Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  He wiped his hands on a rag and moved toward her, stopping a few feet away. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  That was a lie. She looked as if someone had kicked her in the stomach.

  “I don’t think I’m buying that.”

  She dipped her chin and tucked her phone back in its pouch on her tool belt. “I’ll be fine. Listen, if you’re getting tired, you don’t have to hang around. It’s been a long night.”

  Was she being considerate—or trying to ditch him?

  “You’ve got to be more tired than I am.” He kept his tone conversational, trying to gauge her intent. “You put in a full day of physical labor. All I did was go to the paint store and take a walk on the beach.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “I’m used to it. The stuff I’m doing here is easy.” She ran her fingers over the faux stone on the bridge. “To be honest, though, I’m kind of beat. I usually hang around until about ten, but I think I’m going to call it a night. Can you be ready to leave in about five minutes? I need to lock up.”

  “No problem. Sketching doesn’t generate a mess to clean up like painting does.”

  She started to walk away—but this was not how he wanted their conversation to end.

  Throwing caution aside, he touched her arm as she brushed past. “Look, I don’t want to overstep, but I have a feeling that phone call was bad news.”

  He left it at that. No question, just an open-ended comment. If she blew him off, he wasn’t going to push and risk raising her ire.

  And with each silent second that ticked by, he was more certain she was going to snub his overture.

  In the end, however, she surprised him.

  “It wasn’t the best news I’ve ever had.” The last word hitched, and her green irises began to shimmer again.

  His gut clenched, and he had a sudden, totally inappropriate urge to wrap her in his arms, hold her tight, and promise he’d do whatever he could to fix the problem.

  Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them out of trouble.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Talking won’t change anything.”

  “Maybe not . . . but it can make you feel better—or even spark ideas. I learned that over many a conversation with my dad at our kitchen table through the years.” Like the one last night that continued to replay in his mind—though that exchange had unsettled more than clarified.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “If that’s a kind way of saying butt out, I’ll respect your wishes. If it’s not—I don’t have any other commitments tonight, and long stories are a specialty of lawyers.”

  The barest hint of a smile whispered at her lips. “You make a convincing case, counselor.”

  “Plus, I have a very sympathetic ear.” He tugged on one lobe.

  After a brief hesitation, she exhaled. “Okay. It would be nice to talk with someone about this. Usually, I’d seek out my best friend in town—but given the situation, that would be awkward.” She motioned to a bench she’d constructed for one of the scenes. “In the show, one of the characters sits there to churn milk. Since my stomach is churning, that would be an appropriate place to talk.”

  “Sounds logical.”

  He followed her over and claimed the opposite end of the sturdy bench, giving her his full attention while she described the proposal she’d developed, then filled him in on tonight’s call.

  “Bottom line, unless I can convince the board this isn’t a high-risk undertaking, it’s history.”

  “Hmm.” He stretched his legs out in front of him. “As a guy who lives and breathes litigation every day, I can understand their caution. However, I think they’re overinflating the risk.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The way I see it, liability can be covered with insurance and a bulletproof contract. Admin time should be minimal once the program is up and running, and it sounds like Michael Hunter is a supporter. My guess is he’d do the legwork on that score if the other problems went away.”

  “That’s my take too.”

  “Which leaves legal expenses and no prototype. I could help you out with the boilerplate while I’m here. Developing the kind of contract you’d need wouldn’t be that difficult.”

  She smiled, and the warmth of it seeped straight into his heart. “That’s a very generous offer.”

  He shifted on the bench. “Not really. We’re not talking about that many hours.”

  “Enough to rack up some serious expense if we were on the clock.” Her mouth flattened. “But the board thinks we need ongoing legal support for the customized section of each contract, and you won’t be here forever. You might even end up out of state.”

  That was true.

  Is it, Eric?

  He frowned. Where had that disconcerting little question come from?

  “My plans are in flux at the moment.” Strange. The words that came out weren’t the definitive answer he’d intended to give.

  “I could always cold call a few attorneys in Coos Bay. Someone might be willing to take this on pro bono.”

  “I may be able to help with that. One of the guys in our office was from there. He might know of a few local attorneys. I’ll reach out to him.”

  And if that didn’t work, he could always consider volunteering himself. In the age of instant communication, distance was inconsequential. Time, however? Different story. A partner-track position at a new firm would be even more demanding for the foreseeable future than the familiar job he’d left behind.

  “That would be great. Thank you.” Her smile reappeared for an instant, fading again as she toed a piece of scrap wood. “That leaves the lack of a model program with demonstrated success.”

  “Well . . . solving three out of four problems isn’t a bad start for a Monday. Why don’t we both think about this for a few days? Maybe one of us will have a brainstorm.”

  She didn’t look optimistic. “Prayer might be more productive at this stage.”

  “I’ll think. You pray.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You don’t pray?”

  “Not much.” Like, not at all in recent years.

  “You were at church Sunday.”

  “My dad expected it. To be honest, once I left Hope Harbor, life got too busy for church and . . . stuff.”

  “Like God?”

  There was no good answer to that question.

  “I haven’t stopped believing or anything.” His response came out more defensive than he’d intended, and he took a deep breath. Keep it light, Nash. Inject a touch of humor. “It’s been so long since he’s heard from me, I doubt he’d recognize my voice.”

  “The shepherd always knows his sheep.”

  Her tone was gentle—yet the words stung.

  He stiffened. “Are you suggesting I’m lost?”

  Contrition etched her features. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to preach. I just can’t imagine how a person survives big setbacks without relying on God for strength and guidance.”

  The hint of fervor in her words suggested that was more than a platitude. “It sounds as if you’re speaking from experience.”

  Her toe stopped playing with the wood, and she went very still. “I’ve had some . . . challenges . . . but nothing like the troubles other people have had—including some of the older folks in town who would benefit from a program like the one I proposed.”

  She was shifting the conversation back to an impersonal topic.

  Or was she?

  He did the math. A strong, tearful reaction to the thumbs-down, plus a churning stomach, plus a poignant sadness in the depths of her eyes. That didn’t add up to mere disappointment over a charitable program gone south.

  It added up to a stymied personal agenda.

  There was backstory to her proposal—and he wasn’t going to let her off the hook without one more attempt to ferret it out.

  “Where did the idea for that come from, anyway?” He put a touch of casual curiosity in
his inflection, keeping the query as nonthreatening as possible.

  A flicker of . . . pain? . . . whipped across her face, so fast he wondered if he’d imagined it.

  “I volunteer for Helping Hands beyond this.” She waved a hand around the scene shop. “A lot of the people I assist are older and struggling to remain independent. Like Eleanor Cooper. I mentioned her to you the other day.”

  “I remember. But you’ve only been in town a year. I would think you’d be too busy settling in, launching your business, to have much time to volunteer for anything, let alone develop an ambitious program.”

  BJ bent down to retie her shoelace, hiding her face from his view. “You can always find time to do things that are important to you.”

  He waited until she sat up again so he could watch her while he made his next comment. “You know, I get the feeling you have a personal stake in the outcome of your proposal.”

  Shock flattened her features.

  Bull’s-eye.

  “Why would you think that?”

  He restrained the impulse to twine his fingers with hers. “I’m used to dealing with people in depositions and courtrooms, watching reactions, tuning in to vibes. And the disappointment I’m picking up from you is out of the normal range for this kind of situation.”

  Her breath hitched, and when she brushed back a stray strand of hair, the subtle quiver in her fingers validated his conclusion even before she confirmed it.

  “You’re right. I do have . . .”

  Her phone rang again, and he stifled a groan. Could the timing be any worse?

  She fumbled for it and skimmed the screen. “This is Reverend Baker. I need to take it. Excuse me for a minute.” She sprang to her feet and darted away, ending their conversation.

  Would she pick it up again after she returned—or succumb to cold feet?

  He hoped it was the former.

  Because the more he hung around BJ, the more he wanted to know what made her tick. And if she trusted him with her story tonight, who knew where that might lead?

  He was ready to find out.

  But was she?

  11

  “Tomorrow’s fine, Reverend Baker.” BJ angled sideways and peeked at Eric.

  He was watching her . . . probably waiting for her to come back to the bench and finish the admission she’d had no intention of making.

  Her stomach clenched. She’d never told anyone about the burden she carried over Gram’s situation—including a close friend like Tracy. It made no sense to even consider sharing her secret with a man she’d known less than a week.

  “. . . if that works for you.”

  Uh-oh. She’d totally lost the thread of her conversation with the minister.

  “I’m sorry . . . I missed part of that. Cell reception can be so unreliable.” True . . . though not in this case.

  He chuckled. “I hear you. Mine’s always popping in and out. I said about five-thirty would be ideal, if that works for you.”

  “Sounds fine.” She looked back at Eric.

  He was still watching her.

  “I’ll see you then. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  Reverend Baker ended the call, but BJ kept the phone pressed to her ear as she mentally ticked off her options. She could gather up her tools and deflect any follow-up questions Eric might lob at her, blow him off with the same quick summary she’d given the Helping Hands board about Gram . . . or spill everything.

  The fact that option three remained on the table shook her to her bones. Why bare her soul to a man she barely knew?

  Oh, come on, BJ. You know why.

  Propping a shoulder against the front of the fake farmhouse, she closed her eyes and faced the truth.

  Like it or not, she was attracted to Eric Nash.

  And truth be told, she kind of liked it. Yes, there were similarities between him and Todd. Both had movie-star looks. Both generated high-voltage electricity. Both had been relentlessly climbing the corporate ladder.

  But not every ambitious ladder-climber pushed other people off on his way up—and everything Eric had done since he’d arrived in Hope Harbor spelled good guy in capital letters. The man radiated dependability and integrity.

  She swiveled toward him again.

  He was sitting in the same spot, his posture open, relaxed—and somehow telegraphing that she . . . and her story . . . would be safe with him.

  Dare she take the plunge and trust him?

  The temptation was strong—and keeping all her emotions bottled up inside wasn’t healthy. Perhaps a fresh perspective might help her find the elusive closure that kept her awake more nights than she cared to count.

  Yes or no?

  Slowly, she lowered the phone and tucked it back in the pouch on her tool belt.

  Go for it, BJ. If you change your mind partway into the story, you can always back off and keep the rest to yourself.

  That was true.

  Plus, she could ease in. Test the water with a few questions, see how he reacted to the first part of the story. If she got bad vibes, she could pull back.

  If, on the other hand, positive energy was flowing . . . and if she could summon up the courage to admit the regret that weighed down her soul . . . maybe this man who had come so unexpectedly into her present could help her put the past to rest.

  She was going to talk to him. Eric could see the resolve on her face as she returned to the bench.

  And she wasn’t going to regret that decision. Guaranteed.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She sat beside him. “Grace Christian is thinking about remodeling the offices, and we were setting up a bid appointment.” Her words came out fast and choppy.

  The lady was very nervous.

  Don’t push, Nash. Let her take this at her own pace.

  “Sounds like business is booming.”

  “It is.” She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the bench and locked gazes with him. “You said before my call that you had a feeling I might have a personal stake in the outcome of my Helping Hands proposal. I do . . . and there’s a story behind it, if you’d like to hear it.”

  “I would.”

  “Why?”

  The direct question threw him for a moment—but it fit the personality of this no-nonsense woman.

  “You want me to be honest or coy?” If she preferred to play this exchange straight, he was game.

  “Honesty is always best.”

  “But not always comfortable.”

  “Agreed. However, I’ll take it over sham and pretense any day.” Her nostrils flared, and anger sparked in her green irises.

  What was that all about?

  She didn’t seem inclined to elaborate—but it couldn’t hurt to assure her he wasn’t in the deception camp.

  “For the record, I don’t do sham or pretense.”

  The tension in her features relaxed a tad. “Nice to know.”

  “And the answer to your question is simple. I want to know more about you because I think you’re an interesting woman, and I’m attracted to you.”

  She blinked.

  “Too candid?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “But we . . . we barely know each other.”

  “We may be new acquaintances, but I like what I’ve seen so far. And the electricity is potent . . . on my end, anyway.”

  She blinked again.

  He grinned. “Shall I cull back the candor?”

  “No. I just . . . I’m not used to guys being that straightforward.”

  “Maybe you’ve been hanging around with the wrong guys.”

  If he hadn’t been watching her closely, her tiny flinch at his teasing remark would have escaped his notice.

  He frowned. “I think I hit a nerve.”

  Her expression shifted into neutral. “No problem. It’s history.”

  Not ancient history, though. Her reaction felt too . . . fresh.

  He fisted his hands and came to the obvious
conclusion: some guy had hurt her in the not-too-distant past.

  That did not sit well.

  “Look . . .” She fidgeted on the bench. “I thought you wanted to hear the background on my Helping Hands proposal.”

  Frustration coiled in his gut. He did . . . but he also wanted to hear the background on the jerk who’d hurt her. However, BJ’s stiff posture, narrowed eyes, and crimped fingers were sending a clear back-off message. If he pushed, she could shut down and leave him in the dark about both the Helping Hands proposal and her love life.

  Better to stick with the former tonight; she seemed willing to talk about that.

  “I do.”

  She bobbed her head. Brushed some sawdust off her jeans. Inspected a broken fingernail. “For the record, I . . . I haven’t told the whole story to anyone else.”

  BJ was going to share a piece of her history with him that no one else knew?

  That was the best news he’d had all day . . . all week . . . all year.

  And it wouldn’t hurt to reassure her that her trust wasn’t misplaced.

  “Whatever you tell me will remain between us.”

  “I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing this.”

  Yet she hesitated.

  When the silence lengthened, he spoke again. “Something else is holding you back.”

  “Yeah.” She exhaled and looked over at him. “Since you were honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. That electricity you mentioned? It’s not one-sided. I’m not ready to deal with it at this point, but . . . I don’t want it to go away, either—and I’m afraid it might fizzle out on your end once you hear what I have to say.”

  She felt the sizzle as strongly as he did?

  More good news on this Monday night.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that. I can’t imagine anything you could say that would change the chemistry.”

  She scrutinized him. “There’s some risk, though.”

  “Like there is with the program you want to launch. Does that mean you should back off on it too?”

  Her mouth flexed. “I’ll bet you don’t cut witnesses any slack in a courtroom.”

  “Most of my cases get settled out of court—and this isn’t a cross-examination. You talk, I’ll listen. If I ask a question you don’t like, don’t answer it. You’re in charge.” He couldn’t create a safer environment than that.