“Can’t fake a goose egg like that, Chief,” she shot back.
“But I got questions. See, I happen to hold this job called chief of police.”
Doc Stevens had no sympathy. “Ask in the morning. I guarantee you this guy isn’t going anywhere until then. And if you pester him now, you could make things worse, for him and for your investigation. Reliable information comes from stable patients.”
“You’re killin’ me, Stevens,” the chief called as I led the way up the front steps.
“You should be so lucky, Craig,” she replied amiably.
I kicked off my soaked slippers in the entryway and padded barefoot down the hall. Lake’s unscheduled, non-authorial appearance on Moorehaven’s familiar hardwood floor made me oddly sensitive to the historic décor I lived amidst every day, especially since he was neither fish nor fowl—neither author nor local. Does he think it’s weird to have a tiny bookstore in a glorified motel? Maybe he thinks the peacock-pane chandelier overhead is ostentatious overkill. Will he see how it matches the Tiffany peacock table lamps by the coatrack and the hostess table? He probably doesn’t know about the reproduction paintings’ connections to Moore’s novels. Maybe he doesn’t even know who Moore is. That would be weird. I can’t remember the last time I met someone who hadn’t heard of A. Raymond Moore. He passed away decades ago, but readers around the world still love his books, and the Moore Trust sponsors dozens of award contests, scholarships, and literacy programs. Lake can’t not have heard of him.
Lake groaned as he shuffled between Hilt and the doc, and I shooed away my momentary worry that my injured guest wouldn’t like my beloved house. I snatched a key as I passed the hostess station then waved everyone to follow me up the stairs—even Chief Craig, who apparently wanted to make sure he’d know exactly where to find Lake the next day. We headed upward at the back left end of the hall, and the stairs turned to the right, rising over the wide arch and depositing us on the second floor. I headed for the north side of the house, which held my only suite—the Cobalt Suite, after The Cobalt Vixen, one of Moore’s most popular novels. If I had to wake Lake up every hour, I wanted him sleeping in the room that held two queen beds. No way was I going to trek up the stairs and then back down four more times tonight. It was gonna be weird enough sharing a room with another human. Since I’d come to Moorehaven, my only nocturnal roommates had been cats. And most nights, that suited me just fine.
Hilt offered to fetch pajamas for Lake. I nabbed a towel from the attached bathroom so the poor guy could dry off. Then Hilt returned with his Scrooge pajamas—the long nightgown he wore on Christmas Eve every year, cream with blue stripes. My snort of laughter escaped into the room before I could clap my hand over my mouth.
But Lake only offered an adorable, self-deprecating half smile. “No, that’s great. Perfect. Thank you.” He disappeared into the bathroom, and while he was gone, I turned down the bed on the right for him.
Chief Craig made an admiring hum. “You look like a great hostess, Pippa. Maybe I should come stay here sometime.”
I fluffed one of the pillows. “You keep saying that, Jimmy. According to Hilt, you’ve been saying it for thirty years. But you know the rules as well as I do. Authors only. You want to stay the night, you’re gonna need to write.”
He humphed appreciatively. “That’s a good one. You practice that one long?”
“Had it a couple years now. Glad you like it. Now, if the good and gentle Mr. Ivens does have trouble waking up, do I call you, Doc?”
She jerked her chin in the affirmative. “I’ll be right over, and EMS will be right behind me.”
I guess that’s as good as it gets. I nodded.
Lake came out of the bathroom, resplendent in Uncle Hilt’s costume jammies. “Does this come with a nightcap?”
Doc Stevens waggled her finger. “Absolutely no alcohol. Not with that head injury.”
Lake seemed puzzled for a moment, and I worried he’d suffered more brain damage than we thought. “No, I meant the hat. You know, those floppy old-fashioned things? This looks like it should have a matching cap with a puff ball on the end or something.”
Uncle Hilt looked embarrassed. “The puff ball fell off,” he muttered under his breath.
I shot him a quick look of pity mixed with exasperation then stepped forward to guide Lake to the bed. “You probably shouldn’t be wearing anything tight on your head, anyway. Now, let’s get you tucked in. You want any Tylenol?”
He nodded as he gingerly sat down. “That would be awesome. Please and thanks.”
I shooed everyone out of the room and down the stairs. Doc and Jimmy both promised to stop by tomorrow morning to check on Lake and see what else they could learn. I felt a surge of urgent curiosity rise in my chest. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I, too, wanted answers regarding the boat wreck that had dragged me from my warm bed and deposited me beside this handsome newcomer. Accident, misadventure, drunken boating spree? I’d have to wait until morning to find out. I wished them good luck and good night, grabbed some pain meds, a glass of water, and my own pillow, and headed back up to the suite.
“Just like summer camp, huh?” Lake asked when he saw the pillow in my arms. “Too bad I don’t feel like staying up late and telling ghost stories.”
I handed him the glass of water and shook out two pills for him. “We’re already up late, and you nearly starred in your own ghost story. I think we’re good.”
Lake nearly choked on the pills as he laughed. Then he clutched his head and winced. “I’m going to have to ask you to stop being funny, Miss Winterbourne. It’s endangering my health.”
“I’m so sorry. Does it hurt much?”
“For crashing into a continent, not so much as you’d think. But this one time, I got whacked on the head really hard with a hockey stick. So obviously high-sticking, even Greg’s teammates called him out. Anyway, all the nerves around that spot went numb, so even though I was bleeding like a stuck pig, it literally did not hurt at all. That freaked me out more than the blood. Weird, huh?”
I nodded, vaguely familiar with the term high-sticking. “I guess our heads are full of tricks, inside and out. Now, you’d better sleep.” I pulled off my slightly sandy robe and spread it over the foot of my bed. As I turned, I caught Lake giving me a once-over out of the corner of his eye. Wow, he thinks I’m hot. When’s the last time that happened… not counting guests? I gave him a saucy grin. “You want me to get you an extra set of my jammies? I got another cami-and-shorts pair in green checks and one in navy.” I patted my hips. “But I’ll have to adjust the straps way down—you’re a lot taller than I am.”
Lake lowered his eyes. “Sorry.”
I stared at him steadily until he met my gaze. “No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not. But concussion, remember?” He gently tapped his temple. “You and your gorgeous twin there will have to stop spinning around the room so I can sleep.”
I sat down on the bed, panged with mild guilt. “I’m setting this alarm for an hour from now, and then I’m going to wake you up. That’s going to suck for both of us. But it’s better than you dying in the night because that would involve some awkward phone calls, more flashing lights, and a lot of laundry.”
Lake slid his legs under the covers and gingerly snuggled down into the freshly laundered pillowcase, lying on his right side so he could face me. “Aww, no glass of warm milk first?”
I made a moue. “Fifty-nine minutes.”
“Point taken, Nurse Ratched.”
Lake had been motormouthing like a kid on a sugar high, but within two minutes of lying down, he was asleep. It happened so quickly, I hadn’t even tucked myself into the other queen bed yet. In fact, it made me worry. I got up and bent over him to make sure he was still breathing.
Sure enough, he was. Deep, slow breaths eas
ed from his nose, lifting his well-muscled chest beneath Uncle Hilt’s nightgown. The seawater drying in his hair made his black curls unruly. In the warm light of the lamp between the beds, the contours of his face seemed aristocratic, with high cheekbones, a broad forehead, and a long, straight nose that was nearly delicate. He looked like some sort of French artist.
My eyes lingered. One less fish in the sea. But do I want him in my net? This kind of fishing has been nothing but trouble in the past. But the past is the past. Isn’t it? God, I hope so.
I lay down and turned off the light, but it was a good fifteen minutes or so before I fell asleep. My mind replayed images from the last half hour, still trying to make sense of events. Maybe he crashed because of the fog. Maybe Chief Craig was right, and Lake had been drunk. But I hadn’t smelled any alcohol on him.
The beeping alarm woke me with a start, and for a minute, I couldn’t figure out where I was. Then memory rushed in like a soaking wave, and I ratcheted up into a sitting position with my tummy in a clench.
Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. I stood, reached out, and gave Lake’s arm a gentle nudge. He moaned, grumbled, and made a halfhearted effort to wave me away.
“You have to wake up, Lake.”
He went still, and I imagined that he suddenly couldn’t figure out where he was either.
“It’s me, Pippa. Remember, you crashed? You’re in Moorehaven.”
“Right. Yeah. Got it.” He started to roll over then hissed in pain as he pressed his injured head into his pillow.
Instinctively, I leaned down and helped him roll all the way onto his left side. I’d had injured guests before, and my authors weren’t shy about asking for aid—especially when they wanted to twist a character’s ankle or make the poor fictional person miss the top porch step later in their book. “There you go. All better now. Sleep tight, Lake. I’ll see you in an hour.”
His hand, warm from being tucked under the covers, slid around my wrist. His gentle tug was sensual and irresistible. “Mmmff… Kamanova,” he slurred sleepily. I resisted the handsome Russian-sounding rescue victim, but he only pulled harder.
Crap, what do I do? I didn’t want him to hurt himself, so after a second of rigid panic, I gave in and let Lake tug me into a spooning embrace. His warm, heavy arm pulled me tight against him and cuddled my waist. He hummed happily into my hair. Everything below my waist was thrilled, but my mind couldn’t get off the loop that tended to run all the most disastrous memories of my last steady boyfriend from six years ago. I angrily told the Little Train That Shouldn’t to shut up. I wasn’t a drunken sorority girl; I was a business owner. Inside my own place of business. With a really hot, injured guy who needed my help. A really, really hot guy. Who needed lots of help. Lots of help staying perfectly still, right next to me. Omigod, Jordan will not believe this when I tell her. If I tell her. No, I’m definitely telling her.
I figured I’d wait until after he fell asleep, and then I’d slip back to my bed without disturbing him. He was a great snuggler. No reason to wake the poor guy right away. I’d give him a couple minutes to make sure he was really asleep…
The next thing I knew, hazy morning light was radiating into the room, and I was staring into a pair of vivid, puzzled blue eyes. Lake’s dark brows drew together as he studied me in total incomprehension and murmured, “Wait, what?”
3
“What’s wrong with eating a Reuben sandwich every day? If I had ever gotten married, I’d have a wife hanging over my shoulder, making sure I ate my vegetables. I found that level of oversight tiresome by the age of eight.”
Raymond Moore, 1937
My brain silently spewed the stupidest commentary anyone could imagine as Lake stared at me in bleary confusion, so it was probably for the best that I could only gape like a fish. Finally, I managed, “I’m so sorry I didn’t wake you again. I’d feel awful if you had died and it was all my fault.”
Lake tipped his head and adopted a thoughtful smile, apparently managing to remember the basic facts of last night. “That’s real sweet of you to say and even sweeter of you to give me such individual attention. I slept really well, though, so I guess the cuddles worked.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell the poor man that I hadn’t meant to cuddle with him at all. As my enjoyment silently argued with my embarrassment, I rolled off the far side of the bed and headed for my pink robe.
Lake watched me openly as I put it on and tied its belt. “I just realized I don’t have anything to wear except the clothes I nearly drowned in last night. They’re probably pretty stiff from the saltwater, but I hung them over the towel racks in the bathroom, so they should be dry.”
I dismissed that idea with a wave of my hand and clung to the new topic, eager to move past the recent awkwardness. Everything seemed different in daylight, even relationships and head-injury-induced cuddles. I had no idea if he wanted anything from me, or if he was just window-shopping. I wasn’t sure what I wanted either. It had been so long I might’ve forgotten some of the usual steps in the dance. “Oh, no. Let me find you some of Uncle Hilt’s clothes. They should make you look pretty darn good, too, if those costume jammies are any indication.”
Lake propped himself up on his elbows, and a dark expanse of chest hair peeped through the open V of his nightshirt. “What did you say?”
I felt my cheeks heat. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.”
He squinted one eye in comical confusion. “No, did you say ‘costume’? Have I been wearing a costume all night?”
I scrunched my fingers in the hair above my forehead and tightened my grip until it hurt. Curse my stupid morning tongue. “I think your head trauma is contagious. Why don’t we get you something to wear, and you can stay for a free breakfast?” I backed away and yanked open the door, where I nearly stumbled across a neatly folded pile of clothing at my feet.
Uncle Hilt had thought of everything. I picked up the jeans, white T-shirt, heavy flannel shirt, and warm socks and presented them to Lake.
He accepted them with a gracious smile that promised to forget I’d just told him he’d spent the night in a Christmas costume. “Thanks.”
“I’ll get started on breakfast. Come when you’re ready. Downstairs. To breakfast.” Omigod. Stop. Talking. I backed out and shut the door behind me, more flustered than I’d been in years. Handsome authors never bothered me, maybe because I knew they’d be leaving in a few days—a few weeks at most—so I tolerated their flirtation for the harmless fun it was. But Lake lived in Seacrest. I’d see him again. Soon. And often.
Willing my cheeks to cool, I barefooted my way down the stairs. The warm smells of maple sugar and hazelnut pulled me toward the kitchen. Hilt had made scones! I stopped in the doorway and smiled at the sight of Hilt manning the kitchen. A double batch of maple-oat-hazelnut scones cooled on a rack next to the French coffee press. Fresh fruit gleamed brightly from a large bowl, and Hilt was busy frying up some bacon. Two other pans held different egg scrambles. He already had an audience. The cats perched on two chairs at the breakfast nook, watching every move he made with the eggs and bacon. A big-bellied glass pitcher of OJ sat on the island with a tray holding several empty glasses.
“You’re awake! Do we need to call the coroner?” Hilt asked.
“No, thank God. Lake’s getting dressed now, and I offered him breakfast. He’ll be down in a couple minutes. Are the others awake?”
He nodded. “Just came down. Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll take what I have out to the table. If you hurry, you can grab the last couple of scones for yourself and your new boyfriend.”
“Stop, don’t go there.” My cheeks got hot again as I thought about our unintentional intimacy. I hurried through the pantry to my room before Hilt could notice my blush. If Seacrest got any sun, I’d have a little tan to cover my pale, Northern European ancestry. But no
. We had fog—and really obvious blushes.
I took extra care with my appearance, even though I hadn’t had my shower yet. Maybe I could salvage some small fragment of my dignity if I looked like accidentally falling asleep in the arms of the man I had just pulled from the ocean didn’t bother me. I managed a white cami with a navy-blue blazer and matching slacks and as much repair as I could do to my tousled hair. My hair managed to hit all the shades on the honey spectrum during a given calendar year: blond in summer, brown in winter, and bronde in spring and fall. I was in full bronde that morning, since it was early April. I smoothed my hair, threw on some minimal makeup, slapped on some flats, and headed back to the kitchen.
Lake came down the hallway through the arch that led to the formal dining room, and his face lit up when he saw me.
“You like scones?” I asked him.
“Whatever you’re having. But yeah, scones actually sound delicious. I trust scones.”
“You trust them?”
He stopped right in front of me and met my eyes. “Scones are the edible version of a lifelong friend. They’re full of amazing things. They can adapt to any circumstance. And they’ll never let you down with some weird kind of cream-filling surprise.”
“Not a filled doughnut sort of guy?” I hoped he wouldn’t find any of my surprises to be such letdowns.
“God, no. Gooey lies.”
I offered him a chipper smile. “Then you’ll really enjoy these scones. Maple, oats, and hazelnuts. Perfect for an early spring morning on the coast.”
“You’re my savior. Again.”
“Hurry, grab one before they’re all gone.” I followed him into the dining room. With Hilt, Skylar, and Paul already at the table, over half of the scones had already been eaten.
Skylar smiled around a mouthful of scone as she held her coffee cup in midair. After a quick sip, she asked, “Please tell me these amazing scones have less fat than it tastes like. This is my third one, and I was hoping to, you know, get around Seacrest without rolling like a ball.”
Smugglers & Scones Page 3