by Jill Shalvis
“For Ford,” they all repeated.
Sawyer was grinning, the asshole.
“Okay, that’s it,” Ford said to Lucille, pointing at her. “I’m cutting you off.”
“Hush, dear,” she said with a dismissive wave. “We’re working here. And while you’re standing there looking pretty, we’re going to need a pitcher of margaritas.”
Jesus.
Ford was halfway through that task when Logan sauntered back up to the bar for another drink.
“Don’t tell me,” Ford said. “Another Ginger Goddess.”
“Nah.” Logan grinned. “I just wanted to see if you knew how to make a sissy drink. It was good though. Thanks.”
Sawyer, still sprawled back in his chair, laughed.
Okay, that was it. Ford was cutting everyone off, the fuckers.
Lucille asked Logan for his autograph again.
“Didn’t I already give you one, darlin’?” Logan asked.
“Yes, but that was for eBay.” Lucille patted his arm and pointed to Ford. “Have you met our own local celebrity?”
Logan looked at Ford. “Yes, but I didn’t know he was a celebrity.”
Ford waited for someone to announce his two American Cup wins or maybe the ISAF Rolex World Sailor of the Year award. Or hey, how about either of his gold medals?
“Yes, sirree,” Lucille said proudly. “Ford here makes the best margaritas on the West Coast.”
Sawyer choked and indicated he needed water. Ford ignored him.
“And oh!” Lucille added. “He’s real good on a boat, too.”
Ford was sure that he could feel a blood vessel bursting behind his left eye. He took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t help, but it wasn’t worth the breath to point out that he’d also once been featured in Sports Illustrated.
Sawyer continued to cough, and Ford hoped he swallowed his tongue.
Lucille waved her glass around as she spoke. “Why, just the other day Ford was working on Lucky Harbor Inn’s rentals for them. Such a good boy.”
Logan grinned. “That’s nice.”
“Oh, our Ford is quite the catch,” Lucille went on, and her blue-haired posse all nodded sagely. “Tara thinks so, too, seeing as she pulled him into her meeting the other day and made him take off his shirt for the ladies.”
Now it was Ford’s turn to choke. “Okay, that’s not what happened. I—”
“Don’t be shy, dear. You look good without your shirt.” Lucille glanced at Logan. “Though I’m sure you look good without yours as well. In fact, maybe we could have a contest right here.”
Jesus.
Lucille’s posse all sat up straighter and nodded their blue-haired perms.
Logan laughed, but he looked Ford over for a long beat.
Ford looked right back. In Logan’s eyes, he saw the light of challenge. No, they weren’t going to have a shirt-off contest, but they were competing.
Game on.
Chapter 10
“Life isn’t about finding yourself,
it’s about creating yourself.”
TARA DANIELS
Tara spent the next few days organizing and then reorganizing the inn’s kitchen.
They were going to open as a B&B.
Maddie had handled the paperwork for the license and inspection required, Chloe was working up ideas for special baskets for guests that could be ordered if they wanted meals on the go, and Tara was working on menu planning, recipes, and the additional supplies needed.
It could actually come together and work.
Tara could hardly believe it, both that she’d agreed and that the more time passed, the more she liked the idea. It was exhilarating to finally do something she’d always wanted—cooking for a living in her own kitchen.
It was terrifying as well, because the opportunity for an epic failure had never been greater. It wasn’t as if she had a great track record succeeding at… well, anything.
But there was always a first time. This was what she told herself. It gave her hope. With the phones starting to ring and bookings coming in, and with Chloe still coming and going and Maddie feeling in over her head, they’d put out an ad for another part-time employee. They already had interviews set up with a few high school students hopefully willing to do grunt work relatively cheaply.
Plenty of the Lucky Harbor curious stopped by: Lucille toting recipes, Lance and Tucker proposing the possibility of delivering ice cream on the weekends from their shop, Sawyer to mooch coffee—the inn was on his way to work and he preferred Tara’s coffee to the station’s.
If nothing else, the distractions soaked up some of the terror over the upcoming opening, and took up all of Tara’s available brain space, leaving none for her other problems.
Such as her man problems.
That she could even think that phrase—man problems—was as amazing as it was ridiculous. She never had man problems.
She never had men!
To her surprise, Logan had been serious about staying in town. He’d rented a small beach cottage a few miles up the road and had come by each day. Tara had no idea what to make of that. Her entire marriage had been about her chasing him. It felt odd, to say the least, that things were reversed.
As for Ford, he was around. He’d served her drinks the other night when she’d gone to The Love Shack with Chloe and Maddie. He’d been at the marina yesterday working on his boat.
But there’d been no one-on-one conversations between them. And given that she knew he was all too aware of Logan being in town, she got the unspoken message.
He wasn’t going to press, push, or fight for her. Shock. Ford never pressed, pushed or fought. Things either came right to him, like moths to a flame, or they didn’t.
Not being a moth, Tara was on her own to do as she pleased. She just wasn’t exactly sure what would please her.
Okay, big fat lie. She knew what would please her, and that was one Ford Walker, served straight up. But hell if she’d go through that again.…
A week after their not-so-awkward morning after, Tara headed out at the crack of dawn to return his crepe pan, which she’d used and loved. She needed to buy herself one the next time she had a couple hundred bucks lying around.
It took ten minutes to drive to his house, ten minutes she told herself she didn’t have to spare. She should have given him the pan back at the marina. That would have been the logical and reasonable thing to do. Except as it applied to Ford, Tara didn’t have a logical or reasonable bone in her body.
At least his house was easy enough to get to. He lived on the bluffs above the inn. As the sun rose over the mountains, casting a pink glow over the morning, she parked and headed up his walk. A small part of her secretly hoped she caught him in bed. But that really was a very small part.
The bigger part hoped he was in the shower.
She looked around and realized that she didn’t see his car, which pretty much rained on the waking-him-up parade. Wondering where he was—or who he might be with so early—put a hitch in her step.
None of your business, she told herself. None. She blew out a breath, opened her cell phone, and called him.
“Hey,” he said in his usual sex-on-a-stick voice. “Miss me?”
She ignored both that and the floaty feeling the sound of his voice put in her stomach. “I’m returning your pan,” she said. “I’m on your porch.” She paused, hoping he’d tell her where he was.
“Let yourself in,” he said and gave her the code to unlock the door.
“Where should I leave it, in your kitchen?”
“Or on my bed,” he said.
“You want the Le Creuset on your bed,” she repeated, heavy on the disbelief.
“No, I want you on my bed. What are you wearing?”
She pulled the cell away from her ear and stared at it. “You did not just ask me that.”
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll just picture you how I want you.”
“And how would that be?” The words popped o
ut of her before she could stop them, fascinated in spite of herself.
“Hmm,” he mused silkily. “Maybe a French maid outfit.”
“That’s…” She struggled a minute with why the thought turned her on. “Outdated and anti-feminist,” she finally said, a little weakly. “Not to mention subservient.”
“I like the subservient part,” Ford mused. “A few ‘yes sirs’ would be nice.”
“You are one seriously warped man.”
“No doubt.” His voice was low and sexy, and it made her forget herself, made her forget that all he wanted was her body. Especially since at the moment, she wanted his.
“I can be there in twenty minutes,” he said, a smile in his voice.
“No. Don’t even think about it.” Tara ignored the flutter in her belly. She couldn’t help it. Even when he was being a Neanderthal, he still turned her on. Sure, she’d just been fantasizing about catching him in the shower, but that had been just a fantasy. She needed to live firmly in reality. “We’re done with that.”
“Bet I can change your mind.”
“I have no doubt,” Tara said. God, she needed help. “But you’re a nice guy, so you won’t.”
“I’m not that nice a guy.”
Great. Just great. “You’ve been an absent guy.”
He was quiet a moment. “Didn’t see a need to complicate anything for you.”
Like a reunion with Logan. Tara drew in a deep breath. “You ever think that sometimes complications are worth the trouble?”
“No.”
Quick and easy and brutally honest. It was Ford’s way. She’d have to think about that later. Right now, she punched in his front door code and listened to the lock click open. “Are you sure you don’t want me to just leave the pan on the step?” she asked. “It’d be safe.” In Lucky Harbor, just about everything was safe.
Except her heart, she was discovering.
“Are you afraid to step inside my lair?” Ford teased.
“Ha. And no. I’ll leave it on your table.”
“Ten-four.” He paused. “Are you going to snoop around while you’re in there?”
“No.” Maybe. “What would I snoop around in?”
“I don’t know. My underwear drawer?”
The last time she’d touched his underwear, he’d been wearing them. But just the thought of him in his BVDs brought a rush. “No,” she said quickly.
Too quickly, because he laughed softly. “You can if you want to,” he said, lowering his voice. “You can do whatever you want, Tara. Flip through my porn, eat the enchiladas I made last night from Carlos’s abuelo’s recipe…”
“Wait.” She promptly forgot about underwear, porn, and jumping his bones. “Carlos gave you his abuelo’s recipe? I’ve been asking him for it forever.”
“Yes, but do you take him out on the water every week and teach him to sail? Or teach him how to pick up girls so as to achieve maximum basage?”
“Basage?”
“You know, first base, second base—”
“Ohmigod,” she said. “You are such a guy!”
He was laughing now. “Guilty as charged.”
Tara sighed. “So it’s a boy’s club; is that what you’re saying?”
“Uh huh. And I’m glad to say that you do not have the right equipment to join.”
“I want that recipe, Ford.”
“Only men are allowed to have it. It’s been handed down that way for generations.”
“You’re making that up.”
He didn’t say anything, but she could practically hear him smiling. “Please?” she asked.
“Oh, how I like the sound of that word coming from your mouth.”
“Ford.”
“Right here, Tara.” He was still using his bedroom voice. Which, as she had good reason to know, made her one hundred percent stupid.
“What would you do to get the recipe?” he wanted to know.
She shook her head. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind and want to play with my underwear, text me and I’ll be right there. You can play with the ones I’m wearing.”
She felt herself go damp and hurriedly disconnected. She wouldn’t be texting him. She wouldn’t let herself go there. Way too big a risk when it came to him, because he wouldn’t risk anything. Been there, done that.
She stepped into his big, masculine house, her heels clicking on his hardwood floor. He had a big couch and an even bigger flat screen. One wall was all windows looking out over the water. And, she realized, the marina.
Lucky Harbor Inn’s marina.
She wondered if he ever stood right here and looked for her. Reminding herself that she was on a mission to drop the pan off and get out, she refused to let herself look at anything else as she headed toward his kitchen.
Except her eyes strayed to the mantel in the living room on the way and at the pictures there. There was one of Jax, Sawyer, and Ford on Ford’s boat. Three hard-bodied gorgeous men, tanned and wet and mugging for the camera. She wondered who had taken the picture, and if the bikini top hanging from the mast behind them belonged to the photographer.
There was another picture of Ford with a group of guys all standing shoulder to shoulder, wearing USA track suits and holding their medals. The Olympic sailing team.
The last picture showed an older woman with two younger women, all of whom shared Ford’s wide, open, mischievous smile and bright green eyes.
His grandmother and sisters.
Tara walked through an archway, past the laundry room, and into a kitchen that gave her some serious appliance envy. And Corian countertop envy. And, oh Lord, look at his Japanese cutlery. Just standing here was going to give her an orgasm. She set the pan on the table, forced herself to turn around, and headed back under the archway. There was a basket of clean clothes on the dryer. Drawn in by the fresh scent, she stood in the center of the laundry room and inhaled deeply.
She was pathetic.
On the top of the basket of clothes lay a T-shirt. It said LUCKY HARBOR SAILING CHAMP across the front. At one time, it’d been gray, but years of washing had softened it to nearly white. She knew this because he’d been given two of them. Ford had gotten them that long-ago summer during his first sailing race when he’d been nothing but the dock boy on a local team.
She had the other shirt. He’d given it to her all those years ago, and she’d worn it to sleep in. She’d kept it as one of her few true treasures. Unfortunately, she’d been wearing it the night of the inn fire six months ago, and it’d been destroyed. Unable to stop herself, she ran her fingers over the shirt and whoops, look at that, picked it up. Well, hey, he’d invited her to play with his underwear, and a T-shirt could be classified as underwear. She pressed her face to the soft, faded cotton and felt her knees go a little weak even though it smelled like detergent and not the man.
She wanted the shirt.
Don’t do it…
But she did. She totally stole his shirt.
She drove back to the inn with it in her purse and walked straight to the marina, and then to the end of the dock.
She needed a minute.
She inhaled the wet, salty air. Sitting was a challenge in her pencil skirt and she had to kick off her heels, but once she managed, having the water lap at her feet and the sun on her face made it worth it. It meant unwanted freckles and almost dropping a Jimmy Choo knock-off into the water, but there was something about listening to the water slap up against the wood and watching the boats bob up and down on the swells that really did it for her.
It was better than dark chocolate for releasing endorphins and helping her relax.
Better than orgasms.
Okay, no. Nothing was better than orgasms, but this would have to be a close second.
She’d stolen his shirt. Good Lord, she was losing it.
Two battered cross trainers appeared in her peripheral vision. Long legs, dark blue board shorts, and a white T-shirt came next.
“So you didn’t climb into my bed,” Ford said, sitting next to her.
“How do you know I didn’t just get tired of waiting for you to show up?” she asked.
His brow shot up so far it vanished into the lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Are you telling me I missed my shot?”
“Sugar, you never even had a shot.”
Ford grinned and slung an arm over her shoulder, pulling her into him. He smelled delicious. Like salty air and the ocean and something woodsy too.
And male.
Very male.
“Liar,” he said affectionately.
This was true. “You’re in my space,” Tara noted.
“That’s not what you said when we—Oomph,” he let out when she elbowed him in the gut. Unperturbed, he grinned. “Aw, don’t be embarrassed that you attacked me in your kitchen.”
“What? That night was all your fault,” she told him. “You were standing there putting away spices and making me fried chicken, looking all—” Sexy. Sexy as hell. “I mean you practically force-fed me the cuteness.”
“Cuteness,” he repeated, testing the word out like it was a bad seed. “I’m not cute.”
“Okay, true. You’re far too potent for cute.”
He cocked his head. “And you really think that us having sex was all on me?”
Her cheeks were getting hot, along with other parts of her. “I’m saying you seduced me with all the—”
“Say ‘cuteness’ again,” Ford warned, “and I’m going to strip you naked right here and show you exactly how not cute I can be. I’m going to show it to you until you scream my name.”
“Okay, wait. Does anyone really scream during orgasm? I mean, you read about it all the time in books, but—”
He laughed. “Okay, so you don’t scream.” He leaned in close. “But your breath gets all uneven and catchy—which I love, by the way—and then you let out this sexy little purr, and—”
She elbowed him again.
“Told you I wasn’t cute,” he said, rubbing his ribs.
She squelched the urge to say “cute” one more time just to see if he’d follow through on his threat. She took a look around them to see if they were alone, just in case—