Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove)

by Donna Kauffman

  The tap came again on the window, and she blinked away her bizarre, rambling thoughts and blinked again at the little twinkly lights flickering in her peripheral vision. She really should have eaten. She grappled with the window handle . . . only to have it fall off in her hand. A fresh wave of tears stupidly threatened all over again. She held up the handle in shaky fingers for him to see, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug, but not daring to look up at his face. Mostly because she didn’t want him to see hers.

  If she’d been hoping for some kind of sign about what her next step in life should be, she was pretty sure she’d been given several of them already. All bad.

  “Can you unlock the door so I can open it from the outside?”

  Wow. Deep voice. Very baritone. The kind that vibrated along the skin. And sexy. Just like his torso. And his thighs. Not to mention his . . . um, package. None of which she had any business thinking about.

  “Sure.” It came out as a croak. She cleared her throat, or tried to, but the ball of emotions still wedged there made it impossible. She just nodded, helpless to stop the tears leaking out and tracking down her cheeks. Beyond caring, she fumbled with the little lock nub on the door, trying to pull it up. Grandpa Mac’s truck pre-dated automatic locks.

  The policeman stepped back and positioned himself at an angle, hand at his side, where she saw his gun was holstered. Just in case I’m the crazy psycho and he’s the one being stalked. The thought caused a little splutter of choked laughter, which led to another, then another, except it wasn’t funny. Her heart was pounding and it felt like her lungs were constricting. She knew all the signs. Well, she’d learned them the hard way, fifteen months ago. Panic attack.

  And for what? Because a cop was trying to help her change her damn tire? Jesus, Alex, get a freaking grip. She knew it wasn’t easy or as simple as that. It had been a while since one had triggered, and she’d thought they were mercifully, finally behind her. Yeah, well, think again.

  Her door was carefully and slowly being opened from the outside, which was when she realized she’d kind of slumped against it, and didn’t have time to adjust her weight. And that was how she ended up falling into the arms of Mr. Tall, Tight, and Baritone.

  My humiliation is officially complete, she thought, somewhat woozily. She was having a hard time focusing. Must be the tears blurring her vision.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he said, voice steady, calm.

  And seriously sexy as all hell. Honestly, he should have gone into radio. Or made a career out of singing those Barry White kind of sex songs.

  “Can you stand?”

  She would have nodded yes, but he turned her in his arms just then and their gazes collided for the first time. Her knees went distinctly wobbly. Because if his voice was all sexy sex songs, his eyes were . . . well, they were just plain sex. On a platter. With a big heaping side of oh my.

  They were the color of hot, melted caramel, with alternating flecks of gold and burnished bronze radiating out from the dark center. Like . . . shattered topaz. And if that wasn’t a generous enough gift from the gods, they were framed by thick, dark, ridiculously lush lashes. He was saved from being too pretty by the small scar that ran in a thin silver line from his hairline, across his temple, and cut a jagged line through the corner of one eyebrow. It looked old, pale, but it wasn’t a clean slice and hadn’t healed neatly.

  His cheekbones were a shade too sharp, as was the angle of his jaw, and the strong slope of his very patrician nose. But then her gaze continued, and all of that, every bit of it, was balanced by his mouth—which had clearly been a gift from the same god who’d designed those eyes. Full, sensual, even with the corners pulled too tight, as they were. She must have hit her head harder on the window than she thought, because she felt distinctly woozy again, and a little giddy. That had to be bad, right?

  So was wanting to lift her head, just a little, so she could nip that bottom lip, see if it felt as warm, as soft, as inviting as those eyes. Add in that sex voice and wow, she’d be putty in his arms. Actually, she kind of already was.

  How convenient.

  Her gaze drifted to his eyes, then back to his mouth.

  He cleared his throat. His sexy, sexy throat. She wanted to bite that, too.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Alex,” she breathed, not even trying to stand on her own two feet. “It’s . . . Alex.” She felt his hold on her tighten momentarily.

  “Alex. Of course you are.”

  There was another pause and she thought perhaps a little sigh, though it didn’t sound anything like the kind of sighs he was eliciting from her.

  “Alex, have you been drinking?”

  Mmm. She liked it when he said her name.

  “Have you taken any medication?”

  She shook her head, which made her vision swim a little and the twinkly lights come back, so she closed her eyes. And just focused on that voice. That calm, steady as rock, sexy voice. “Sex god voice,” she murmured.

  And then there was the feel of his arms. So strong, so supportive. She could trust those arms. She could stay in those arms. The world was making a lot more sense as long as he held her. She felt safe. Cocooned. And at the same time, she felt alive, all of her dead parts coming burningly, achingly alive. And she wanted to trust that, too. To just . . . let go. Let herself feel without fear of finding pain and all-consuming grief.

  She could let him be the strong one, the steady one. Not like it had been for the past year—when it was all on her. So much on her. But here . . . now . . . she could let go. Because he wouldn’t.

  Don’t let go, she thought. She couldn’t be set adrift again. She wouldn’t survive it. She’d drown for sure. Feeling suddenly panicky, she grabbed him. I want to stay right here.

  “Don’t let me go.” She dug fingers into his jacket, clinging, clinging . . . but feeling so distant, so far away, like she was falling. She gripped harder. “Don’t let me go!”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

  So steady. So strong. Then she felt . . . airborne. Weightless.

  “Alex? Come on now. Alex!”

  He sounded even sexier when he got all urgent like that.

  “Stay with me. Open your eyes. Come on, stay with me. What are you on? What did you take? Alex!”

  She smiled and let her cheek rest on his chest. Nice hard, warm chest. Silly, sexy sex god voice. Telling her to stay. She wasn’t going anywhere. She liked it when he said her name. All demanding and commanding. She liked it a lot.

  The next thing she remembered was the sound of something metal snapping. And then the warmth, the solid chest, the strong arms were gone. She was floating. No, she was on something soft. Flat. Where am I? She blinked her eyes open, then squeezed them back shut again. She must have been having the most excellent dream, but the suddenness of being jerked out of it had sent the vision floating, drifting just out of reach. Not fair. She wanted it back again. It had been warm . . . safe. Not confusing, like whatever was happening on the other side of her closed eyelids. Or like her life for that matter.

  “Miss MacFarland?” said a young voice. A woman’s voice.

  She closed her eyes more tightly. Really unfair. She hadn’t slept well, or at all really, in . . . she couldn’t remember exactly. Months. A lifetime. No matter how exhausted she was, whenever she closed her eyes, she relived that horrible, horrible day. The day her life—the one she used to have—had ended.

  Warm. Steady. Safe. That’s what she remembered feeling. She hadn’t felt any of those things in so . . . so long. And . . . that voice. The visions in her mind had been so . . . good. And more than warm. They’d been downright hot. She couldn’t remember where the sexy voice had come from, but she wanted it back.

  “Alex?”

  That’s the one. She smiled, and relaxed, willing the dream to completely return.

  “Alex.” More commanding this time.

  She sighed. She remembered liking that, too
.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Okay, she thought. But only for you. She risked cracking her eyes open, just a tiny bit. Oh . . . right. He was real. The voice was real. Her Good Samaritan.

  And it all came crashing back . . . right along with the accompanying mortification. She closed her eyes again.

  “Alex, I’m Logan McCrae. I’m police chief here. Fergus McCrae, who hired you, is my great-uncle. Sort of. I own Pelican Point. You were headed out that way?”

  She groaned. So, she’d been wrong about another thing. Now her humiliation was complete.

  “Miss MacFarland? Can you hear me?” The woman’s voice again.

  Alex had noticed her during her brief eyes-open stint, standing beside Sexy Sex-god Voice. The woman was dressed in what looked like some kind of EMT gear. Alex knew exactly what that gear looked like.

  She squeezed her eyes more tightly. No longer hoping for the happy dream place, because there wasn’t one, but trying not to think about the last time she’d seen EMTs.

  “Miss MacFarland? We need you to keep your eyes open. Come on. That’s it.” The young woman with pretty brown hair pulled up in a tight ponytail smiled at her. “Hello.”

  Oh, she’s way too chipper. Wanting nothing more than to sink right back into oblivion, Alex had to work at maintaining eye contact. “Hey,” Alex said, though it was more gravelly croak than actual language. “What . . . happened?”

  As soon as she asked, she wished she hadn’t. She had enough of the tidbits floating around in her head—she could figure out how it had likely gone down. She really didn’t need chipper EMT girl rehashing the whole thing in front of Sex-god Voice, otherwise known as her new boss. She forced herself not to look at him. Seriously, hadn’t she paid enough karmic dues over the past year? Wasn’t it her turn for a little good? Or at least something not entirely awful?

  “Miss MacFarland—”

  “Alex,” she repeated. “I’m—fine.” Clearly untrue, but maybe if she said it and often, she could will it to be true. That trick had gotten her through the past fifteen months, anyway, hadn’t it?

  “You’re dehydrated and I’m pretty sure your blood sugar just bottomed out,” the EMT was saying. “Are you on any prescribed medications? Have you taken anything else? Cold, flu medicines? Allergies?”

  “No, none of those things. No illegal things, either,” she added, remembering her Samaritan’s queries from before. She worked to clear the grit from her throat, and the remaining wisps of fog from her brain. “You—I think you got it right pretty much the first time.” She struggled not to look at Mr. McCrae. A vision of her reflection in her truck mirror with the tear-streaked tragic clown face passed through her mind, which admittedly made not looking his way a bit easier. If he was police chief, he’d probably seen it all. But she was pretty sure he hadn’t hired it.

  Well . . . shit. The one thing she’d had going for her, and she’d managed to screw it up before it even started. “I just . . . need to eat something. Get some sleep.” Good luck with that. She struggled to prop herself up on her elbows, which was when she realized she was strapped to a stretcher. Her head thunked back on the pillow, making her groan.

  She gave the EMT a questioning look, but it was Chief McCrae who moved into view. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked him.

  He waited half a beat too long, then said, “No, we were just keeping you from falling if you startled when you woke up.”

  They were still outside, she realized, feeling the chilly breeze on her cheeks and nose. She shifted her head, noticed the ambulance, and beyond its open rear door she spotted her truck. Good. Because she wasn’t going anywhere in anything with a siren on top. “I’m fine—or I will be. Really.” There was no money for a medical bill, so as long as she was breathing, she was fine enough. “You can let me up.” She looked back to the EMT. “Thank you. Sorry for the trouble.” She prayed there was no bill for that. She hadn’t called for them, after all. “I’ll take better care. Promise.”

  Alex glanced at Chief McCrae, then decided the EMT—Bonnie, she noted on her name tag—was the better bet. She tried a smile, then thought, recalling her mascara-streaked face, that it might look a little . . . manic. She went for earnest instead. “I was just in a hurry to get here. Start work. For the McCraes.” She spared a tiny glance at the Chief. God, why can’t I stop thinking about the Sex-god Voice? His expression was unreadable.

  Just then his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, clearly not thrilled with whatever name was flashing on the screen. “What’s up, Gus?” There was a pause, then a glance at her, his expression still unreadable. Okay, maybe it was a little readable. None of it good. “Yes, we’ve met,” he said, then turned and stepped a few feet away, but not before she heard him say, “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen. We’ll discuss it later.”

  “Well, Miss MacFarland—Alex,” Bonnie corrected, still smiling, as she reclaimed Alex’s attention.

  Alex hadn’t missed the placating note to it. Wonderful.

  “You really aren’t fit to drive,” Bonnie told her. “It would be best if you’d come on in for a few more tests, make sure it’s nothing other than fatigue, improper diet.”

  More like exhaustion and no diet, Alex thought, then realized Bonnie thought the same thing, but was being gentle with her when she saw the EMT and Sex-god—er, Chief McRae share a look as he stepped back over to the stretcher. Be nice to the crazy lady who drove into town, fell apart over a blown tire, then passed out on the chief of police.

  Since she assumed Gus was Fergus, and Chief McCrae’s “I don’t think so” was pretty much going to translate to “sorry, you’re fired,” her only other option was to get the hell out of Dodge and figure out what her next step was going to be—which meant convincing them she could drive. Who wanted to start a job heading into a Maine winter, anyway? Maybe she’d find something down south.

  She couldn’t exactly ask them to take her to the nearest motel. No budget for that. She’d been counting on the promised lodging in the keeper’s cottage that would be part of her fee. She tried to sit up again, then sighed. “Could you unstrap me?”

  Bonnie looked at Chief McCrae, then smiled at Alex. “All right. But don’t get up, okay?” She undid the straps. “I’ll assist you.”

  Alex smiled back, all convivial, the picture of health. She might have managed that if it wasn’t for the crazy, streaky clown face, quite likely paired with a nose and eyes both red from crying. Still, she went for it. What choice did she have?

  “That’s okay. I’m good.” She shifted her legs off the stretcher and sat up all at once, intent on demonstrating just how good she was. Will didn’t trump desire. However, she swung up, the world swung the other way, and she went careening off the other side . . . right back into Sex-god Voice’s arms. Like she’d not only planned it, but executed it with such perfect placement and precision that the Russian judge would have given her a ten for sticking the landing.

  Chief McCrae didn’t look all that impressed. Possibly because she was seeing two of him. She blinked her eyes a few times, but that made it worse, so she gave up, shut them, and kept them that way.

  Bonnie stepped up. “Chief—”

  “It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

  “But—” Bonnie started.

  “No, really, I’m—” Alex said at the same time.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Logan repeated.

  Bonnie stepped back. Alex might have sighed a little.

  But the Sex-god Voice mixed with the Man of Steel attitude was really more than she could handle in her diminished state. Had she been healthy and hydrated, surely she’d have stood up to him. As opposed to now, when you can’t seem to stop thinking about being under him.

  He turned toward his SUV.

  “Where are you taking me?” She should be alarmed. Or care what his answer was. All she could think about was how good it felt to be snuggled back up against his broad chest again. She really needed a snack.


  “Out to the Point. You were headed there, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s dark. Or close enough. And cold.”

  “My truck—”

  “Still has a flat. I’ll get it taken care of. You need rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “No need for that. You can fire me right here.”

  “Who said I was going to fire you?”

  “You did. I mean, isn’t that what you just told Fergus?”

  “Do you want me to fire you?”

  Why is he being deliberately obtuse? “What I want is to not needlessly draw things out only to be fired later. I’m not a fan of drawing things out. Rip the Band-Aid straight off. That’s my motto.”

  “That hurts more, you know. It’s a myth that it doesn’t.” She looked at him. “First, it’s a metaphor, and secondly, yes, it hurts like hell. But it goes away a lot faster.”

  He stared at her for the longest time. “Does it really?”

  As horrifying as they were unavoidable, the tears sprang right back.

  “Exactly. You’re coming with me. We’ll sort the rest out later.”

  Chapter 3

  Mercifully, for both their sakes, she remained silent as he drove out to the Point. He’d glanced at her a few times, but told himself it was to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid. Like fling herself from the moving vehicle into the sound.

  He didn’t think she was intent on doing herself any harm, but, to be honest, he didn’t know what she was. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew she was wounded. Maybe not in some obvious way. But in a way that was still unmistakable. If you knew the signs.

  He knew all of them.

  What he didn’t know was how damaged she’d been by whatever had happened to her. Though, given the present circumstances, he was putting together a pretty good idea. Still, he didn’t think she was a jumper. More like a runner. He wondered what she was running from. And how long she’d been at it. A good while, given the shape she was in.