“You’re making an awful lot of assumptions for someone who’s known me for”—she pursed her lips and made a big show of consulting her watch—“less than two hours.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
“You sound more like a lawyer than a repairman.”
Something flickered in his eyes, something that disappeared too quickly for her to interpret. Touched a nerve, had she? Good. And two could play at his game. “Since you seem to think you have me all figured out,” she said, “now it’s my turn.”
She allowed her gaze to wander over him, then said, “You’re the big kid who ran away from home. Black sheep of the family, your parents—probably your father—didn’t approve of your lifestyle, and rather than keep fighting all the time, you just left. Probably there was a woman—or five—involved at some point who got tired of you going off on your benders. You decided you didn’t need the hassle and moved away. You don’t like people telling you what to do, you’re not big on relationships or commitment, and you enjoy being your own boss. You took advantage of the down real estate market and managed to scrape together enough money for a minimum down payment on a couple of rundown places that were probably short sales or in foreclosure. You’re up to your eyeballs in debt, but now there’s no one to answer to but yourself.”
“Now who’s playing fortune teller?” he asked in a casual voice, but the muscle ticking in his jaw had Jamie giving herself a mental high five. Ha, Mr. Smarty Pants. Hit a couple nails myself, didn’t I?
She was saved from answering by the arrival of their food. Jamie had ordered the eggs Florentine, and with the first bite, she closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Oh. My. God. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m starving or that this is just that good, but I think these are the best eggs I’ve ever tasted. Ever.”
“They’re that good,” Nick said. “Try this.” He held out his fork, laden with a tempting morsel of his grilled challah bread toast topped with mascarpone and homemade raspberry syrup.
When Jamie hesitated, Nick rolled his eyes. “I haven’t eaten off the fork yet. Jeez, you really are anal.”
“No, I’m not. I’m merely … cautious.”
“Got that. You want to taste this or not?”
The restaurant manager/foodie in her couldn’t resist. She leaned forward and opened her mouth. Then once again her eyes slid shut at the burst of delicate flavors. As was her habit, especially when tasting new dishes, she chewed slowly, savoring the melding of textures and tastes. When she opened her eyes, she found him staring. At her mouth. She swallowed again, then said the only word she could manage.
“Yum.”
Her voice seemed to yank him out of whatever stupor he’d fallen into and he scooped up another forkful of his breakfast. “I hate to say I told you so …” he said, then wolfed down a big bite.
“Somehow I sincerely doubt that, but I’m too in love with this meal to argue with you.”
His lips curved up in that slow, lopsided grin. “So the trick is to keep you fed. Good to know.”
Since that darn grin of his had stolen her ability to speak, she merely looked toward the ceiling and kept eating. She’d just mopped up the last of her eggs with a piece of perfectly toasted semolina bread when Maria stopped by the table to drop off their check. She eyed the empty plates and beamed.
“That’s what I like to see—healthy appetites. You enjoy?”
“Best eggs ever,” Jamie said, patting her stomach.
“A masterpiece, as always,” said Nick.
“Grazie. You come back for dinner this week. The specials are my lasagna—she is the best you’ve tasted; I make the gravy from my grandmother’s recipe—and Ira’s brisket.”
“Sounds delicious,” said Jamie. “I absolutely love your restaurant, Maria—the food, the décor, the whole concept. It’s eclectic and unique and fun, and the meals are seriously delicious.”
Maria’s smile could have lit the entire room. “Grazie, Jamie. The recipes are from my childhood, while the shells have been collected by family from beaches everywhere. But the sand dollars on the mantel are from Seaside Cove. I love them so much because they remind me of Roma.”
“How do sand dollars remind you of Rome?” Jamie asked.
“It is because of the legend,” Maria said. “In Roma, we have the Trevi Fountain. Legend says that if you throw a coin in the fountain, you will come back to Roma. Local legend here says that if you find a whole, unbroken sand dollar—which is very rare—you shall not only have great luck, but you are ensured a return visit to Seaside Cove. You see? The legend here is the same as that of my beloved Roma.” She smiled at Nick. “Have you found one yet?”
“No. But I don’t need one. I have no intention of leaving Seaside Cove.”
“But it is a talisman of good luck, so you still must always look for the unbroken sand dollar.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Nick promised. “Maria, did you know that Jamie manages a restaurant in New York City?”
Maria’s eyes lit up. “No! Then I am doubly honored by your kind words, Jamie. Ira and I love Manhattan. So many fun things to do, so many great places to eat. What’s the name of the restaurant?”
“Newman’s.” Just saying the name of the restaurant where Jamie had poured so much of her heart and soul filled her with a conflicting sense of pride and relief that she was here and not there.
“Ah, a family-owned restaurant,” Maria said, nodding. “Just like we had back in Italy. That is the best kind. Where in the city is Newman’s located?”
“West 44th Street, in the theatre district.”
“We’ll make it a point to eat there the next time we visit,” Maria promised. Then her eyes widened and she clapped her hands together. “Oh, but this is perfect that you know so much about managing! Has the Clam Committee paid you a visit yet?”
“Clam Committee?” Jamie repeated. Uh-oh. This sounded like trouble.
“For the Clam Festival,” Maria clarified, her brown eyes alight with excitement. “It’s a huge event on the island—takes place the end of August, right before Labor Day. All the islanders volunteer. Ira and I have a food tent and we help decorate.” She turned to Nick. “Aren’t you helping to build the parade float this year?”
“I am.” He grinned across the table at Jamie. “I’m sure the Clam Committee will have plenty for you to do.”
Crap. She wanted to be on the Clam Committee like she wanted a hole in her head. Really, what she wanted was to be left alone. Seriously, why couldn’t people just leave her alone?
“Oh, they will be so happy to have someone with your experience,” gushed Maria, “especially since Walter Murphy is out of commission due to his hip-replacement surgery. You are come il cacio sui maccheroni!”
Probably that meant destined to die at the hands of the Clam Committee, Jamie thought darkly.
“She’s like … cheese on macaroni?” Nick asked with a laugh.
“Eccellente!” Marie reached out and pinched his cheek. “You’re getting very good at the translations, Nico! Yes, like cheese on macaroni—so, how you say—just what the doctor ordered.”
Maria then grabbed Jamie’s hand. “Oh! And you must put your name on the ballot for Clam Queen, Jamie.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I heard that strega Missy Calhoun”—Maria practically spit out the woman’s name—“from Coastal Beach Island has been bragging that one of her daughters is going to win again this year. We need someone from Seaside Cove to win.” Still gripping Jamie’s hand, Maria turned to Nick. “She’s molto carino—very cute, no?”
“No,” Jamie interjected.
“Very cute,” Nick agreed, completely ignoring the Stare of Death Jamie shot him. “Definitely has Clam Queen potential.”
“Ah! It is settled then,” Maria said with a beaming smile.
It totally wasn’t settled, but Jamie didn’t see any point in arguing about it with Maria. What the heck did she care if Missy What’s-her-name’s daughter won
? It was really a nonissue as Jamie simply wouldn’t put her name on the Clam Queen ballot, and she’d save all her refusals for the actual Clam Committee if they solicited her help.
Maria’s gaze bounced between Jamie and Nick. “How long you two know each other?”
“It’s been about two hours,” Nick said.
“More like two and a half,” corrected Jamie. “But it feels like five.”
“More like ten.”
“Years,” Jamie said, nodding. “Ten years.”
Maria laughed, a deep, throaty sound. “Ah, amore!”
Jamie nearly choked. She didn’t know much Italian, but she certainly knew that amore meant love. “Uh, no. Seriously no. Not amore. In fact, pretty much the opposite of amore. Very much un-amore.”
“È stato amore a prima vista!” Maria said, her eyes gleaming.
“What does that mean?” Jamie asked.
“It is, how you say, love at the first sight. The chemistry, the sparks—they cannot be denied. It was the same way with me and my Ira. You are both beautiful and it is bellissimo babies you will make.” She blew them each a kiss, said, “Arrivederci,” then sauntered away to visit another table.
Jamie pressed her fingers to her temples. “Holy cannoli. I feel like I just got hit by an Italian Mack truck.” She glared across the table. “Since when did you turn into a mute? You didn’t say anything to disabuse her of her crazy love-at-first-sight notions and all that bellissimo babies jazz.”
“I learned a long time ago there’s not much you can do to correct someone’s wrong assumption about you other than to let time take care of it. And besides, I avoid arguing with women whenever possible.”
“Because you know we’ll win?”
“Because women base their opinions on emotions rather than facts. That makes arguing with them about as productive as smacking rocks against my head.”
“Smacking rocks against your head … That could be arranged, you know.”
“I’m sure it could. But you might want to remember that it’s a ten-mile hike to the Piggly Wiggly.”
Jamie sighed and opened her purse to extract her wallet. “I have got to arrange for a rental car.”
“You can try, but I wouldn’t plan on anything being available until after the Shrimp Festival.” He smiled. “Looks like you’ll need to be nice to me for the next couple of days, Miss No Car.”
“I am being nice to you. Have I smacked you in the head with a rock?”
“No, but you’ve looked like you wanted to.”
“Wanting to isn’t a crime.” She hoped.
He reached for the check, but she slipped her fingers on top of the bill and his palm came down on the back of her hand. “This one’s on me,” she said, dragging her hand and the check from beneath the warmth of his broad, callused palm, a move that for some inexplicable reason zoomed tingles up her arm. “For taking me to the Piggly Wiggly.” He frowned at his hand that had been on top of hers for several seconds, then slowly pulled it back, flexing his fingers. When he appeared about to argue, she added, “And so I have something to hold over your head until my stairs and roof are fixed.”
He studied her for the space of two heartbeats with an inscrutable expression, then one corner of his mouth tipped up. “If I’d known you were paying, I would have ordered the smoked salmon and linguini with lobster.”
“I knew you would have—that’s why I didn’t tell you.”
She left cash for the bill and tip, then slid out of her chair. Walking behind Nick, she found her eyeballs straying to his butt. How annoying was it that he looked as good leaving a room as he did entering it? Boy, it sure was a good thing he wasn’t at all her type, otherwise she might find herself heaving a gushy sigh over him and his hotness.
And that nonsense Maria had said about chemistry and sparks? Ha! Any sparks she’d detected were purely from annoyance. A little voice in the back of her mind whispered, Any kind of spark can start a fire. Jamie frowned, but then shrugged off the words. She had plenty of things to worry about, but anything happening between her and totally-nother-type Nick Trent definitely wasn’t one of them.
Chapter 5
Nick set the final trio of galvanized roofing nails on top of a new shingle and hammered them in place, the reverberations from each whack shooting a pleasant zing up his arm. When he finished, he covered the nail heads with roof cement, then wiped his dripping face with his T-shirt sleeve. Not that his grimy shirt was any drier than his face; after six hours spent in the broiling sun making repairs to Paradise Lost’s roof, there wasn’t a centimeter of him of that wasn’t soaked with sweat.
He took a long swig from his water bottle and surveyed his rooftop handiwork. A damn good job if he said so himself. Of course, the big test to see if he’d patched all the leaks would come when it rained again, but he’d certainly fixed all the major problem areas.
Yesterday after the Home Depot run, he’d fixed the steps as well as the sagging screens on the porch and replaced the cracked windows—damn good jobs, too, if he said so himself—and gotten a head start on the roof repairs. Now that the roof was completed, the princess would get off his back.
Not that she’d been pestering him, he had to admit. In fact, he’d barely seen her since yesterday’s return from their Home Depot/Piggly Wiggly trip. She’d lugged home an enormous amount of bags filled with food, a forty-pound container of cat chow, and God only knows what else, and had disappeared inside the house. He noticed her leaving and returning yesterday afternoon on what he assumed was a walk along the beach, as she had in ear buds attached to an iPod. He hadn’t seen her after her return, but he’d certainly heard her.
Since all the windows of Paradise Lost remained open, he couldn’t help but hear the music she played. At least her taste in music was good—classic rock with some jazz tossed in. He’d even heard her singing along a few times. He winced at the memory. The woman couldn’t sing for shit. If Godiva ever heard her, she’d start howling along.
She’d left the house a few hours ago, a big floppy hat shading her face, and carrying a canvas bag and a beach towel. His gaze had zeroed in on her toned, shapely legs, shown off to advantage in a short, bright orange dress—the kind women wore over their bathing suits. His imagination instantly shifted into overdrive, wondering what she wore underneath that little dress, and annoyance pricked him. What the hell did he care what she wore? She was nothing more than a bossy pest who couldn’t sing worth a damn. When she returned from the beach, he’d be able to tell her the repairs were finished, and he’d be done with her. He’d spend the rest of the summer working on Southern Comfort, then, when the princess went back to New York, he’d start renovating Paradise Lost.
A sense of deep accomplishment filled him, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time before pulling up stakes and moving to Seaside Cove. He’d left a great deal behind him, but he was slowly regaining ground, finding the part of himself he’d lost, that had gotten sucked dry by the life he’d been leading.
His gaze drifted to Southern Comfort and peace washed over him, like a gentle wave of incoming tide—the sort of tranquil calm he’d spent years struggling to find in his old life. It wasn’t until he’d chucked it all and walked away without a backward glance that he’d finally felt, at age thirty, as if he’d started to live.
A huff of laughter rushed past his lips at the sight of Godiva sleeping in the shade of Southern Comfort’s carport. She lay sprawled on her back in her cushiony outdoor doggie bed, all four paws dangling in the air. “Jeez, you really need to learn how to relax, Godiva,” Nick muttered, chuckling.
With a sigh of contentment, he drained his water bottle and carefully swiveled around to face the beach. From his vantage point on the roof he could see the sun glinting sparks of gold off the dark blue ocean. Several boats zoomed along about a half mile out, small dots cruising through the water, leaving trails of white wake foam behind them. A trio of kites flew high in the sky, their colorful tails flapping in the salt-scented br
eeze. The soothing sound of the waves hitting the shore was muffled by the dunes, as were the excited shouts of kids playing in the sand and water—a background music he’d grown to love over the past few months.
A spot of bright orange caught Nick’s attention. He pushed his Ray-Bans higher on his nose and saw Jamie emerge from the beach-access path and pause to look both ways before crossing the street. She wasn’t wearing her floppy hat and her honey-colored curls floated in wild disarray around her shoulders. His heart lurched—like he’d just taken that first downward swooping rush on a roller coaster.
He frowned. What the hell was that about? Probably because he could now tell her he was done with the repairs and wish her a happy adios-have-a-good-summer-don’t-call-uswe’ll-call-you.
Yup, that was why.
He slipped his supplies back in his tool belt, made his way to the ladder, then climbed down. He’d just stepped off the bottom rung when she walked up the driveway.
“Roof’s all fixed,” Nick said.
“Great.” Her gaze swept over him, taking in his dirty, sweat-stained shirt; faded, worn jeans; tool belt; and sturdy work boots. “You look hot.”
“Thanks, babe.” He slid down his Ray-Bans to give her a head-to-toe look. “You look pretty hot yourself.”
Which she definitely did. Up close, he could see that the orange dress was made of some sort of lacy material that afforded tantalizing glimpses of a bright yellow bathing suit underneath.
And it suddenly felt about ten degrees hotter.
Color rushed into her cheeks. Damn, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen a woman blush so easily.
“I meant hot as in sweaty,” she said in the same prim tone she’d used on him yesterday—a tone that for some reason amused, rather than irked, him.
“That’s what happens when you toil in the sun.” He unhooked his tool belt and set it on the cement. “How was the beach?”
“Really nice. The waves were great. Got beat up by a few of them, but that’s half the fun.”
Summer at Seaside Cove Page 7