. She was a character, alright. But what the hell: it didn’t hurt to look. And he could already see himself returning here to Sweetbriar. Just, perhaps, to somewhere a little less pink.

  He headed inside and took a shower, but soon enough, he found his thoughts drifting back to Eliza. Was she sticking around in town? She must have been living in Boston, working at the newspaper, but clearly, she had roots here, too—

  No. He stopped himself before he could get off course again. He had no choice left: it was time to bring out the big guns, especially if he was going to get Eliza out of his mind. He quickly dressed and went to his briefcase, pulling out his laptop and the thick file of reports from the Prescott Foundation, then he settled in with a beer on the porch and started reading.

  The Foundation was his favorite part of the job, even if his uncle did think it was a colossal waste of time. “Show up, sign the checks, and then offload it to somebody else,” he would say, but Cal refused. Running a successful company was his duty, but there were some things even more important than those profit margins. The Foundation had been set up in his parents’ name after they died; it raised money for charity, funded research, and brought awareness to vital causes. It was the part of the job that let him sleep at night, knowing the Prescott name was doing some good in the world.

  Today, he reviewed the account reports and some of the applications for funding. His mother had been active raising money for children’s cancer research, so he’d tried to focus the Foundation’s resources there: clinical trials, scholarships, and helping to cover expenses for patients at the hospital in Boston. When he’d taken the reins, the family trustee had warned him they couldn’t say yes to everyone, but reading the heart-breaking letters from parents and doctors, Cal had soon realized his own family’s resources were only just the beginning. So, he cajoled them all into black-tie fundraisers, and $5,000-a-plate charity events, where Boston’s social elite could mingle and write fat checks and smile for the cameras.

  So far, it was working out. Every time, they raised more than the last one, and this year, the numbers were on track to be their best yet. They had a big charity gala coming up that he hoped would bring in some real funds. Cal worked all day—coordinating with the event planners, calling his finance team, and checking in with the hospital board, too—and this time, at last, the hours flew by, until he surfaced in the afternoon with a rumbling stomach and a craving for Declan’s killer roast beef sandwiches.

  He was in the car and halfway to the restaurant before he realized Eliza was probably working a shift. Cal paused at the stoplight, torn. He wanted to go see her . . . which meant he definitely shouldn’t.

  He turned towards town instead. He would pick up some groceries, and fend for himself. Plus, he never did get a chance to buy those books he’d been browsing at the bookstore. But as Cal turned into the Sweetbriar square, he knew he was kidding himself. Choosing not to go somewhere because of her was pretty much the same thing as rushing over to see her. Just with fewer arguments.

  And far less kissing.

  He climbed out of the car and crossed the street to the market. Maybe he should take Declan up o
n his offer to hit the town—and meet some of the bevvy of gorgeous women his friend had programmed into his speed dial. Distraction, that was the ticket. But when he turned the corner around the cereal aisle and almost bumped into someone coming from the other direction, he knew it was useless.

  “You.” Eliza looked up at him, her cheeks flushed. She was clutching a pack of toilet paper and some chips.

  “Me.” Cal looked at her, feeling strangely cheerful. It was a sign. Either that, or someone out there was laughing at him, but it made no difference.

  There was no escaping her. So why even try?

  “How is your hangover?” he asked, remembering her almost-spill.

  Eliza’s mouth dropped open in protest. “I wasn’t drunk! I was enjoying myself. You should try it sometime,” she added, narrowing her eyes defensively. “Unless that’s not good manners.”

  “I’ll have to consult the handbook, but I think it’s allowed,” Cal replied, silently scolding himself for saying the wrong thing—yet again. Somehow, every time he tried to be charming, it just made her more annoyed. “How about you give me a lesson tonight?”

  “What?” Eliza asked.

  “Would you like to have dinner?” he elaborated, and he was rewarded with a stunned look.

  “With you?”

  “That would be the point, yes.” Cal cleared his throat. “Unless they’ve changed the rules on dating in the past week.”

  Eliza blinked at him. “But why?”

  “Didn’t you hear the part about it being a date?” Cal was beginning to feel like he’d made a bad, bad decision. Potentially the worst decision in his entire life. Sure, he hadn’t been expecting her to swoon by the paper goods display, but was dinner really such an awful invitation? “You, me, an entrée or two,” he continued, trying to sound nonchalant. “Who knows, maybe we’ll even go crazy and get dessert?”

  Cal flashed her a smile. Eliza stared back, her cheeks flushing pinker. She was wearing cut-offs with a ratty old sweater, her hair pulled up in a messy braid, but she looked just as dazzling as ever. He could make reservations at the fanciest restaurant on the Cape and give them both an excuse to dress up for the night. Would she like Italian, or prefer French? Cal wondered. Either way, he could already picture it: a bottle of wine, some candlelight, and the whip-smart conversation he knew would be on the menu—