by Jacie Floyd
Her fingers escaped his grasp. “Oh, no. The deal is that you have to do the painting.”
Dylan took a quick look over his shoulder, searching behind him to locate whoever she was really talking to. He pressed his fingertips to his chest. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Suit yourself.” She turned with a shrug and continued downward. “Your room might still be available at the Granite Inn.”
Following her to the laundry room, Dylan considered his options. With MacDuff licking her chin, she set the plug and ran water into a big sink.
“I’ve never painted a room before. Why do you want me to do it?”
“Painting builds character.”
“You don’t care about my character.”
“The truth is I’d have hired someone else if I could, but no one’s available.” She chuckled and unfastened the Scottie’s collar. Her lilting laugh momentarily charmed Dylan into forgetting how she irritated the crap out of him. “But never mind. If you’re that inexperienced, I’d just have to redo it anyway.”
All right, now she’d gone and pricked his pride. And Bradfords were known to have more than their fair share of that commodity. Anything she could do, he could do. Better. “Are you saying you don’t think I could manage such a menial task?”
Twin spots of color flared in her cheeks. “In East Langden, we don’t consider performing manual labor an insult.”
“Calm down.” He directed the words to himself as much as to Gracie, remembering the Chinese water torture that passed itself off as a leaky faucet at the Granite Inn. Even smelling of paint, the accommodations of Liberty House were vastly superior. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Gracie thrust MacDuff into the sink. He scrambled up the sides faster than she could dunk him. From the stiff set of her shoulders, Dylan expected her to subject him to the silent treatment. But as she squirted liquid soap onto blue paws, she relented. “My grandfather got hurt painting that room, and there’s not a finer man alive. If the work wasn’t beneath him, it’s not beneath you.”
Dylan rolled up his sleeves and reached in to steady the dog. The wriggling canine soon had them both sopping wet as Gracie scrubbed and rinsed away the paint and suds.
“I’m sure painting requires enormous skill and talent.” He doubted any such thing.
“The Colony Room isn’t the Sistine Chapel. If you really don’t know how to paint, I can get you started, if you’re game.”
Her primary focus centered on her pet, not Dylan. He doubted she had the least notion of how waterlogged the front of her shirt was, but he did. And he considered renouncing his lifelong fascination with legs in favor of breasts.
Before she kicked his ass out of there for leering at her like she was the grand-prize winner of a wet T-shirt contest, he turned to grab a towel from a nearby rack.
She held up MacDuff while Dylan draped the writhing fur ball in terry cloth. “Having that room painted is my most pressing need at the moment. So take the offer or leave it.”
Since they’d both get what they wanted out of the deal, Dylan disregarded his own most pressing need and the fact that she had so neatly maneuvered him into doing her bidding. That didn’t happen very often. “I’ll take it. When do you want me to start?”
By late-afternoon, Dylan had so much high-gloss on him he could be mistaken for one of the Blue Man Group. At least the stains wouldn’t ruin the work clothes Gracie had loaned him to wear while painting.
When he ventured out of his newly assigned room for the painting lesson, she’d looked at him and gave a sniff of disapproval, like he’d failed the dress code. “Those designer clothes will be ruined. Hang on while I get you something of Granddad’s.”
The old man’s paint-speckled T-shirt strained against Dylan’s shoulders and hovered around his navel. The white painter’s pants were perfect for high tide, while the waistband offered at least an inch or two of extra material. Since Gracie also insisted he remove his leather belt, the pants rode low on his hips every time he raised his arms above his head. Which was pretty often.
After Gracie showed him the ropes and left him on his own, he’d fallen into an automatic rhythm. As his body went into auto-pilot with the paint roller, his thoughts drifted to Gracie O’Donnell and Clayton Harris. The two topics most certain to disrupt his peace of mind.
No matter how often he grappled with the subject of Clayton, he wasn’t prepared to give the fake Bradford an inch. And Gracie’s inexplicable allure nagged at him like a bad rash that would spread into the most irritating places if he scratched it.
Just how close were those two? She’d seemed awfully protective of him. He shook his head. Much better not to think about them.
He pushed the roller through the pan, climbed the ladder, and turned to paint the section above the door.
Rapid footsteps approached. He put his hand out just in time to prevent Gracie from shoving the door into the ladder. She edged through the six-inch opening and pirouetted slowly to take in the entire room. Fresh and delicious, she had showered and changed into a floaty floral skirt and a skinny-ribbed pink top.
Late afternoon sunlight poured through the bare windows, gilding her movements. The front and sides of her stunning hair were caught in a clip at the back of her head. Fiery streaks of red and gold glinted through the very touchable curls. Not that he cared.
Stepping off the ladder, he poured a final puddle of paint into the pan. The tail of his shirt rode up and the waist of the pants rode down, as they had been doing all afternoon. As he straightened, Gracie’s gaze swept up and down his body and returned to settle on his eyes.
“Everything looks great,” she said.
“Thanks.” Her unexpected approval warmed him as no one else’s had in a long time. Looking around, he took a measure of satisfaction in the nearly finished project. “I think I got the hang of it after a while.”
“You sure did.” She pursed her lips as she trained her attention on him. “The question is, what do I do with you now?”
That was a burning question. Of all the possibilities, his first choice was that she feed him. Okay, maybe not his first choice, but it came in a close second.
He laid the roller in the pan. “Do you have any other pressing needs?”
Her natural color heightened, and he grinned. He’d never learned to curb the tendency to flirt with any available female, but this one wasn’t his type. In spite of those great legs. And luscious tits. “I mean, what’s the problem?”
She twisted a strand of her glorious hair around a finger. “Since you’re a working guest, I can’t leave you here alone.”
He leaned back to check for streaks in the fresh paint above the door. “Afraid to trust me with the family silver?”
Her husky laughter jolted Dylan with a straight shot of eighty-proof lust.
“I’m sure your family silver would put ours to shame. And do I trust you?” She pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m reserving judgment.”
“Well, that’s progress. Yesterday, you wouldn’t have had to think twice about it.” He hiked the baggy pants up to his waist from his hips. “I didn’t see your car in the lane earlier. Did you get it fixed?”
“Turley towed it to the garage this morning.” She picked at the loose end of a strip of masking tape in the corner of the room and started pulling it off the trim.
Certain she would end up covered with paint, Dylan took the tape from her and turned her hands palms-up to check. Sure enough, blue stripes. He handed her a rag from his back pocket. “Is it being repaired?”
“No.” Her bottom lip dipped down into a brief pout. “The transmission’s shot. Turley said it would cost more to fix than it’s worth.” Wiping her hands on the cloth, she pulled back a tarp corner to sit on the edge of the bed.
He took over the tape-removal task, eager for a diversion that turned his attention away from her body. “So, do you need a ride somewhere?”
“No, thanks. I have Gran
’s car.”
“Are you going out? Will you be gone long?” Will you bring back food, he almost asked, but remembered the terms of his occupancy. No meals.
“I’m going to visit Granddad.” She folded her hands in her lap a little too studiously. “And then Gran and I are going out to dinner.”
The forced nonchalance warned him something was up. “With a friend?”
“Yes and my stepfather.” The sweetness of her smile would have surpassed those of angels. “Would you like to join us?”
He scowled. “Is Clayton the friend?”
She hesitated before admitting, “Yes.”
“Then, no.” He’d rather eat ground glass than have Clayton’s company for dinner.
“You’ll have to face him sooner or later.”
“Not tonight.” He tossed the ball of masking tape into a trash bag. “I need to take a shower and check on how the market closed.”
“Ri-ight.” She stood and smoothed her skirt, obviously not buying his excuse.
“Where’s MacDuff? You want me to keep an eye on him?”
“He’s over at my place.”
“Your place? Where’s that?”
She moved toward the door. “Over the carriage house. It’s where my mom and I lived when I was growing up. Gran saves it for me to use when I’m here. Nearby but separate.”
Good. They wouldn’t be sleeping under the same roof. Less temptation that way. “See you tomorrow then.”
“There’s a spare key on a hook in the laundry room. Lock up if you go anywhere.” She wiggled her fingers at him over her shoulder as she left.
He looked around curiously. Either the sun had chosen that moment to drop below the horizon or Gracie’s departure caused the light in the room to dim.
A couple of hours later, Dylan drove the Navigator down East Langden’s main commercial strip looking for dinner. All five blocks of it. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, keeping time to a tune on the rental car’s radio.
The street exuded an odd combination of prosperity and decay with signs of renovation interspersed among empty storefronts. A trendy coffee shop sat opposite an old-style bakery. A dusty hardware store rubbed up against a Fresh Market. Boutiques and antique shops interrupted a block of unoccupied buildings like the intermittent teeth in a jack-o-lantern’s smile.
Vague memories had haunted him when he drove through town earlier that day. A nagging recollection of holding his father’s hand while visiting local stores. His mouth watered, remembering a double-chocolate brownie he’d devoured while natives tousled his hair and shook hands with his dad in the yeasty-smelling bakeshop.
He added a stop at the bakery to his list of places to visit. Maybe that would jog loose other memories of his father. He had so few. If a closed sign hadn’t hung on the door, he would have circled right back to it.
Stomach growling, he turned his attention toward locating his next meal. A faded diner with plastic booths didn’t appeal to him. McStone’s Pub across from the town hall seemed the most promising until he reached the waterfront. A weathered sign that read Lulu’s Lobster Pot drew his eye. A steady stream of customers paraded through the building’s front door, encouraging him to give it a try.
Inside, rows of trestle tables marched down each side of the dining room. Framed and autographed photos decorated one long wall. A line of locals snaked beside it, waiting to give their orders to a woman behind the counter wearing a hairnet and Betty Boop make-up. Dylan scanned the menu painted on the wall above her head.
The choice was limited to small, medium, large, or jumbo lobster, herb bread, and the day’s side dish scrawled in chalk beneath the permanent menu. Not exactly fine dining. It looked clean and smelled delicious, but waiting in line didn’t appeal to him. He began backing out the door when an elderly foursome crept in, blocking his path. While he waited for them to clear the path, a raised hand to his right drew his attention.
Gracie.
She waved at him and pointed him out to Mrs. Lattimer and an older man. And Clayton.
Damn. The very person he’d hoped to avoid. He could leave with a clear conscience if he pretended not to see them. Dylan edged toward the door, but a barrel of a man emerged from behind the service counter and rolled forward.
“Dylan Bradford!” A meaty paw landed on his shoulder, anchoring him in place. “I’m Jake Armstrong, the owner and proprietor of the Lobster Pot, as long as Lulu—” he nodded toward the Betty Boop up front “—doesn’t hear me say so. The wife likes to think she’s in-charge just because her name’s on the sign. Har-har-har.” The booming laugh and elbow in the ribs underscored the jest. The brawny fellow drew a kerchief from his back pocket and blotted his red face.
“I knew your father. A fine man. Come with me. I’ll fix you up with the best and biggest lobster that ever found its way out of the sea and into your mouth.”
By this time, others in the restaurant had turned to point and stare. Dylan decided to bail out of The Lobster Pot. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Armstrong. Thanks for the offer, but I’m—”
“He’s meeting friends, and he’s late.” Gracie stepped up and linked her arm through his. “He’ll have the Number Three, Jake. We’re already seated, so if you’ll bring his order over when it’s ready, we’d be grateful.”
“Wonderful, wonderful!” Jake hustled away. “The Number Three! With extra bread! Coming right up.”
Chapter Six
“Thanks... I think,” Dylan said out of the side of his mouth as Gracie led him forward. Despite her motives, it would be rude to decamp now. “Where are the taciturn natives I’ve heard so much about?”
“Oh, they exist,” she said, “but Jake’s only lived here thirty years, so he doesn’t count. Sit there by Gran.”
At least she hadn’t placed him next to Clayton, although sitting across from him might be worse. Now the Bradford wannabe could glare at him throughout the meal. After Gracie settled on the bench beside the man, she introduced Dylan to the fourth member of the group.
“This is my stepfather David Collier.” Gracie smiled warmly, but the older man’s stony expression didn’t alter. “David raised Clay after his mother’s disappearance, you know.”
“How do you do, Dr. Collier?” Dylan recognized the name from the detective’s report, but he pounced on the new information that Clayton’s foster father was also Gracie’s stepfather. So what did that make Gracie and Clayton? Closer in more ways than Dylan had originally thought. Maybe not so close in others.
The older doctor nodded as they shook hands. David Collier had the kind of wise, distinguished face that Dylan always pictured his father having, if he had lived another couple of decades. But even when his father had died in his forties, the corners of his eyes held crinkles from smiling, and this man’s never would. No matter how long he lived.
Like they were the audience for a dinner theater production, the other diners leaned forward to listen in on the conversation. So much for Dylan’s plan of nosing around quietly. “I’d like to speak with you privately in the next few days if you have the time, sir.”
“All right” was all Dr. Collier said. At last, one of those taciturn natives.
After checking out Clayton’s glower and the older doctor’s stoicism, Dylan turned to the most receptive member of the group. “Thanks for letting me join you, Mrs. Lattimer.”
Her gray hair was curled and sprayed, presumably for her hospital visit or dinner out. She had on the kind of dress Dylan had only seen housewives from the fifties wear on television.
“Gracie shouldn’t have left you on your own,” she said. “I was planning to bring something home for you to eat.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.” His gaze shifted toward Gracie, and she rolled her eyes.
“Left on your own?” Clayton lowered his voice after Gracie elbowed him in the ribs. “Tell me he’s not staying with you.”
“I can’t.” She rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her
hand. “He is staying with us.”
“That’s just great.” Clayton’s lobster pliers hit his plate with a clank. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There hasn’t been time. You just got here.”
“Perhaps we should wait and discuss it later, dear.” Mrs. Lattimer looked around at the curious onlookers and nodded pleasant greetings.
A taut silence commanded the table as Jake appeared with Dylan’s food. “I’ll wager you’ll not have a better lobster dinner anywhere on the coast. I’m proud you chose Lulu’s for your first meal in town—not counting the donuts and coffee you bought this morning, of course. Melvin at the Stop’n’Shop bragged all over town about you being in there even before your taillights disappeared around the corner from his place. Har-har-har.” Jake slapped Dylan’s shoulder and transferred his attention to Clayton. “And this is a fine day for you, too, isn’t it? Seeing you two boys together like this reminds me of when Matthew and Arthur came in here all those years ago. They were about the same age the two of you are now.”
Dylan’s stomach churned. The detective and Lawrence had warned him that the locals all supported Clayton’s claim, but Dylan hadn’t realized how galling it would be to have the tale shoved in his face. Nothing could have made him more determined to disprove it, but a vocal denial in Lulu’s Lobster Pot seemed likely to add to the scandal rather than squash it.
Silence followed Jake’s pronouncement. While Dylan pressed his lips together to hold back his thoughts, the tension around them skyrocketed.
“I’m sure you’ll understand,” Gracie spoke up, “if neither of them cares to comment on the subject.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Jake pressed a sausage-sized finger to his lips. “But if you boys don’t mind, I’d like to get a picture of the two of you to put on the wall of fame beside your father’s and uncle’s.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. The townspeople gasped audibly at Jake’s brass. The action stunned even Gracie into speechlessness.