Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  And with each day that passed, he was liking the notion of leaving Hope Harbor less and less.

  14

  Was someone knocking on her door?

  BJ forced her eyelids open and squinted against the late afternoon sun slanting across the water. She must have drifted off. Easy to do any day, stretched out in the comfortable chaise lounge on her patio—and a given if you felt as wrung out as a wet dishrag.

  A definitive knock sounded from the front of the house, still muffled . . . but louder now. As if her visitor didn’t intend to leave until she responded.

  Sighing, she tried to summon up the energy to stand.

  Failed.

  Oh, well. Whoever had come calling would give up eventually and leave her in peace.

  When there were no further knocks, she let herself drift again. She’d rest a few more minutes, build up her strength a bit, then go inside and scrounge up some dinner. As Gram always used to remind her, you couldn’t expect a car to run without gas; why expect your body to function without food? And she was operating on fumes at the moment . . .

  “So this is where you’re hiding.”

  At the greeting from a familiar male voice, she jerked upright.

  “Eric!” She struggled to sit up and swing her feet to the ground.

  “Stay put.” He strode over to her, set two bags on the patio table beside the chaise lounge, and gestured to one of the empty chairs. “May I?”

  “Yes . . . but you better move that several feet away, in case I’m still contagious.”

  “Too late. I’ve already been exposed. I drove Luis home earlier after he could barely drag himself to his motorbike, and the germs had free rein in my car.”

  “Great.” To make matters worse, they’d both been at Eleanor’s yesterday, spreading the virus around. She grabbed her cell from the table. “I need to see if Eleanor is—”

  “Already done. I had the same thought, so I called her an hour ago. She’s fine. And I have a strong constitution.” He angled the chair toward her and sat.

  “I do too—and look at the shape I’m in.” She ran her fingers through her hair. Had she bothered to comb out the tangled mess today? Not that she recalled. Nor had she put on a speck of makeup.

  Eric appraised her, faint furrows etching his brow. “To use Eleanor’s term from yesterday, you are a little peaked. More than a little, to be honest. How are you feeling?”

  “Better than I did twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Why do I have a feeling that’s not saying much?”

  “Because you’re a perceptive man? Actually, I am improving. My fever broke about two, and other than being wiped out, I feel okay.”

  “Have you eaten today?”

  “Not yet. I was just on the verge of scrounging up some food.”

  “Then my visit is timely.” He opened the brown sack and pulled out a Diet Sprite, a lidded container, and a spoon. “The café had chicken noodle soup on the menu today. Are you up for that?”

  Her stomach rumbled, and warmth flooded her cheeks. “I guess that’s your answer.”

  Grinning, he removed the lid from the container and handed it over. “Dig in.”

  “What’s in the white bag?” She nodded toward it while she dipped the spoon in the hearty soup.

  “Dessert.” He popped the tab on the soda for her. “Stone asked me to tell you not to worry about anything at the house. He said he’ll muscle through on his own tomorrow.”

  “He’s not showing any signs of getting sick, is he?” She took another spoonful of soup.

  “Not yet . . . but he may be next. My mom always said extra meat on the bones gave a person resistance, and skinny would be a generous term for him.”

  “He’s a lot stronger—and more resilient—than he looks. I guess spending time behind bars either breaks or hardens a person.”

  Eric’s face went blank.

  Whoops.

  She’d never told him about Stone’s background.

  “Um . . . he doesn’t like to talk about it, but he served five years for second-degree robbery. Reverend Baker led a Bible study at the prison and recommended him to me. They have a carpentry program at the facility, and he aced it. For the record, your dad knows his history.”

  “Okay.” He linked his fingers over his stomach, his expression guarded. “How long has he been with you?”

  “Nine months—and he’s a very hard, reliable worker.” A note of defensiveness crept into her tone.

  He held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not questioning that. I trust your judgment. I was just . . . surprised. Do you only hire people who need a break?”

  “No.” She stirred her soup. “The first guy I brought on was an experienced construction worker. Two months later, he took a job out of state. The timing with Stone seemed providential, so I hired him. Work kept picking up after that, and I was beginning to think about hiring a second person part time when Reverend Baker approached me about Luis. I had enough work with the Seabird Inn project to take him on full time. In both cases, the decision was a no-brainer.”

  “It wouldn’t have been for a lot of people.” A spark of . . . admiration? . . . flickered in his eyes.

  Instead of responding, she continued to eat, the silence broken only by the gentle lap of the waves at the far edge of her yard.

  As she chased the last noodle around the container, Eric smiled. “I take it the soup was a smart choice.”

  “Very.” She drained the can of Sprite.

  “I guess I should have brought two of those.”

  “No. One’s usually more than sufficient. I must be dehydrated from the fever. I’ll grab another one from inside.” She again attempted to rise.

  “Let me get it.” He stood and pressed her back with a gentle hand on her shoulder, one side of his mouth hitching up. “I promise not to steal the family silver.”

  “Since there isn’t any, I guess it’s safe to let you go in.” She sank back. “There are several cans in the door of the fridge. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll be right back.”

  Once he disappeared inside, BJ rested her elbows on the arms of the chaise lounge and let the warmth of the sun soak into her. It was strange, having someone fuss over her. Only Gram and Gramps and Mom had ever done that—and Mom’s loving care was nothing more than a faint, distant memory.

  However, getting used to this . . . or hoping for more . . . would be a bad idea. Nice as Eric might be, he was also passing through. In another week or two or three, he’d be gone.

  And falling for an itinerant attorney could end up hurting even more than falling for a deceitful architect.

  So she’d play this smart and cautious . . . and continue to guard her heart.

  No matter how much charm her client’s son turned on.

  The cans of soda were exactly where BJ had said they’d be, giving him no reason to linger in her kitchen.

  Yet Eric didn’t rush back out.

  Instead, he did a slow sweep of the small room, tucking away the insights it offered into the woman on the patio.

  The kitchen was clutter-free. No empty glasses beside the sink, no dirty dishes stacked on the table, no stray boxes of tissue or aspirin bottles. The counters were polished, the glass-fronted cabinets well organized.

  Conclusion: She liked her living space neat, clean, and orderly.

  A framed prayer of St. Francis hung on the wall, and a Bible-verse-of-the-day flip-over calendar rested near the cell phone charger—along with a solicitation for a children’s charity and her checkbook.

  Conclusion: The faith she’d talked about to him on the wharf was front and center in her daily life—not just during the hard times she’d mentioned.

  The fridge had been stocked with fruit, vegetables, eggs, and some deli turkey. Not a leftover fast-food container in sight.

  Conclusion: She ate healthy and took care of herself.

  The simple, uncluttered room was painted a warm gray-blue that blended with the view of the s
ea outside the window. Geometric art prints in bold colors hung on the walls, and her café table was a sleek, modern mix of chrome and glass.

  Conclusion: Design was as important in her life as it was in her career.

  Resisting the urge to peek into her living room and see what additional clues it might hold about the woman who lived here, he returned to the patio.

  As he approached the chaise lounge, however, his pace slowed. BJ was sound asleep again, her long blonde hair spilling onto her shoulders in soft waves.

  Whatever bug she’d picked up had really done a number on her.

  He stopped a few feet away, taking advantage of this rare chance to study her unobserved. Her head was tipped back, and the descending sun cast a golden glow on her skin. In repose, the charged energy that always radiated from her was gone, and the sometimes taut angles of her face had softened.

  Flexing his free hand, he took a slow, deep breath. In this unguarded moment, her defenses down, BJ transcended beautiful. She was stunning . . . exquisite . . . and oh-so-appealing.

  Would this be how she looked in the arms of a man she loved—content, relaxed, at peace?

  A pang of yearning ricocheted through him, so strong it rocked him back on his heels.

  Frowning, Eric tightened his grip on the soda can. Where had that come from? It was premature—and dangerous—for such intense feelings . . . especially since he wasn’t planning to hang around long. Much as he cherished his childhood in Hope Harbor, living here again wasn’t in the cards if he wanted to make partner at a prestigious law firm.

  And he did . . . right?

  His frown deepened. Yes, of course he did. Hadn’t he gone after that goal relentlessly since college? After all the years and effort he’d invested, why would he . . .

  BJ’s eyes flickered open, forcing him to set aside those troubling thoughts. For now.

  “Soda delivery.” He held up the can and crossed to her.

  “Did I fall asleep again?” She scooted up in the lounger as she took the can.

  “Yep. Whatever you had knocked you hard.” That was putting it mildly. Close up, even the golden light from the sun couldn’t hide her pallor or the faint shadows beneath her lower lashes. “Are you ready for dessert?” He picked up the white bag.

  “I don’t eat sweets as a rule.”

  “I think you’ll want to make an exception for this.” He reclaimed his chair, uncrimped the top of the bag, and dangled it in front of her.

  She sniffed as the unmistakable aroma of cinnamon wafted out.

  “You went to Sweet Dreams.” She took the bag and peeked inside at the giant cinnamon roll.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I love these.” She continued to stare into the bag.

  “I know.”

  She lifted her chin. “How?”

  “You wrote your cell number on the back of a receipt for one of these the day we . . . uh . . . ran into each other.”

  “You mean the day you ran into me.”

  “Let’s not argue the fine points. Go ahead . . . take it out.”

  After a brief hesitation, she pulled out the gooey roll dripping with icing. “I always buy one of these on Saturday as a weekend splurge. I eat half that day and half on Sunday.” She moistened her lips, eyeing the treat. “Tracy got me hooked—but I manage to resist the temptation during the week.”

  “Are you always so disciplined?”

  “I try to be—now.”

  The caveat didn’t escape him. “What does that mean?”

  She hesitated. “Let’s just say food used to be my nemesis—going all the way back to my childhood.” She set the cinnamon roll on the napkin he handed her.

  “I don’t know if I buy that.” He gave her trim figure a swift appraisal. “I see you as a cute little girl with pigtails and freckles and a sunny smile, who charmed everyone she met.”

  “Not even close. I was an awkward, self-conscious big girl who didn’t smile much at all. No one was charmed by me other than Gram and Gramps.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “It’s true.” She swiped at a blob of icing and sucked it off her finger. “And consuming more food as consolation did not help the problem.”

  Instead of obsessing over the icing glistening at the corner of her mouth, he shifted his attention to her eyes . . . picked up the lingering hurt in their depths . . . and processed what she’d shared with him.

  “Are you saying you were heavy as a child?”

  “That would be a kind way of putting it.” She fiddled with the edge of the napkin. “The truth is, I was unpleasantly plump my whole life, until a few years ago.”

  He tried to conjure up that image.

  Couldn’t.

  “What happened to change that?”

  “Tracy—also known as Ms. Outdoors. While we were both in Phoenix, she started dragging me to Sedona on weekends to camp and hike. The first time I went, I was sure I was going to have a heart attack climbing up to Devil’s Bridge. I tried to bail after that, but she kept pushing me. Then she convinced me to sign up with her for a healthy cooking class—and got me to join her health club. In a few months . . . voilà.” She swept a hand down her body. “A new me began to emerge. And the old one is never coming back.”

  Based on the resolve in her voice, he didn’t doubt that.

  “Maybe I better take that away.” He reached for the white bag.

  She whipped it out of his range. “Not if you value your life. No worries, though. I’ve learned to consume in moderation. I’ll enjoy this over the next couple of days . . . beginning now.” She broke off a big chunk of the roll, put the rest back in the bag, and nibbled at the rich confection. “I’d share, but I already touched it and I wouldn’t want you to get my germs.”

  “Thoughtful of you.”

  “No. Selfish. I could have offered you some before I pulled it out of the bag. But thank you for not pointing that out.” She washed down the bite with a swig of soda. “You know, fortified with this and the soup you brought, I might be ready to come back to work tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know about that. If you felt half as bad as Luis looked, you’ll need more than thirty-six hours to get your strength back.”

  “I’ll see how I am in the morning.”

  He folded his arms. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as tenacious.”

  “That too. Listen, I’ll make a deal with you. Why don’t you rest tomorrow and stop by the scene shop in the evening if you feel up to it? Between the two of us, we ought to be able to get the smokehouse ready for the tech rehearsals.”

  “I thought you were working on the backdrop?”

  “I am. I was there last night and today, and I’m going back after I leave here. It’s coming along.”

  Twin creases dented her forehead. “I didn’t expect you to put those kinds of long hours into the project.”

  “I don’t have any other pressing obligations. And to tell you the truth, it’s been kind of fun.” He tapped her soda can. “Need another one before I leave?”

  A flicker of some emotion . . . disappointment, perhaps? . . . clouded her eyes.

  Nice to know she might be sorry to see him go.

  “No. I’m set. Thanks a lot for stopping by—and for giving Luis a lift home.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll call you in the morning to see how you’re doing.”

  “I might show up for work.”

  “Don’t push it, BJ. If you work all day, you won’t be in any shape to go to the scene shop, and if I attempt to work on that set piece without someone directing my every move, it could end up resembling a lopsided outhouse rather than a smokehouse.”

  She gave him a disgruntled look. “I bet you aced every logic course you took in college and law school.”

  “Does that mean you’ll rest tomorrow during the day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Silence fell between them.

&nb
sp; He should go . . . except he didn’t want to. Working on the backdrop was fun—but it was a lot more fun when he had company.

  However, there was no reason to prolong this visit. BJ was tired, and he’d completed his mission of mercy.

  “Well . . .” He dug out his keys. “Take it easy for the rest of the day.”

  “I will.” She leaned toward him and touched his arm, her features softening. “And thank you again. For everything.”

  His heart skipped a beat as the warmth from her fingers seeped into his skin. She was close enough for him to see the amber flecks in her green irises. Close enough for him to hear her shallow, unsteady breathing. Close enough for him to reach out . . . trace the gentle sweep of her jaw . . . and claim those—

  A loud belch broke the charged silence between them, instantly dispelling the romantic mood.

  BJ blinked once . . . again . . . then removed her hand and turned toward the sea. “Casper must have eaten something that didn’t agree with him.”

  Her words sounded as shaky as he felt.

  Backing off a few inches, he groped for the edge of the table to steady himself. “Casper?”

  “The friendly neighborhood seal.” She motioned toward Little Gull Island.

  He redirected his attention to the one-acre outcrop of rock a short distance offshore. A silver-white harbor seal stared back at him.

  What an inopportune case of indigestion.

  Or was it?

  Without that rude interruption, he might have been tempted to overstep the bounds he’d set for himself with this woman—and inch closer to breaking the promise he’d made to her about remaining friends.

  Clearing his throat, he stood. “The backdrop awaits. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  He hustled toward the front of the house without waiting for a response.

  Only after he turned the corner and she was out of sight did he slow his pace . . . fill his lungs with some fresh salt air . . . and give his pulse a chance to drop back into the normal range.

  Strange how being in BJ’s presence always left him feeling unsettled . . . in a pleasant, almost addictive way. Some of that was due to attraction and electricity, of course—but he’d experienced that kind of fleeting magnetism in the past with a few of the women he’d dated, and this reaction far transcended that.