BEASTLY LOVE BOX SET: Romance Collection

by Lindsey Hart

  But none of that happened to you and me, even if it possibly should have. Maren studied her plate. She said nothing, but the silence that filled the kitchen was no longer awkward or tense.

  They didn’t speak again until they were both done. Owen pushed his plate away and sighed. “That was pretty much the best breakfast I’ve had in years.”

  Maren flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “You should teach me a thing or two. I’m hopeless when it comes to cooking.”

  “What do you do? Eat out all the time?”

  “No. I had hired a cook, but uh- I’ve recently told her to stop coming. The last thing I wanted to do these past months was eat.” It came again, that squirming, tight feeling that she’d overstepped somehow, but Owen waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss it. “I might as well get used to talking about it. The whole world is.”

  “Well, that’s just a product of having lots of money. They talked about all the good things too. I know that you’re a philanthropist. I know that you fund start-up companies sometimes. I know that you have scholarships set up for inner city kids who excel.”

  Owen blinked and Maren wanted to give herself a good shake. What was she doing, spurting off nonsense like that?

  “It seems like you’ve followed me.”

  “No. Not really.” She shrugged casually, too casually. “It’s just that- people talk. I’ve heard about it in Monterey. And even though we’re kind of out here, away from the city, I still use the internet and read magazines and papers and whatnot. I get the paper here every day, for my guests, just in case. You’re big news since you make it in even all the way across the country.”

  “Like you said, people love to talk.”

  “I just meant that it kind of evens out. The news is just whatever is happening that day. It’s surprising that good things even get printed. It’s not so surprising that your divorce made it in there.” She swallowed the rising lump in her throat. She knew she should clear away their plates, but she didn’t move to get up. “It must be hard, having people read about all the things you’d rather keep private. I always thought having a little more money would be nice, at least, less stressful at times, but I don’t know if it’s worth that. I would hate that if I saw those things printed about me.”

  “I guess you just get used to it, over time.” His voice said he was anything but used to it. “Anyway, enough about me. Let me clean up these dishes for you.”

  “No, I can’t do that! You’re a paying guest.”

  “What if I wanted to?”

  “I… I guess I wouldn’t say no… I mean, if that’s really what you want. Although, I have a list a mile long of stuff that I’d rather have you do.”

  One dark brow arched and that shadow of a smile that made his black eyes twinkle, was back. “What would that be?”

  “Garbage, raking the yard, transplanting some flowers that are overgrown, although Hettie will probably help me with that. I have some baking to do, sweeping, mopping, laundry, beds to make.”

  “So… dishes?” He laughed and the sound was large and genuine and filled up the kitchen. It hit her hard, square in the chest, that she loved the sound of it. “I can’t say I really do much of anything at all other than work. I’m not proud to admit that I pay people to clean my house and make my bed, do the laundry, or rather, dry cleaning, all of that.”

  “At least you’re providing people with jobs. There’s nothing wrong with that. I wish I had the budget to hire someone to help me here.” Maren cut herself off, aware that she’d said too much. She didn’t want to go down that path. It seemed far too much like skirting around the topic that Hettie had raised. She still didn’t even know if she could ever ask Owen if he wanted to invest in the bed and breakfast. It felt a little like what he’s shared with her, about his parents, also extended to friends, or rather, the friends he didn’t have. She kind of gathered that he didn’t have many people in his life who didn’t use him for one thing or another and for some reason, she wanted to be one of those people.

  “You might have to show me what to do. With the dishes, I mean.” She hesitated, hand already reaching for his plate. He laughed that hearty, rich laugh again and her stomach cramped up even more. “I’m kidding. I know how to do that.”

  “Okay.” She smiled because she couldn’t not smile at him when he was looking at her like that, with actual genuine happiness on his face. “I’m going to start my list then. Come find me, around noon and I’ll take you over and introduce you to Hettie and we’ll go to the farmer’s market if you still want to. I have a feeling she’ll be completely enthralled with you.”

  Owen groaned. “Why do I get the feeling that might not be a good thing?”

  She laughed again, feeling happier and lighter than she had in a long time. “Well, in case you couldn’t tell from what I said, you’re a bit of a celebrity around here in Monterey. Don’t worry though, I’ll keep your adoring fans away. No one is going to hunt you down for a photo or anything.”

  Owen pushed back his chair. He stood and paused and their gazes met. For just a split instant, something deep and abiding, far too intimate, passion, longing, sorrow and joy passed between them. She blinked and tore her gaze away and it was gone.

  Maren hurried out of the kitchen, leaving Owen with the dishes.

  She found safety and refuge in the yard, out of the house, out of the same space he shared. What would he do or say if he knew the truth? She’d often wondered. It was pretty obvious to her, that if she ever told him, she’d lose him for good, the man she’d spent five years wondering about, dreaming about, reading about. She couldn’t shatter what was left of a heart she already sensed was wounded. She couldn’t ask him to invest in the bed and breakfast. She didn’t want him just as a business partner. What she wanted, she knew she could never have.

  CHAPTER 7

  Owen

  The farmer’s market itself was quaint and charming, exactly what he expected. It had that small town, authentic feel, with people of all ages and all walks of life hawking their wares. There were even a few buskers.

  What he did find disconcerting was the way Maren’s ancient friend or pseudo grandmother, or whatever she was, kept looking at him. She cast him sidelong glances the entire walk from the bed and breakfast and well into their first spin around the market. She looked at Maren as well, from under lowered lids, when she wasn’t paying attention. It was a little confusing like she knew a secret that they weren’t privy to and she wasn’t about to share the information.

  “You have to try some of this jam! It’s amazing!” Maren held up a cute little jar, complete of course, with a red and white checkered fabric top.

  “Alright.” Owen didn’t bat an eye. He’d been walking around for a good half hour and he didn’t even actually need anything. Maren filled up her bags with purchases, coffee beans, tea, jam, cookies and muffins. She’d brought a little metal wheeled cart that she pulled behind her. She shuffled along like Hettie, their two heads often bent together, deep in conversation. He trailed behind them but didn’t feel at all like an outsider.

  “You don’t even want to know what kind it is?” Maren’s full mouth curled up in a smile and he was horribly tempted to step forward, lean in and cover her lips with his. A white-hot bolt of desire ripped through his veins and he was once again thankful for the protective layer of denim that hid his arousal from the view of everyone at the damn market. He was annoyed by his body’s unexpected, raw response to Maren. It was like she was some kind of stimulant that seeped through his blood by osmosis. It didn’t help that his thoughts went straight to her on the beach that night, the moonlight shining down on her hair and shoulders…

  “I- uh- no.”

  Hettie laughed. She sounded a little like a cackling crone, but it was oddly charming on the squat, gnarled little white-haired woman. “Good lord, Maren, can’t you see that it could be anything and he would eat it if you suggested it?”


  Owen’s body heated at Hettie’s astute observation. Maren’s cheeks reddened to the point where the color nearly matched the shade of her hair. She didn’t move or remark on Hettie’s comment, just paid for the jam and handed it over.

  “It’s blueberry,” she said under her breath. “Wild blueberry. Not at all like what you find in the store. It’s my favorite.”

  “Well then, I might just take your word for it.” He winked at her and at Hettie, who turned away, twittering happily to herself. She wondered on up ahead, leaving them to trail after her.

  “Hettie’s alright,” Maren whispered. “She’s usually on her best behavior. I think she gets a kick out of giving you a hard time.”

  “I can see that.”

  “She really is a saint. I don’t know, there’s not a lot to keep her occupied here. She gardens mostly. Helps me out, has me or her friends over for tea.”

  Hettie’s life sounded just about like heaven. He envied the old woman in a way, the simplicity of her days, or at least the way Maren described them. He didn’t doubt she was lonely though, as he himself was. It didn’t give him a start to realize it. He’d known for a long time that he wasn’t happy, even with Chelsea. His company used to give him so much pleasure. That had changed the day he nearly drowned. He’d started to live for other reasons, to rethink everything he thought he had mapped out. It was one of the reasons he’d married Chelsea, because he no longer viewed the single life as one worth living.

  What he envied most, he realized, was the fact that Hettie was so close to Maren. She knew Maren’s secrets. They talked, openly and freely, with no restraint or awkwardness between them. They gardened together, probably shared recipes. He wasn’t even a fan of tea, but he knew if Maren asked him to sit with her three times a day and have a cup, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  “Sounds like a nice time,” he said when he realized Maren was looking at him, waiting for his response. He glanced over at a booth that was selling jewelry. Impulsively he stepped forward. It was handmade, though it looked like the creator had upcycled the pieces out of old antique jewelry, costume stuff mostly. Maren came up beside him, brow arched in question. “Do you like any of this?” he asked.

  “Uh…” He could tell she didn’t want to offend the artist, a middle-aged woman with grey hair twisted into a tasteful knot at the top of her head. Grey tendrils framed a face that was still angular and pretty even though she was likely going on sixty. “Yes. I like that one.” She pointed to a strand of pearls with a tiny gold shell. He liked the gold veins that traveled up the sides, the little scallops at the top. It was dainty and pretty, perfectly suited to Maren.

  “Great. We’ll take that one.” Owen reached into his pocket while the woman bagged up the necklace in a small paper bag. He paid and was sure to tip the woman, which she didn’t know how to respond to. She became instantly flustered but thanked him all the same.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Maren said softly as she took the bag he handed over. She had a leather messenger bag sitting at her hip. She lifted the flap of the soft, brown leather and slid the bag inside. “I really do like it though.”

  Her soft blush and the gentle glow in his eyes tied his insides in knots. There was no denying what her soft smile did to him. He realized, for the first time, that she had a dimple on her right cheek.

  “Don’t worry. It’s my treat. You’re the perfect host. You bought baking and fresh coffee beans and all sorts of things that other bed and breakfasts wouldn’t provide.”

  “That’s my job,” Maren laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. She was walking so very close her hand at her side, the other pulling the cart behind her. He could have reached out and slid his fingers through hers, but he didn’t. As it was, they nearly brushed when they walked. He would have given nearly everything he owned to touch her skin, to learn the smooth velvet of her palm. Thinking of touching her made his mind spiral back out of control and he carefully had to bring himself back in check.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Ever since he’d seen Maren at the beach, he’d thought of nothing but her body. How could he not? She was glorious, the play of silvery moonlight on her hair, her breasts, her sweet, creamy skin. God… Owen ground his molars together.

  Maren, blissfully oblivious at his side, veered off to visit a booth with fresh produce. He watched her, her long red hair falling nearly to her waist, the gleam of the sun overhead turning it into a blazing coppery red. His hand itched again, this time to run it through those gleaming strands, to learn the weight of it, the softness.

  He nearly let his mind wander again, his body reacting, firing on painfully aware cylinders, until he turned and caught Hettie staring at him out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t look away like some people might have. Instead, she gave a small smile that could have been encouragement. He started, expecting her to defend Maren when she realized he was looking at her sort of granddaughter with less than honest intentions. Instead of berating him, Hettie just kept on smiling knowingly and walked slowly to the stall where Maren was picking out peaches.

  CHAPTER 8

  Maren

  The inky black water drenched in silvery moonlight on the surface was like a caress. Maren cut through the waters, each stroke taking her further from the beach. It had been a warm day and she loved nothing better than cooling off in the salty waters, easing her tired muscles. To her, swimming wasn’t work. It was an escape. The water was where she came out to lose herself. She came out there to find the answers to her problems or just to forget. It never failed to soothe her, renew her, refresh and recharge her in ways she just couldn’t find anywhere else.

  She swam and swam, going out as deep as she dared, where the suction of the undertow was strong and she had to work to tread water. She thought perhaps if she swam far enough, she could get her guest off her mind, but Owen remained with her. His striking, angular features, dark hair and sea blue eyes stayed in her mind, haunting her the way they had since that day on the beach. The very beach she’d just left behind, almost in the exact spot she was swimming.

  This is crazy. She couldn’t say why she’d never been able to shake him. Like a ghost, he remained. Always with her. It was worse now, that he was back. She felt him watching her sometimes when he thought she didn’t notice. His gaze was hot on her body and it did things to her. She had no business feeling any sort of attraction, but her body burned whenever Owen was near and she couldn’t stop it. His mere presence turned her blood to fire.

  Because she was so attuned to her environment, because she’d spent her entire life in the waters, she sensed, before she even saw him, that she wasn’t alone.

  Maren whirled in the water, her movements silent and graceful. There was hardly even a splash as she turned back towards the beach.

  She was far enough out that she knew she was safe, but not far enough out that she couldn’t see Owen or the glistening fire in his gaze. Despite the chill of the deep waters, she felt the scorching blast of heat as his eyes landed on her.

  Don’t panic. He can’t see anything more than my head. She hadn’t expected to be interrupted on her swim. In all the years she’d been swimming out there, no one had ever walked up to the beach or come out of their house. She had a long strip of her own part of the beach that backed the bed and breakfast, far enough away from the neighbors that there was no one to spot her out there in the water. It was also the middle of the night, just past two in the morning. Hettie bordered her house to the right and the other neighbor, a woman named Iris who wasn’t altogether friendly, was in her eighties and wouldn’t be up at that hour and certainly not outside or looking out her windows.

  Maren had been lulled into a sense of security over the years. Seeing Owen standing on the beach, wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans, she felt a little like her personal, private, sacred part of the world was being intruded on.

  She was also extremely aware of the fact that she was naked and that if he was standing on the beach, he knew she
was out there. How long has he been watching? Did he watch me undress and get in the water?

  Surprisingly the thought didn’t anger her. Another hot rush of heat swept over her and she couldn’t miss the tingling sensation in her thighs, the clenching of desire in the pit of her stomach. She’d never felt the kind of body rush that Owen gave her. Never. Not once, though she’d dated a few guys casually. She hadn’t felt anything close to the rush of raw need that swept over her.

  She stayed, treading water and Owen stayed on the beach, watching. They remained that way for a few long moments, how many, she couldn’t be sure.

  Maren never grew tired. She debated about slipping out further, into even deeper water, but she was afraid he would do something foolish like try and swim out to her. She didn’t want to have a repeat experience of what happened five years ago. One man just about drowning in her stretch of water was enough for a lifetime.

  He’s not going to come in. He’s just watching. I’m safe out here.

  She could call to him, tell him to leave so she could get out, but she didn’t. She stayed, treading water, just her head visible above the shimmering depths. Unfortunately, the moon was full. It had captivated and enthralled her, called to her, beckoned her for a swim and she couldn’t refuse. Now it illuminated everything, as bright as the early morning grey light that filled the sky just before the sun rose.

  She’d asked him if he’d ever go for a swim there again and he’d said only knee deep. She was a little taken aback when she saw him reach his arms over his head and strip off his t-shirt. His bronzed chest, hard, muscular, rippling broad shoulders, rigid muscles and narrow waist, gleamed in the moonlight. He was a man who took care of himself. Who obviously worked out. As he stripped away his jeans, kicked them off into the sand, he was also the most naked man she’d seen in a very long time.

  He kept on tight-fitting black boxers, saving her from extreme immodesty. God, she almost wished he’d take them off so that she could look at him, admire the hard planes and rigid, stone-like chiseled muscles that were so very masculine, so very different than her own body. She was lean from working hard and fit from her long swims, but her own muscles would never look like that.