by V. K. Sykes
“Yeah, sorry.” He gave Stanley’s collar another tug. “Sit, dude. It’s time to show the lady you can behave. Or at least try.”
Stanley stared up at him with baleful brown eyes but obeyed, plunking his butt on Ry’s feet.
He leaned over and gave the dog a stern look—not that it ever did much good—then switched his attention back to Claire. “He’s obviously going to need a lot more training. He’s only ten months old, and I don’t think he got much attention from the people who had him before me. Those assholes abandoned him.”
Her eyes widened as she gave Stanley another affectionate pat. “How could anyone abandon such a sweetie? Anyway, training is something I could help you with if you like. I took some obedience courses so I could better handle my clients’ dogs. Now I offer basic training as part of our services.”
Ry had intended to train Stanley himself, but he’d never done anything like that before and had started to think he needed professional help. “I’ll give that some thought.”
Her smile made him wonder, and not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss that full, pink mouth, bracketed by cute dimples. He liked that she didn’t wear much makeup. She looked fresh and real, and those were qualities he hadn’t seen all that much of. His dating choices had reflected some crappy judgment over the years.
“Stanley’s a very cool dog,” Claire said. “You sure don’t see many Landseer Newfoundlands, at least I haven’t. He was a rescue, right?”
“Yeah. I wanted to get a dog as soon as I moved up here. I’ve always loved Newfs—my granddad had a couple on his farm when I was a kid—so I contacted one of the breed’s rescue organizations. That led to finding Stanley at a place just outside Saratoga Springs.”
In a blink, her expression closed up again. “I’ve been there a few times. In fact, I had a very good friend from there.”
Her smile looked forced, and he didn’t miss the fact that she’d used the past tense. And that is none of your business, pal. “Famous racetrack there,” he said.
“Yes, well, Stanley’s coat is obviously going to take a lot of maintenance,” she said, sliding over his comment. “We’re lucky to have a really good dog groomer in Spy Hill.”
“Hey, I figured that might be another service on the Brides Bay Concierges menu. You and Meg seem to do just about everything else. Dog grooming would be a walk in the park for you two, along with laundering money and forging passports.”
That did the trick. She let out an easy laugh. “We do aim to please, but professional grooming takes a lot of equipment and know-how. It’s possibly even more complicated than forgery.” She bent over again and rubbed her hand down the dog’s muzzle, receiving a sloppy, awkward lick on the palm as a reward. The dog gazed up at her with adoration. Ry suspected that Stanley was already a fan for life.
The pup had good taste. Claire lit up the old-fashioned kitchen. Ry could see how just being around her could make a guy feel as if only good things in life awaited him.
But that was, of course, a total crock of shit. No woman—no person—had that power.
“I’m assuming you have somebody lined up to take care of Stanley when you’re gone,” she said. “But in case you have any problems with that, pet sitting is another service we provide. It’s live-in, of course. We camp out at the clients’ homes and take care of their dogs and their house until they get back.” Her gaze shifted around, taking in the other rooms off the hallway, as if assessing the place or thinking about what it would be like to stay there.
On one level, the idea of using the concierge to dog-sit appealed to Ry. Stanley would be happier at home than at the kennel where Ry had already booked him a stay. But the glitch was that there was no way he wanted anybody living at his house when he was gone. And sure as hell not some woman he didn’t really know—not even one as nice as Claire.
“Thanks, but I’ve booked him into a boarding kennel.”
“I just thought I’d mention it so you’d know it was an option. I’m glad you’ve got Stanley for company. I’ve got clients who live all alone out here on the island, and they tell me it can get awfully lonely, especially in the dead of winter.”
He shrugged. “I like living alone. And anyway, now I’ve got Stanley. We have some interesting conversations. He’s a great listener.”
She cut him a wry smile. “And he never argues with you, right?”
“Oh, sure he does. He sulks like crazy when I tell him it’s not time for dinner yet. Sometimes he’ll start dragging cushions and other stuff around the house to try to get his way. He can be a total badass when he puts his mind to it.”
She laughed. “He sounds a bit like his daddy, then. That was a badass performance you put on at the reception last night—first helping me to fix the ice sculpture and then turning into a guitar god.”
Ry mentally frowned, wondering if she was trying to flirt with him. Probably not, since that wouldn’t exactly be the best move after landing a new business client. Then again, a hell of a lot of women had flirted with him over the years. It hadn’t meant that he was anything special, or that they gave a damn about him as a person. The same had been true for just about every other player on the team. Ultimately, it was the hockey uniform—and probably the size of the bank account—that attracted their attention, not the man inside.
Well, he didn’t have to wear a uniform anymore. Now he was just a retired player living in the Maine boonies. So yeah, he was interested in Claire as a woman. But as much as he was tempted to flirt, he stifled the instinct. Better to keep it professional all the way, at least until he got a clearer sense of who she was.
“So, about a nickel tour of the house?” He turned and dragged Stanley into the hall.
* * *
Claire was doing her best to keep it professional, but it wasn’t easy. Not when every view from the old-fashioned double-glazed windows and every creaking floorboard reminded her of the time here when she’d felt cherished and happy.
And safe.
She’d always loved the big, farmhouse-style kitchen where her family had eaten their meals, played board games, and done homework. Where she and her older sister, Katie, had sat and talked to their mom for hours about boys, clothes, college, and everything else under the sun. True, the pine cabinets were showing more wear and tear since Mom sold the place more than fifteen years ago, and the kitchen sink and faucet were new and obviously pricey. And instead of the huge wooden table, which could seat an entire high school soccer team, Ry had installed a high-end table of glass and steel that seated only four. The sight jarred her, seeming so out of place in the warm, old-fashioned room.
The dining room across the hall showed even more change, with a sleek black table and chair set that must have cost the moon. Other than that, the room was bare, including the walls. Since Claire’s family had never been big on formal entertaining, they’d used the room for reading and sewing and listening to music. How many hours had she and Katie spent there reading, curled up on opposite ends of the huge, comfy old sofa?
She gave her head a mental shake. Yes, it was going to be a painful tour, but one way to stop thinking about the house was to focus on the job and on her new client.
That wouldn’t be hard to do, since Ry was damn easy on the eyes, especially in his tight black polo shirt and the low-slung jeans that hugged his awesome physique. It made it difficult to think straight, much less talk like a rational human being—something she hadn’t yet accomplished, as her awkward small talk in the kitchen had made embarrassingly obvious. Ry Griffin was her client, and that was all. He wasn’t potential date material or even a friend. Thinking of him as anything other than her new boss could not be part of the plan.
Stanley trotted ahead to the living room and jumped up on the sofa. His master strode to the bank of windows that ran the full width of one wall, showcasing a magnificent view of the bay. The shades were drawn up, and morning light bathed the wide, oak-planked floor that still looked richly warm and polished despite
its age. A massive stone fireplace, blackened around the edges of the pit, was opposite the wall of windows, dominating the rustic-looking room where, as a girl, Claire had often set up her easel on gloomy days and painted scenes of the fog-shrouded bay.
“So, how long have you been doing the concierge thing? And don’t worry, it’s not the start of an interview. I’m definitely hiring you.”
She flashed him a grateful smile. “That’s awesome. Actually, I started almost three years ago. I was on my own for the first two, then managed to persuade Meg to join me. I was getting so many new clients to handle by myself.”
In truth, she’d never imagined owning a concierge business, much less a successful one. What had started out as a sideline to support her art career had now taken over her life, as development on Promise Island exploded and more wealthy clients had sought her services. She and Meg were even thinking seriously about adding a third person to help meet the growing demand. Otherwise, eventually they’d both have to give up what little remained of their flagging art careers.
Sure, she missed painting full-time, but art just didn’t play the bills. The only other alternative was giving up her independence and moving back into the spare bedroom of her mom’s tiny townhouse in Spy Hill.
No thanks.
Ry nodded at her answer, then glanced up at the timbered cathedral ceiling. “I love this room. It almost makes me want to keep the house after all.”
She had to choke back a gasp of dismay. For years, she’d envisioned a nightmare scenario where some rich guy would tear the place down and build a twelve-thousand-square-foot monster like Derek Mallory’s ultramodern castle. Given the house’s stunning view of the bay, that’s what almost any owner in Ry’s position would do. Yet for Claire, it would be terrible to see a gorgeous old house destroyed and yet another sprawling McMansion plunked down on the quiet, rustic island.
She cleared her throat, hoping her words wouldn’t come out sounding like Minnie Mouse. “So, you’ve already got plans to tear it down and rebuild?”
He shrugged. “The place has a lot of character, but it would need too much work to renovate and expand, especially given the shape it’s in. Derek said the previous owner wouldn’t spend a penny on it over the last few years. The guy figured it wouldn’t matter when he sold it. And he was right. I bought the place for the land and the location, not the house.”
He turned in a slow circle. “You know it’s eighty years old? It must have been a great home back in the day.” He focused on Claire. “But you might know a lot of that history. Derek told me you grew up around here.”
Literally here.
Of course, Ry didn’t know that. Derek didn’t either. Claire avoided talking about her personal life with her clients. And the story of her family’s forced move from what was then an idyllic Promise Island to a small, clapboard house in Spy Hill remained too painful to talk about anyway.
“I did. The house was originally built by a prosperous sea captain,” she said, scratching Stanley behind the ear. Petting the dog helped keep her anxiety level out of the red zone, and the big boy certainly didn’t mind the attention. “It was a shame that Bert Budd let the place slide, but I can’t blame him. After his wife died, he just didn’t have the heart to keep it up anymore.”
Kind of like Claire’s father had let things slide. Her dad, so stubborn and proud, had kept his secrets from all of them, hoping that he could weather the financial storm. No one other than his bank manager had known how badly he’d slipped into debt. Two miserable lobstering seasons and an unexpected major repair to his boat had sunk him both financially and psychologically. After his death, Mom had been forced to sell the house to Bert, who’d owned it until selling to Ry.
Ry narrowed his gaze on her, looking thoughtful. “By the way, Derek said you spent a few years in New York at art school.”
Claire wondered what else Derek had told him. Probably not much, given that she’d enforced a strict rule of privacy when it came to her personal life. Her mother had told her more than once that she worried too much about such things. In fact, obsessive was the word Mom tended to use.
“Yes,” she said, “and you were there for several years as well, from what I understand. In New York, I mean, not art school.”
According to Meg, who was something of a sports fan, Ry had played for several teams, ending with the New York Rangers. Apparently, he’d only retired a few months ago.
“Three seasons,” Ry responded curtly, moving away from her.
Well, then. Message received. It seemed like he might have as many secrets as she did.
She followed him to a small room on the east side of the house.
“This is my office and, uh, den,” he said.
Claire had to smile. It had been her father’s office too, the place where he did all the paperwork for his lobster fishing business, keeping meticulous records of every penny earned and every dollar spent on diesel fuel, fishing gear, and bait. It was still as cozy a man cave as she remembered, with dark wooden furnishings and a gas fireplace flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. An impressive walnut desk sported a MacBook Air and a fancy Apple monitor. Opposite, a well-worn leather sofa looked so comfortable that she wanted to plunk herself down on it and take a nap. Working on Derek and Jane’s wedding had tired her out more than she liked to admit. Today’s stressful little tour down memory lane wasn’t helping.
She scanned the room, frowning.
“What’s on your mind?” Ry asked.
She jumped a bit, not realizing he’d eased up next to her. “Oh, I guess I was expecting to see lots of hockey awards and stuff. Isn’t that what most athletes do when they retire? Build a trophy room to display their trophy hardware and other memorabilia?”
“I guess, but I don’t need to see trophies every day to remind me of what I did. I remember everything I want to about hockey,” He let out a terse laugh. “And there’s plenty I’d rather forget.” He turned and walked out of the room.
O-kay.
She followed him up to the second floor. There were three bedrooms there, including a large master. None of the rooms bore all that much of a resemblance to the ones of her youth, and she had no desire to take more than a cursory glance through the doorways.
“There’s nothing you need to know or be concerned about up here,” he said, “but I thought you’d want to take a quick look at everything.”
“Yes, it’s always a good idea to get fully oriented.” She forced a smile. Spending time here was starting to make her jittery. It felt too much like a long goodbye, even though she knew she’d probably be back here many times before the house was demolished.
Back downstairs, Ry showed her the electrical panel—another sad relic in serious need of an upgrade—and then led her out through the front door to a corner of the house where he pointed out the location of the valve that could shut off the water supply to the house. “Anything else you need to see?” he asked, wiping his hands on his jeans. He’d pried off the valve cover in order to show her how to shut off the water.
“No, I think I’m all set.” She glanced behind her to where a new building had been framed, one that had a footprint nearly as big as the house. Her friend Carter Pierce, who was in charge of the construction work, was keeping her informed of the progress on the massive new storage shed that would replace the decades-old, creaky garage. Her gut twisted at the memory of the three mature trees that had been sacrificed for the new building. She’d once played under those old trees, or simply rested in their welcoming shade while reading books and dreaming the fantastical dreams of a little girl.
Carter waved at her from inside the two-by-fours as he hammered a crosspiece into place. She waved back.
“Tell me if I’m being too curious,” she said, her mind still half in the past. “What exactly do you plan to use that new monster garage for? An airplane?”
“You’re being too curious,” he said drily.
She wrinkled her nose. “Ouch. Sorry about
that. You’d think by now that I’d know how much my clients value their privacy.”
He rewarded her with a grin that made her stomach do stupid girly things. She bet that smile could melt the panties off a woman four levels up in an ice-cold hockey rink.
“Relax, I was just messing with you,” he said. “I’ve managed to assemble a pretty good batch of machines, so I need plenty of space to store them. Plus I like to tinker a bit.”
“You’re talking about a car collection?” In her experience, when guys talked about machines, they usually meant sexy or souped-up cars.
“No.” He gently took her by the upper arm, urging her to walk alongside him toward the construction site. His unexpected touch was warm on her bare skin, his big hand wrapping easily around her arm. And with his uber-masculine body looming so close, she could feel her panties starting a metaphorical slide.
He’s your client, remember?
“Let’s take a quick look in the old garage,” he said. “You might as well see that too.”
Claire was very familiar with the ancient building, with its sagging roofline and peeling paint. Her dad had used it both as a place to keep his truck and as a large workshop for repairing his lobstering gear.
Behind her, she heard the gritty cough of a car engine. She and Ry both turned to see a beat-up, powder blue Voyager van making its way up the long drive. It swung onto the strip of pavement that led to the garage and headed straight at them. Tammy Grange was at the wheel while Pam Slowey waved and grinned from the passenger seat. Claire knew the two housecleaners well, having recommended them many times to clients and friends. Tammy hit the brakes, and the van rocked to a stop.
“Claire, fancy seeing you here,” Pam said loudly as she climbed out of the old heap of rusted metal. She glanced at Tammy for a moment and then said, “We heard there was a nice batch of blueberries just come in at the farmers market. Perfect for making buckles.”