by Irene Hannon
And long before Seabird Inn was ready to open, he’d move on to wherever that future took him.
4
BJ lifted her mug of java . . . inhaled the fragrant aroma . . . and took a sip.
The perfect way to start a day.
Or it would be perfect in less than thirty seconds.
Balancing her brimming mug in one hand, she pushed through the back door, strolled across her small patio, and gave the sea a slow sweep. Sea Rose Lane might not be in Hope Harbor’s toniest neighborhood, but the setting? World-class. You couldn’t beat a double lot that abutted the sea and offered an unobstructed view of open water, vast sky, and Little Gull Island. She might be mere minutes from the heart of Hope Harbor, but this spot felt a world removed from civilization.
She drew in a lungful of the fresh briny air, so different from the smog-laced LA haze she’d breathed for seven years—and had expected to breathe for the rest of her life. Yet just shy of her one-year anniversary here, this last, tiny rental cottage on this tiny dead-end street in this tiny town felt more like home than LA ever had.
Best of all, very little these days could resurrect the tension she’d shed over the past few months.
Eric Nash, however, had managed to accomplish that feat—drat him. Thanks to the distracting attorney, for the first time in weeks she’d spent a night tossing into the wee hours.
Steam tickling her nose, she took a fortifying sip of coffee and skimmed the rocky shore of Little Gull Island, searching for the mottled silver-white harbor seal that had taken up residence a few weeks ago. No matter her worries, the playful little fellow always managed to distract her.
She spotted him tucked into a crevice, his impish face turned toward her.
“Morning, Casper.” She cupped her free hand around her mouth and aimed the greeting his direction. At six-thirty, it was too early to yell at full voice across the water and risk waking her neighbors.
As usual, he flapped a flipper.
The corners of her lips rose. There wasn’t much chance his response was directed at her, but whatever the reason for it, he exhibited the same behavior every morning, as reliable as the sun that crested the hill behind her.
It was nice when life unfolded in a predictable pattern.
Unfortunately, it sometimes threw curves—like Eric Nash.
Her smile faded. So much for distraction.
As if Casper realized she’d lost interest in him, he bounced over to the edge of the ledge, dived into the water, and disappeared.
Too bad she couldn’t make thoughts of the Portland lawyer vanish as easily.
But it was going to be a whole lot tougher to do that after her dumb decision to share a cozy dinner with him on the wharf last night.
She took another sip of coffee, gripping the mug with both hands while a tufted puffin—its orange, parrot-like bill a beacon in the morning sun—dived for his breakfast.
The little guy must be hungry . . . as she’d been last night.
Hmm. Could she blame her appetite—plus her craving for Charley’s tacos—on her ill-advised lapse in judgment?
Only if you’re trying to fool yourself.
She sighed. No sense denying the truth. She’d known when she accepted Eric’s invitation that no matter how much distance she kept between them on the bench, sparks would fly. On her end, anyway.
And that was bad news.
Because while Tracy might praise his integrity and reliability, Eric Nash wasn’t going to hang around Hope Harbor—and getting involved with a man who was passing through would be foolish.
She took a gulp of her coffee, then waved a hand in front of her mouth as the hot liquid burned a trail down her throat. Just the way she could get burned if she let herself fall under the spell of another good-looking guy.
Not happening.
Turning away from the wildlife show, she marched back inside. It was going to be hard to avoid him, since she was spending her days at his father’s house. But if fate was kind, his visit would be brief. Based on what Tracy had said, his firm wasn’t likely to grant long vacations.
She drained her coffee, rinsed the mug, and eyed the remaining half piece of fudge cake from Eleanor. She ought to save it for tonight. A bowl of oatmeal would be much more nutritious.
But for once, she broke all her rules about healthy eating. Quashing the red alert strobing across her mind, she grabbed a fork, ripped off the aluminum foil, and scarfed down the decadent cake.
Yum.
Yet the instant she finished . . . even before the last bit of rich chocolate flavor dissolved on her tongue . . . regret left a sour taste in her mouth.
And once again, John Nash’s son was to blame.
She wadded up the foil, rinsed off the fork—and tried to sustain her annoyance. Holding him responsible for her own decision to eat the cake might not be fair, but it was less disconcerting than admitting she could still be vulnerable to dark good looks and impromptu invitations from smooth-talking men.
The sooner he returned to his briefs and depositions and court dates in Portland, the better.
Except . . . try as she might, she couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for that verdict.
Huffing out a breath, she grabbed her keys and stomped toward the door. She did not need this disruption in her life. She’d come to Hope Harbor for a new beginning. One that didn’t include romance—or even attraction. She had a business to build and people to help. Those were her priorities for the foreseeable future.
So if Eric Nash wanted to organize any more cozy taco parties with his seagull friends, he’d better look elsewhere for female companionship.
Because from now on she intended to keep her distance.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
At the sudden hammering above him, Eric jerked awake, squinted at his watch, and pulled the covers on the sleeper sofa over his head.
The flimsy cloth barrier didn’t muffle the obnoxious din one iota.
He groaned. Much as he hated the shrill, piercing beep of his alarm clock in Portland, ear-splitting pounding was a far worse wake-up call. Besides, it was too early to have to endure noise this high on the decibel meter.
Giving up any hope of further shut-eye, he threw the sheet back and peered at his watch again.
Oh.
It was seven, not six—and most days he rose at five-thirty.
He’d zoned out for nine hours?
His sleepless night on Tuesday had to be the culprit.
A faint haze of drywall dust hung in the air, the motes drifting lazily in the ray of sun peeking around the window shade, and his nose began to tickle. A sneeze was coming. Or two. Or three.
Once he finished ah-chooing, he swung his feet to the floor and stood. Sleeping in was obviously not going to be an option during his stay.
He pulled on his jeans, finger-combed his hair, and opened the French doors that led from the living room to the foyer.
All at once, the banging upstairs stopped. A few seconds later, a lean, fortyish man with olive skin appeared at the top of the stairs, lugging one end of a beam. As he descended, a skinny thirtysomething guy, sporting the bad-boy stubble popular in Hollywood these days and wearing a black bandana around his longish hair, emerged from the shadows behind him, holding the other end. Neither gave him more than a cursory glance as they passed.
Where on earth had BJ found this motley crew?
And were they qualified to be ripping his dad’s house apart?
Better find out.
He watched them disappear through the front door, then padded barefoot toward the kitchen in the back of the house, following the rattle of clattering pots.
His father turned from the stove as he pushed through the hall door into the kitchen. “Good morning. I didn’t realize you were planning to sleep late or I’d have warned you last night about the early reveille around here.”
“That’s okay.” He surveyed the pots on the burners, the pan of English muffins on the counter, the eggs in a b
owl. “What are you making?”
“Eggs Benedict. This is the hollandaise sauce.” His dad tapped the pot he was stirring. “I haven’t mastered it yet, but I’m getting closer. Want to give it a try in a few minutes?”
“Sure. I guess.” He edged closer and lowered his voice. “Listen . . . I just saw your construction crew. Are you certain those guys are qualified to be tearing out walls?”
“BJ hired them, and I trust her implicitly. From what I’ve observed, Luis is very competent. Stone’s younger and less experienced, but he’s a hard worker.”
Eric narrowed his eyes as his father removed the sauce from the stove and put a lid on it. Stone . . . or stoned? The long-haired guy looked like a refugee from Hell’s Angels.
His father opened a cabinet, gave it a swift scan, and hustled toward the dining room. “I need to grab some place mats.”
Eric trailed after him as the two-man crew traipsed back upstairs to wreak further destruction.
“Dad . . .” He followed his father across the room. “Does your architect have liability insurance?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get a lien waiver?”
“Yes.”
The banging resumed, and he increased his volume. “What about the Hispanic guy? Is he a citizen?”
“Calm down, Eric. Everything’s fine.”
“Dad . . . you have to be careful about hiring illegal aliens. If he’s from Mexico, he needs to have a green card or work permit.”
“He’s not Mexican.”
Eric swung around. BJ stood at the foot of the stairs, fire shooting from her green irises.
And it wasn’t the pleasant kind he’d seen yesterday during their introductory handshake in the front yard.
“He also has a green card.” She shifted toward the stairs. “Luis!”
His father darted him a disgruntled look before he addressed the architect. “That’s not necessary, BJ.”
She strafed Eric with her gaze, and he tried not to squirm. “I wouldn’t want your son to have any doubts about the legality of my operation, him being an attorney and all.”
The fortyish man came back down the stairs, gave the assembled group a quick sweep—and froze.
BJ crossed to him and touched his arm. “Luis, John’s son would like to see your green card. Would you show it to him, please?” Gone was her snippy manner, replaced by a conversational, dismissive tone—as if she wanted to assure this man he had nothing to worry about.
The fear tightening his features didn’t diminish, however. He groped in his pocket for the requested document, pulled it out, and passed it to BJ with quivering fingers.
She stalked over and thrust it at Eric, resting her other hand atop the lethal-looking hammer hanging on her tool belt.
Eric wanted to sink through the floor. “I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of this.”
“I can understand why an attorney would want to be certain all the i’s are dotted and the t’s crossed.” Her voice was pleasant. Her expression wasn’t.
But only he could see her face from this angle.
He took the card. Two things registered at once. The man’s full name was Luis Dominguez, and he was Cuban, not Mexican. As far as he could tell, the document was authentic.
“Thank you.” He handed it back.
BJ dug around in her own pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you have any other questions or concerns when I’m not around, feel free to call my cell.”
In other words, don’t bother her crew.
Message received—loud and clear.
“I’m making eggs Benedict this morning. I need some taste testers.” His father’s tone was a tad too upbeat, as if he was trying to atone for the younger Nash’s gaffe. “Luis, I hope you and Stone are up for the job. You too, BJ.”
No mention of his son joining them, despite the invitation a few minutes ago in the kitchen.
BJ planted herself next to Luis. “We, uh, have a lot of work to do this morning.”
Eric caught her quick venomous glance. Interpretation? Him being part of the breakfast party was a deal breaker.
Since he was the cause of all the tension in the room, there was only one honorable course of action. “Dad, if you could put a serving in the oven for me, I’d like to take a walk on the beach before I eat.”
“Excellent idea. Some fresh sea air might clear your head.” His father gave him The Look. The one he’d used during Eric’s teen years to express his displeasure over some transgression that disappointed him.
It had as powerful an impact now as it had then.
He exited as fast as he could, closed the French doors to the living room behind him, and rubbed his temple, where an ache was beginning to throb.
Barely seven o’clock, and this day had already bottomed out.
And if things didn’t improve quickly, this might end up being a much shorter visit than he’d expected—even if the thought of returning to his noise-and-dust-free condo in Portland held zero appeal.
“All fixed, Eleanor.” BJ gave the bathroom door one final test swing, tucked her screwdriver back in the toolbox on the floor, and stood.
“Bless you, child. I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
BJ stroked Methuselah and hefted the toolbox. “You’re not a bother. I’m happy to help.”
“Well, the least I can do is offer you dinner. I have enough pot roast left from last night for both of us. Would you like to join me?”
BJ hesitated. She could see the yearning for companionship in the woman’s eyes, and Methuselah wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
But she couldn’t swing it tonight. Her schedule was too tight.
“I wish I could, but I promised to work on sets tonight for that fundraising show for Helping Hands.”
“My goodness.” Eleanor tut-tutted. “Do you ever have a free moment?”
“When I’m sleeping.” BJ winked at her and moved toward the front door, dodging Methuselah.
“I have a feeling that’s not a joke.”
“I like being busy.”
“That B&B project you’re working on seems like it would keep you plenty busy. Which reminds me, have you met John’s son, Eric, yet?” Eleanor trundled after her down the hall.
BJ kept her expression neutral. “Yes.”
“Nice young man, from what I recall.”
Not in her experience.
BJ’s fingers tightened on the toolbox as this morning’s encounter replayed in her mind. Who was he to question the legitimacy of her work crew? This was his father’s project, not his—and the elder Nash had been satisfied with their credentials.
However, it might have been better to handle the situation with more discretion. Luis had clearly been upset, and none of her reassurances later had erased his distress. She should have reined in her temper and left him out of it.
Still, if Mr. Big Shot Attorney wanted proof her employees were legal, that had been the best and fastest way to provide it.
On the plus side, the incident had dimmed the luster of Eric Nash’s appeal. The only electricity she’d felt this morning had been a charge of anger. If this kept up, she wouldn’t have to worry about trying to avoid him while—
“. . . lost his job.”
BJ tuned back in to Eleanor. “What did you say?”
“Oh, dear.” The older woman bit her lip. “I don’t mean to be talking out of school. I thought you already knew, working at the house and all.”
“Knew what?”
“About Eric losing his job.”
The legal eagle had been fired?
“What happened?” The question popped out before she could stop it.
“Well . . .” Eleanor adjusted her grip on the walker. “I don’t know the details. Rose ran into him in town. He mentioned downsizing and changed the subject. I’m guessing he got caught in one of those corporate realignments that are all over the news. Poor boy. That must have been quite a blow. He was always such a conscientious, hardworking
young man.”
The same words Tracy had used to describe him.
BJ’s stomach twisted. No wonder he’d seemed dejected when they met. And he had to be stressed out. To make matters worse, his homecoming had been less than placid—and she’d played a big role in that.
“Do you have a headache, dear?”
Yeah, she did. But not the kind the older woman meant.
“No. It’s just been a long day.”
“And it’s not over yet. I don’t want to delay you, but why don’t you let me fix you a plate to go? You could warm it up later at home.”
BJ grasped the doorknob. “To tell you the truth, I’m not that hungry. John was in a cooking mood today. We had eggs Benedict for breakfast and chicken crepes for lunch. He’s spoiling us for every future job. Most people don’t offer coffee, let alone food.”
“Rumor is he’s becoming quite the chef.”
“He gets high marks in my book, that’s for sure.” She pulled the door open, keeping tabs on Methuselah. She didn’t have time to go chasing after an escaped feline.
“If you get a chance, give Eric my best, would you? And tell him I’m praying for him—not that he’ll remember me after all these years. But perhaps it will help to know others care. It must be a terrible blow to lose your dream job. And starting over is never easy.”
No. It wasn’t.
“I’ll pass that on if I run into him . . . and I’ll take a rain check on dinner too, if I may.” She pushed through the door.
“Anytime, sweet child. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
BJ strode down the path, hopscotching over the uneven stepping-stones. After her tension-filled day, it would have been nice to pop a can of soda on the patio, put up her feet, and let the sea breeze whisk away her tension.
Not on her agenda tonight.
But banging nails was also an excellent stress reliever—and there was a high school scene shop full of them waiting for her.
This wasn’t how he’d expected his life to end.
Luis stared down into the dark, roiling water from his perch on the cliff high above the sea. The tide was in, the crash of surf against the huge, irregular sea stacks booming through the night under the three-quarter moon.