Summer at Seaside Cove

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Nah. Couldn’t be.

  But then what the hell was it?

  Before he could decide, she continued, “With your All-Clad.”

  He blinked. Then frowned. “Huh?”

  “I’m in love with your frying pan. Given the condition of the pots and pans at Paradise Lost, I may have to steal it from you.”

  Surely that was relief, rather than disappointment, washing through him. Jesus, of course it was. Whew! Dodged a bullet there. Last thing he needed was his temporary neighbor falling in love with him.

  He cleared his throat to loosen the inexplicable tightness there. “No need to steal. Feel free to borrow it. It’s not like I know how to use it.” He brushed his thumb over her hard nipple. “Of course, I will demand some sort of payment.”

  “Name your price.”

  He decided right then and there that the ridiculous amount he’d paid for pots and pans he’d rarely use had been worth every penny. He feathered his mouth over hers. “It’s gonna cost you.”

  She heaved a put-upon sigh. “I’ll force myself to suffer through the torture.”

  “Excellent.”

  He traced her plump bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, debating whether to lift her onto the counter, which would be more expedient, or carry her back to his bedroom, which would be more comfortable. Plus, that’s where the condoms were.

  The bedroom it was.

  Making a mental note to start always keeping a condom within easy reach, he scooped her up in his arms and started walking toward his bedroom.

  “What about breakfast?” she asked, pressing very distracting kisses to the side of his neck.

  Before he could answer, angry, raised voices floated through the open sliding doors that led to the screened-in porch. Nick paused and listened.

  “I said I’d be right back with the money,” came an angry female voice followed by a slamming car door.

  “Take it easy, little lady. All I said was I’d walk you to the door.”

  “Do not tell me to take it easy, quit calling me little lady, and you are not walking me to the door,” yelled the female voice.

  “Now look here, there’s no need to holler—”

  “OMG, yes there is because you are so not listening to me! My aunt will give me the cab fare and I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, God,” Jamie whispered. “It can’t be.” She pushed against his chest and wriggled like a fish on a hook. “Put me down.”

  Nick set her on her feet and she ran into the screened-in porch and looked down at the street below. “Heather!” she called, waving her arms. “I’m here … up here. Stay there. I’ll be right down.”

  Jamie then dashed back inside, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit.” She frantically snatched up her underwear from the floor near the door where he’d stripped it off her last night.

  “What’s going on?”

  “That yelling is coming from my fourteen-year-old niece, Heather,” she said, yanking up her panties and then bending to seize her shorts. “She’s outside with a huge suitcase, a crapload of attitude, and a very unhappy-looking cab driver who, based on what we just heard, I’m expected to pay. I can only hope she flew here and just took that cab from the local airport and not all the way from New York, otherwise I’ll owe the guy my life, a few vital organs, and my first-born child.”

  “Why is she here?”

  “Don’t know. But I need to find out. I can’t imagine it’s good. If my mother is a drama queen, Heather is the Drama Empress.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’ll handle it. Of course if the cab fare is eighteen thousand dollars, I might need a temporary loan.” She shoved her feet into her flip-flops. “Sorry to leave so abruptly. Breakfast is in the oven. Thanks for last night—it was great. See ya.” She grabbed her purse and then dashed out the door.

  The screen door slapped shut behind her and Nick stared at it for several long seconds, wondering what the hell had just happened and what he should do about it.

  You shouldn’t do anything. She said she didn’t need your help. You’re off the hook. Be glad.

  But he wasn’t glad. He was concerned.

  It’s none of your business.

  Yet there was no denying the protectiveness he felt toward her.

  That’s just the sex talking.

  Maybe. But that didn’t make it any less real.

  It’s good she’s gone—consider yourself saved. You don’t need her drama. Besides, you know how women get after you let them spend the night. All clingy and possessive and filled with expectations.

  Right. A frown burrowed between his brows. Except tossing off a hurried Thanks for last night—it was great. See ya didn’t exactly smack of clingy, possessive, or filled with expectations. In fact, it felt pretty much like a brush-off.

  He felt a nudge against his knee and looked down. Godiva shifted her soulful gaze from Nick to the door, then back to Nick, as if asking, Where’d she go and when’s she coming back?

  He hunched down and gave Godiva’s neck a good scratching, much to her tail-wagging delight. “She went home. But she’ll be back.”

  He intended to see to that.

  But no matter what, he’d see her soon. After all, it was only neighborly that he make certain everything was okay at Paradise Lost.

  And besides, she’d taken his T-shirt.

  He hoped like hell she was still wearing it when he got it back.

  Chapter 19

  After paying the cab driver eighty-seven dollars, Jamie led Heather, who pulled along a wheeled Louis Vuitton suitcase she recognized as Laurel’s, one that undoubtedly cost more than Jamie’s entire wardrobe, into the carport. Better they talk there than in the house where her mom and Alex were—clearly sound asleep (hopefully from a night of reconciliation sex) as they hadn’t come outside to see what all the commotion was about.

  “You came out of that other house,” Heather said in a confused voice, pointing at Southern Comfort. “Which one is yours?”

  “This one. I was just, um, having coffee with my neighbor.” Jamie tossed her cash-depleted purse onto the rickety wooden picnic table, then turned to her niece.

  And just as it had every time she’d looked into those soulful, espresso-colored eyes since Heather was an infant, a tiny piece of Jamie’s heart seemed to break off, no longer belonging to her, but to Heather.

  “Hey, kiddo,” she said, softly. “What’s going on?”

  She opened her arms, and behind her black-rimmed glasses, Heather’s eyes filled with tears, slicing off another sliver of Jamie’s heart. She stepped into Jamie’s embrace and a juicy sob escaped her. Jamie pulled her in close and stroked her hair and waited for the storm to pass, all while silently cursing Laurel because she didn’t doubt for a moment that her self-absorbed sister was at the root of whatever problem had brought Heather to her doorstep. Heather … who seemed to have grown up overnight, morphing from a shy, tomboyish little girl who loved to read into a contradiction of whiplashing moods—sweet and loving one minute, sullen and sour the next, followed in a blink by mouthy and rebellious.

  After a minute or so Heather’s sobs tapered off and Jamie leaned back and offered her a smile. “Feel better?”

  Heather pulled a wad of tissues from the pocket of the black hoodie she wore over a dark purple T-shirt decorated with the name of some band Jamie had never heard of and scowled. “No.” She blew her nose, shoved the tissues back in her pocket, then flopped onto the picnic bench and hunched her shoulders. “My life sucks.” She shot Jamie a mutinous glare. “Something I wouldn’t have had to come all the way to this lame-o place with its stupid cab drivers to tell you if you’d stayed in New York where you belong.”

  Jamie cast a glance at Southern Comfort and suppressed a wistful sigh. Five minutes ago an aroused, nearly naked Nick had been carrying her to his bedroom, where, as she knew from the hours they’d already spent there, she was about to be made very happy. Multiple times. Instead she now had to deal with m
ore drama, the source of which she strongly suspected was Heather’s contentious relationship with Jamie’s backstabbing sister. Jeez. The things she did for love of this kid. This kid who was currently giving her a crapload of attitude and trying to squash her with guilt.

  She pulled her gaze away from Nick’s house, plopped down next to Heather, forced herself to ignore the attitude, and spoke the same words she always replied to Heather’s frequent claims that her life sucked—words that had become a private joke between them.

  “My life sucks, too.”

  Usually that earned a grin, but not this time. Heather merely shook her head. “Mine sucks worse. Seriously.”

  “Bet it doesn’t, but okay, you first. Then I’ll spill, then we vote. Loser has to clean up the kitchen.”

  Heather considered, then nodded. “Fine. Whatever.”

  “But first some questions. How did you get here?”

  “Airplane. Duh.”

  “And your mom was okay with you coming here by yourself?”

  A guilty flush stained Heather’s cheeks and Jamie groaned. “She doesn’t know you’re here?” When Heather shook her head, Jamie asked, “How did you buy your ticket?”

  “Online. With the credit card Mom gave me.”

  “I thought that was for emergencies only.”

  The defiant gleam perfected by teenagers the world over glittered in Heather’s eyes. “This is an emergency. And like Mom would care. She’s too wrapped up in her own stuff to give a crap about mine.”

  “That’s not true,” Jamie said, her resentment toward Laurel reaching a whole new level for being forced to defend her in any way. This is about Heather, for Heather. Not Laurel, she reminded herself. Still, it really irked. “We’ve discussed this before. Just because your mom is busy with her own life doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you.”

  “The only person she cares about is herself,” Heather said, picking at the chipped dark blue polish on her short nails.

  “That’s not true.” She apparently also cares about my former boyfriend. “She loves you.” Which in her own self-absorbed Laurel way, Jamie knew was true. She just didn’t feel like assigning any good qualities to her sister right now. “Where does she think you are?”

  “With Lindsey’s family in the Hamptons,” Heather answered, referring to her best friend.

  “Heather, you can’t just take off like that.”

  Heather looked up from her polish picking and shot a resentful glare at Jamie. “Why not? You did.”

  “I’m not fourteen. And I told everyone where I was going.” Which had clearly been a huge mistake. “You need to call her. Right now. And tell her where you are.”

  Resentment turned to mutiny. “I don’t want to talk to her.”

  “Too bad. You don’t want to have a three-hour chat with her—fine. But you have to tell her where you are.” When it was clear Heather planned to argue the point further, Jamie forestalled her by raising her hand in a stop gesture. “Now, Heather. Otherwise we’re getting in the car and I’m driving you right back to the airport. You can stay with me for a few days, but only if your mom knows where you are and says it’s okay.”

  Heather’s expression resembled a thundercloud. “Fine. I’ll tell her,” she grumbled. “Like she’ll care.”

  Jamie watched her pull her cell phone from her pocket and a tidal wave of love swamped her. Unlike blond-haired, blue-eyed Laurel, Heather resembled her dark-haired, ebony-eyed father. Instead of her mother’s tall, sinuous grace, Heather was petite and curvy. And wore glasses. And braces. She hated her thick curly hair, her burgeoning boobs and butt, and her full lips, which she scathingly referred to as a “trout mouth.” Jamie thought she was adorable and knew in a few years she’d be drop-dead stunning, but of course in her teenage all-knowing wisdom, Heather disagreed.

  Just as it seemed she disagreed with nearly everything lately. Jamie couldn’t count how many times Laurel had lamented at the restaurant that she didn’t understand her daughter, who eschewed fancy designer labels and shopping on Fifth Avenue and instead wore a steady uniform of black jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers purchased at flea markets. Her brainy daughter who read Shakespeare and F. Scott Fitzgerald rather than People magazine. Who dreamed of someday writing a book and spearheading her own version of Habitat for Humanity.

  During those conversations Jamie tried to remind Laurel that Heather was her own unique person—and a pretty terrific one in spite of all the teenage sullen crap—not a Laurel Mini Me.

  Heather looked at Jamie and rolled her eyes. “I got her voice mail—she’s obviously sooooo worried about me. I’ll leave a message.” Seconds later she said into the phone, “Mom, it’s me. Aunt Jamie said it was okay if I stayed with her at the beach, so that’s where I am. Bye.” She ended the call, then shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Happy?”

  Oh, yeah, I’m thrilled that my drama-stricken niece arrived on my doorstep unannounced—costing me eightyseven bucks for her cab—interrupted what probably would have been the best sex of my life, and is now giving me attitude. “Thank you. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  Heather’s bottom lip trembled, and guilt slapped Jamie for her impatience. “My dad texted me from the hospital. His girlfriend had the baby. I have a new sister.”

  And with those few words Jamie understood. This new baby meant that Heather would see even less of her absentee father, Marco, the playboy son of a wealthy Italian businessman Laurel had fallen madly in love with during a trip to Rome when she was nineteen. They’d fallen just as madly out of love shortly after Heather was born, and since they hadn’t married, they’d simply gone their separate ways. Marco supported his daughter financially with a generous monthly check. His emotional support consisted of an occasional awkward transatlantic phone call from Italy, where he lived with his latest very young, very beautiful heiress girlfriend, and hosting Heather’s one-week visit to his villa on Lake Como every August, a trip Heather both anticipated and dreaded.

  Jamie slung an arm around Heather’s slumped shoulders. “A new sister—how do you feel about that?”

  Heather shrugged. “They named her Butterfly.” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. At least he and Mom named me after a flower and not an insect. And it’s not like I’ll ever see her anyway. She’s my sister, but I don’t feel like a sister.”

  “You’ll see her soon, when you go to Italy to visit your dad.”

  Heather shoved up her glasses with an angry jab. “I’m not going.” The words shot out of her mouth and she pushed to her feet to pace in front of Jamie with quick, jerky steps, her fisted hands jammed in her pockets. “Why should I? He doesn’t know what to say to me, I don’t have anything to say to him, and his girlfriend ignores me. All they’re going to want to do is oooh and aaah over their new baby and I’ll just sit there with nothing to do and nobody to do it with.”

  She halted and Jamie’s heart turned over at the angry misery shimmering in those big brown eyes. She didn’t doubt for a minute the accuracy of Heather’s prediction of what her time in Italy would be like.

  “I told Mom weeks ago I wasn’t going and she said I have to,” Heather continued in a voice that throbbed with resentment. “I figured she just wanted me out of the way for a while so I told her I’d stay with Lindsey instead, but she still said no, that I have to go visit my dad and meet my sister. I said she can’t make me, she said she could, and, well …”

  “That’s when the fight started?” Jamie deadpanned.

  A short, harsh laugh escaped Heather and she pushed back her curtain of dark hair with an impatient flick of her fingers. “Yeah.” She sat down next to Jamie once again and pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead. “She never listens to me, Aunt Jamie. Never! All she does is throw orders at me, like some drill sergeant, and expects me to obey. She looks at me like I’m a freakin’ alien or something because I listen to music she’s never heard of and I’d rather read or visit a museum or write in my journal than go to lame-ass Saks or some
stupid party or get my nails done. She actually wanted to take my temperature last week because I didn’t want to go with her to Elizabeth Arden for a facial.” She turned to Jamie and shot her a pained expression. “Elizabeth Arden? Facial? Really? Pu-leeeeze.”

  Jamie inwardly winced at her sister’s cluelessness regarding her own daughter’s interests. Before she could reply, Heather rushed on, “She thinks that because she was Miss Perfect Popularity and had like a million friends when she was my age, I should, too. I can’t stand the popular kids at school. Why isn’t it good enough that I only have a few really close peeps instead of a bunch of stupid mean girls who can’t talk about anything besides celebrities and boys and shopping?”

  “It’s good enough—”

  “Mom doesn’t think so.”

  Jamie sighed, and again shoved back her resentment of Laurel and forced herself to think only of Heather. “Look—I agree that while the invite to Elizabeth Arden maybe wasn’t up your alley—”

  “Maybe?”

  “Okay, definitely. But the fact is she at least tried to include you, suggested that you do something together. I’m guessing you responded by stomping off?”

  Another shrug and frown. “Kinda.”

  Jamie gave her a one-armed hug. “She’d offered you an olive branch. Granted, it wasn’t a good one—”

  “Ya think? It like totally sucked.”

  “Agreed. But still, give some credit where it’s due. She tried. Did it ever occur to you to offer an alternate suggestion?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe a movie? Or a walk through the park? You enjoy cooking with me—have you ever tried it with her?”

  Heather made a snorting sound. “Oh, sure. Can you see my mom wearing an apron or chopping onions? I don’t think so.”

  “Well, then how about an outing to the Met or the zoo? Frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity? Lunch?”

  “Lunch?” Heather scowled. “Mom would want to go to the Four Seasons—”