She knew college was not a possibility, so Sara Beth set her sights on becoming an administrative assistant to an upper-echelon executive. Which executive mattered little to her as long as her salary would provide enough income to care for her sister and her mom when she became too old to work. She ignored the academic curriculum in high school but learned everything she could about computer programs for business. She typed like the wind, handled spreadsheets and databases with ease, and trained her voice to the dulcet tones and refined verbiage of the upper class.
In one month, she would graduate from high school. She would need to find a job the following week. After studying her reflection for several more minutes, Sarah Beth made a decision. She would sacrifice enough money from her meager savings to have her hair cut and professionally straightened into a smooth chin-length bob. She had already made appointments for interviews, and she wanted to present the most professional appearance she could manage. She combed the consignment shops to find designer labels at prices she could afford. She also decided to drop her middle name and use only Sarah on her applications because Sarah Beth sounded too countrified for her new image.
She was as ready as she’d ever be.
Lance eyed the calendar hanging on the wall over his desk. April first. One month since he’d arrived in Blue Point Cove. One month since he’d met Marjorie Matthews. He was amazed his life had changed so much in such a short time.
He liked his job at the radio station. The other guys were friendly but not pushy, and everyone seemed willing to help him out if he had questions. His boss was laid back, and his accountant, Amanda was smart, helpful, and a knockout to boot. Andy, the evening deejay, told him privately that Amanda was off-limits since the guys were positive she and Dev had the hots for each other. It wouldn’t have mattered to him either way. He had no interest in female companionship at this point. At least not at work. He enrolled in two online courses, and when he took the final exams—and passed—Dev would up his pay to the regular salary. He could use that raise to get some furniture.
The apartment was perfect, for which he thanked God and Marjorie every single night. However, so far he had only a bed, a nightstand and a table and chair where he ate, studied, and played solitaire when he couldn’t sleep. He played a lot of solitaire.
He knew Marjorie cut him a big break on the rent. She still made breakfast for him even though he was no longer a guest at her B and B. Coming home to share a meal with her at the big kitchen table was the best part of his day. He owed her, big time. The only way he could think of to repay her was to help her out around the house. Besides, that way he could be near her without being too obvious. And being near Marjorie was right next to a raise on his list of priorities. Maybe someday he’d take her out for dinner. But it was too soon to try anything like that.
He hadn’t had any flashbacks since he moved in, and the meds he took dropped his anxiety quotient significantly. Chris Majewski told him to plan on about ten more therapy sessions. They were hard to handle, but he trusted the doc and toughed them out. Next week Chris was driving over from Annapolis to check out his place and meet Marjorie before they had their usual session. Lance had been having more trouble sleeping, which Chris said wasn’t unusual. He’d added blackout curtains to the windows but knew it wasn’t the daylight keeping him up. It was visions of Marjorie playing behind his closed eyelids.
There was no gym nearby for him to work out in, and he missed the physical exertion the Army provided. Besides keeping him in shape, it tired him out enough to fall asleep. Before his injury, he ran a couple of miles every morning. Now his knee and hip wouldn’t stand for that, and he was leery of running in a town he wasn’t familiar with, anyway. He’d have to do something for exercise. Maybe get a Bowflex or something similar that was compact enough to fit in the corner and versatile enough to work all his muscles. He’d see if he could pick up a used one on the Internet.
His mind went back to Marjorie. This morning she had seemed unsettled, anxious, preoccupied. She fiddled with her hair and tugged on her clothes. She was alternately chattering away, then quiet and introspective. He didn’t want to ask what was wrong, but something was obviously on her mind.
He checked the clock and sighed. A little past noon. His stomach rumbled. He might as well get up, as more sleep wasn’t in the cards for him today. He swung his legs over the side of his bed, stepped into a pair of shorts, and grabbed a clean T-shirt from his dresser.
A loud crash from the garage below had him out the door in seconds. What the hell? He took the stairs silently and scoped out the backyard. Nothing unusual. He peered into the dim garage, giving his eyes a couple of seconds to adjust from the bright sunshine. Someone was bent over in front of Marjorie’s car. He skirted the vehicle and slipped alongside until he could see a pair of denim-clad legs. “Marjorie? Is that you?”
The legs jerked and another crash followed. “Crap!” Marjorie straightened and glared at him, touching a spot on her head. “Do you have to sneak up on a person like that?”
“Sorry. I heard the noise and thought there might be a burglar . . .”
She bent over to retrieve what she’d dropped, then backed out of the corner holding a box containing empty flowerpots and gardening tools. “A burglar? Really? Like there’s something worth stealing in here?” She scoffed, slid the box onto the wooden workbench at the side of the garage, then grumbled and put her hand to her head again.
Wow, was she pissed. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her mad before. “Are you hurt? Here, let me take a look.” He brushed her hand away and felt the bump already forming under his fingers.
“Ow.”
“I need better light. Come here.” He tugged her toward the door.
“Let go of me. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to bother.” She winced, and his fingers came away bloody.
She’d cut herself on the metal shelving, and like all scalp wounds, it bled like a son-of-a-bitch. “Let’s go get you cleaned up and get some ice on this. You might need to get stitches.”
“No. No stitches. I’m sure it isn’t all that bad.” She pushed by him. “I’ll take care of it.”
He stopped her progress but stepping in front of her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Marjorie. The cut’s on the back of your head. You can’t see it, and I can, so let me help you. Besides, it’s my fault anyway, making you jump like that.” He gazed down into her eyes and realized how long and full her lashes were. They were a light reddish brown that paled to blond at the tips. That made them appear much shorter from a distance. A fact that also made him realize he’d never stood this close to her before. She smelled like sunshine and fresh air and clean linen. He clamped down on the urge to put his arms around her. “Come on, before you bleed all over that pricey shirt.” He propelled her across the yard toward the kitchen door.
She glanced down at her oversized plaid flannel shirt and rolled her eyes at him. “You’ve got hidden depths of sarcasm, Mr. Fisher. I’m surprised.”
“I thought we settled on Lance and Marjorie.” He held the screen door open and ushered her ahead of him. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”
She studied him thoughtfully for a few seconds. “Upstairs in my bathroom. Follow me.”
The climb to the third floor offered Lance little opportunity to learn more about Marjorie’s figure. Her jeans were baggy, and the flannel shirt fell below her hips, barely suggesting the outline of her derriere. Still, his mind provided plenty of possible images as he mentally removed those pieces of clothing to discover what lay beneath.
Marjorie’s domain encompassed the entire third floor. Her bedroom was large, although the slope of the ceiling limited the headroom on either side. A big iron bed was tucked under the eaves, and a dormer with a window seat faced it across the room. He stood at the foot of the bed and did a three-sixty, imprinting the area on his memory.
As was common in older homes, the bathroom was large, its pedestal sink and claw-footed tub a duplicate of the one downstairs. Black and white octagonal tiles patterned the floor, and white wainscoting sheathed the walls. There was room for a chair and a glass-fronted cabinet that held clean towels. A large window faced the backyard, and an old-fashioned vanity with skirted stool sat in front of it. Lance could see his own windows from here. Now that he knew what was behind these curtains, he’d spend more time looking in this direction.
Marjorie got a clean washcloth and took the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet. Lance slid the stool over to the sink. “Sit.” He ran the water till it warmed.
“Kind of bossy, aren’t you?” She softened her words with a smile.
“Yeah, I get that way when I feel guilty.” He began to wipe away the blood clotted in her hair.
“It’s not entirely your fault. If I hadn’t made enough noise to wake the dead, you’d still be sleeping peacefully and my head would be fine.”
I haven’t slept peacefully for months, especially when I’m dreaming of you.
The water in the sink turned red when he wrung out the cloth. “You might need stitches after all.”
“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “No doctors, no hospitals, no stitches.”
“Okay, okay.” He put his hands up in defeat. “We need to put some antiseptic on it at least. Who knows what kind of germs were on that shelf.”
She brought out a bottle of alcohol and some cotton balls. “Here.”
He opened the bottle and drenched a cotton ball. “This is going to sting. A lot.”
Another eye roll. “Just get it over with.” She squeezed her eyes closed.
He watched the muscle in her cheek twitch as she clamped her jaws and took a breath. He swabbed the cut. She didn’t move but her knuckles whitened around fistfuls of flannel. “Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. You’re doing great.”
“Yeah? Well I don’t like hurting you.” He frowned at her reflection in the mirror. “Let me get some ice to put on this. That and some pressure should stop the bleeding.” He hoped. If it didn’t, he’d take her to an ER somewhere, even if he had to throw her over his shoulder and carry her inside. Damn. Now that image would stay in his head a while.
“Through there.” Marjorie pointed out the bathroom door away from her bedroom. “There’s a fridge next to the TV. I hate to go all the way down to the kitchen for a cold drink when I have guests.”
He followed her directions and found a sitting room with desk, computer, armchair, and TV. Nice. The half-height fridge had one tray of cubes which he brought to the bathroom. He took a hand towel from the cabinet and wrapped it around half of the cubes. He settled it on the lump and instructed her, “Put as much pressure as you can stand on this.” He left to put the rest of the ice back.
She grumbled, “Bossy.”
He smiled to himself. She was one tough cookie. He came back and stood behind her. “Here, let me hold this for a while. Give your arm a rest.” His fingers brushed hers as he took over the ice pack, and he felt a tingle zip up his arm.
The stirring in his pants reminded him that he had only gym shorts and a T-shirt on. How long had it been since he’d had anything but his own hand around his dick? Shit. The last time he’d had leave was, what? Sixteen months ago? Even then, a willing woman picked up in a USO club was not the thing dreams were made of. Better than soloing, but not much better. Whereas the image of Marjorie underneath him . . .
Get yourself under control, buddy, before Marjorie wonders what’s pressing against her back.
Chapter 4
Marjorie stood at her sink and held her magnifying mirror behind her head. No matter how she angled the mirror, she couldn’t get a good view of the cut on her scalp. She sighed in frustration. Now she was glad Lance had offered to help yesterday when she’d ricocheted off the metal shelving in her garage. She really needed to get a handle on her startle reflex.
Once they’d got the bleeding stopped, he’d covered the cut with a generous amount of antiseptic ointment and then given her strict instructions.
“If you’re not going to get stitches, you have to let that cut seal up before you get it wet. Don’t wash your hair for at least forty-eight hours. And don’t brush over that area either.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Smart ass,” he muttered under his breath.
“I heard that.”
He glared at her. “Do whatever you want then. But don’t come crying to me if that cut gets infected.” He tossed the towel and washcloth into the sink.
Marjorie swiveled around on the stool and stood. “My turn to be sorry. I make a terrible patient. Thank you for going to so much trouble for me, Lance. I do appreciate it.”
She wanted to reach up and kiss him on the cheek but controlled the urge. She might miss and accidentally hit his mouth. That would not be good. She stepped away before the scent of male overpowered the smell of antiseptic and made her lose what little restraint she’d been able to maintain ever since he’d walked into her bedroom.
He was the only man to have entered her private domain. Well, except for the cable guy, who’d been at least fifty years old and full of stories about his grandkids. Lance was a different thing entirely. She doubted she’d ever banish the sight of him standing at the foot of her bed and inspecting her sanctuary. To say nothing of the way his mouth took on such a determined line as he gently cleaned the blood out of her hair, while she surreptitiously stole glimpses in the mirror. Oh, boy.
That night as she lay in bed, she pictured him standing at its foot, staring at her with enough heat in his eyes to make her squirm. She hadn’t had sex since she moved to Blue Point Cove, and Lance had taken the number one spot on her fantasy list. Sleep was a long time coming.
Since she couldn’t wash her hair yet and didn’t want to go out in public imitating Medusa, she’d invited Zoe and Amanda over for lunch. She’d give Zoe a few more pieces of jewelry and find out how things were going with the gallery—and Jeff. Zoe was playing her cards close to her chest about that relationship. Amanda would spend some time after lunch going over Marjorie’s books. She ran the B and B as a sole proprietor, although Amanda kept after her to form a limited liability corporation. That wasn’t happening, since Marjorie kept as much of her life as possible off the grid.
She was three thousand miles and six years away from her past and wanted to believe she was safe, but nightmares still haunted her dreams.
Enough of that, Marjorie told herself firmly. She tied her hair back with a green silk scarf that covered the lump and went downstairs to finish the chicken salad she’d make for sandwiches. She glanced through her kitchen window toward the garage. Can’t stop hoping you’ll catch a glimpse of him, can you?
Disgusted with herself, she turned away and went to the fridge for the cold chicken and celery. She laid the cutting board on the counter and began to chop.
Amanda arrived first, with Zoe a few minutes behind her. They sat around her table in the kitchen and shared local gossip while they ate the sandwiches and chips.
“How are the plans for Mrs. Wyndham’s big party coming along?” Marjorie asked.
“Amanda’s got everything under control,” Zoe replied. “The woman’s picture is in the dictionary under obsessive organizer.” She gave Amanda a playful elbow to her ribs.
“Wait until you see the drawings Zoe’s done for the decor. I’m convinced they’re the reason we got the job in the first place.” Amanda sipped her tea and ignored Zoe’s eye roll.
“Don’t forget to mention the Blue Point Inn if there are folks who’ve had a bit too much to drink to drive home safely. I’ve no reservations booked for that weekend, so there’s lots of room.”
“I’ll mention it to Mrs.
Wyndham beforehand in case she gets questions from guests who’ve RSVP’d.” Amanda glanced out the kitchen window. “How are things going with your permanent boarder?”
“Fine.” Marjorie felt heat in her cheeks and silently cursed her fair complexion.
Zoe never missed a thing, though. She wiggled her eyebrows and elbowed Amanda in the side again. “See? I told you she’d have a hard time resisting Mr. Fisher. What a hunk of manly pulchritude to have living right next door.”
“He keeps to himself mostly, although we often eat breakfast together.” Marjorie caught the sly glance Zoe gave Amanda. “When he gets home from work,” she emphasized. “He seems to be handling his PTSD pretty well. Chris Majewski is supposed to stop by here soon to check out Lance’s apartment. And me, too, I guess.”
“Chris is a good doc. I encourage Dev to talk to him more, but . . .” Amanda shook her head. “Must be pretty hard for these men to talk about what happened during their deployment. Dev keeps everything inside and still has some nightmares.”
Wanting to lighten the mood, Marjorie brought out the pieces of jewelry for Zoe to put in her gallery.
“Wow, Marjorie, these are gorgeous. How’d you get to be so good at jewelry-making?” Zoe turned the silver necklace to catch the light and watched the amethyst gems sprinkled along its length sparkle.
“I worked at a B and B in Tucson for four years before I moved here. It’s a big area for gems and minerals, and there are lots of silversmith instructors who live there. I took a few courses and then practiced, practiced, practiced.”
She had no intention of mentioning that she’d gotten her start at the Hillsboro, Oregon, gem and mineral show. It was the first place she’d sold some of her work, but it was too close to her old home to speak of.
Theirs by Chance Page 4