Things We Never Said: A Hart's Boardwalk Novel

by Samantha Young

  When he leaned toward it to get a better look, my breath hitched. He stared for a while and then lifted his head in awe. “You made these?”

  Pride caused a rush of hot blood to my cheeks. I nodded.

  Michael’s gaze turned tender. His expression was disarming. “They’re beautiful, Dahlia.”

  Emotion thickened my throat, and I whispered my thank-you. Unnerved by his demeanor and my reaction to it, I turned away and disappeared into my workroom.

  After switching on the bright overhead lights—necessary as hardly any natural light filtered in through the shallow windows along the top of the far wall—I shrugged out of my coat. I heard Michael approaching and felt him stop in the doorway to the room. Not even a few seconds passed before my gaze involuntarily swung to him. He stood, feet braced, arms casually at his sides as he took in my workspace.

  There were two long benches in the middle of the room. One had my latest design sitting neatly on it along with my sketchpad and drawings. The other bench had the materials I needed for the current piece I was making. Along the far end wall were cabinets that held the plethora of tools I’d collected over the years. On the back wall were the safes that held my supply of metals and precious and semiprecious stones.

  On the side of the room where I was standing were shelving units filled from top to bottom with stock. There was a door at the back that led to the toilet and a small kitchenette.

  Michael wandered over to the bench closest to him and studied my work tools. “What are these?”

  Seriously? He wanted to talk about my work?

  I glared at him.

  He shrugged. “Indulge me. I know nothing about how you do what you do.”

  Recognizing that little twinkle in his eyes, I surmised he was procrastinating for a reason. He thought if I took the time to show him my goddamn tools, I’d lose some of my agitation. I crossed the room and walked around the opposite side of the bench.

  “Blowtorch,” I snapped as I tapped it.

  Michael grinned. “Used for?”

  That grin caused a flutter low in my belly. “For the annealing process. I use the torch to soften the metal, so I can manipulate it.”

  “And you manipulate it with?”

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Dahlia.” He gestured to the tools. “I’m genuinely interested. Your jewelry is amazing. I want to know how you do it.”

  Squirming at the compliment, I looked down at the tools. Why not indulge him? Draw him into a false sense of security. And then ream his ass for uprooting his life and following me to Hartwell!

  Seething, I exhaled slowly, not wanting him to see how greatly he could upset me. I think he knew anyway. Bastard.

  I tapped the bezel pusher and the bezel roller. They looked kind of like a doorknob before they were fitted into the door. “These help me push and roll the stones into their setting—bezel, prong, channel, bead, and burnish. Those are the different kind of settings.” I picked up my burnisher, which almost looked like a surgical knife except mine had an enamel handle. “The burnisher. It’s like a peeler of sorts. When you insert the stone, sometimes there’s this gap between it and the metal. The burnisher polishes and peels until there’s no gap.”

  I checked to see if Michael was paying attention. He was. His eyes drifted between the tool and my face, and he nodded for me to go on. When our gazes locked, I was so close to him I could see the mahogany in his eyes. From a distance, Michael’s irises appeared almost black. When he was angry, I swear they turned that color. But under the bright lights of my workroom, they were a dark reddish brown. A ring of brown so dark it looked black encircled the mahogany of his inner iris, while little flecks of dark brown created an inner circle around his pupil.

  His lashes weren’t long, but they were thick. If it weren’t for his dark-blond hair, which he’d miraculously inherited from his mother instead of his dad’s dark curls, those eyes and his natural tanned skin would have made him the spitting image of his father. But it wasn’t just the hair that made the two men different. Michael had the warmest eyes I’d ever seen.

  They were beautiful.

  He was beautiful.

  Feeling another flush heat my skin, I put down the burnisher and reached for the tweezers. “They are what they look like. Tweezers. For handling stones and manipulating the silver. I use mostly silver.” I moved through the other tools. “Hammers for hammering the silver.” I touched a shallow slab of square metal and the weirdly shaped piece of metal beside it. “Stakes. I use them to shape the metal.” I gestured to the shelving unit above my cabinet of tools where I kept my stakes. “I have them in all shapes and sizes.”

  “And these?” Michael pointed to several long cylindrical pieces of metal. A few were round, and a few were oval, all different widths.

  “Those are ring and bracelet mandrels. You choose the width you want depending on what size of ring or bracelet you’re making, and you can work it into shape around the mandrel.” I put down the mandrel I’d picked up and glared into Michael’s face. “Now we’re done with the tutorial … you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

  He pushed off the bench and wandered around in a way he knew would piss me off. “Why does the whole place smell like coconut?”

  I swear I growled.

  “Well?”

  “Because I sometimes oxidize metal and it smells like sulfur, so I use coconut diffusers,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  He nodded, trailing his fingers over my cabinets. “This is amazing, Dahlia.”

  Stop trying to soften me!

  “Michael.” I stepped toward him, hoping he’d hear the genuine alarm in my voice.

  He did. Michael turned to me, his expression carefully neutral. “Dahlia.”

  “Please tell me you did not quit a job with Boston PD and come to ‘nothing-ever-happens-here-Hartwell’ because of me.”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Oh my God.” I ran my hands through my hair, turning away in vexation. What was he thinking? With all the crap already between us, now he would end up resenting me even more. “This place may technically be a city, but it’s tiny.” I whipped around, wide-eyed, feeling frantic, desperate, panicked for him. “It has a small-town mentality, and nothing happens here. You cannot give up a career as a detective in Boston to be here for me. And not because that’s crazy doing that for anyone but because we are a mess!”

  Michael’s face hardened, and he took a step toward me. “One: I’m working for the sheriff’s department, so it covers the entire county, not just Hartwell. Two: three months. For three months, I’ve laid awake in bed at night missing every fuckin’ inch of you.”

  I sucked in a breath, feeling a complicated mix of exultation and desolation.

  “Our night together three months ago was the first time in nine years I have been truly happy. Until you walked away again.”

  “But you agreed. You didn’t say anything, so I assumed you agreed there’s too much hurt, too much history, between us.”

  “No. I realized there was nothing I could say to make you believe I wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made all those years ago. I had to do something that would make you believe.”

  Shaking my head, I backed away from him. “You don’t give up everything. That’s insane.”

  “What was I giving up? Boston was wearing on me long before you came back, Dahlia. Working nights, coming home to that empty apartment, hardly ever seeing my mom now that my dad’s retired. I’d lost most of the friends I had because most of them found themselves on the wrong side of the law and thought I was a sellout. My closest friends are your family. And I only got close to them because they were your family.

  “When you left, I got in contact with the sheriff’s office here, and I spoke with Jeff King. I considered it fate that he needed a detective with experience.” He thankfully halted when there was still enough space between us to allow me to breathe. “I don’t consider moving here
giving up on something. For the first time, I am not giving up on what matters.”

  No, no, no! Him being here was … no!

  Every day Michael would tempt me with his mere goddamn presence. How could I fight my feelings for him when he was there all the time? And I had to fight my emotions. I had to.

  “Tell me you love me,” he said.

  My eyes jerked up from the floor to stare into his. They were filled with love and desire and everything I’d ever wanted him to look at me with. When I was younger. Before everything turned to shit. Tears shone in my eyes because I couldn’t say those words. Those words would change everything.

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Fine.” He bit out. “I’ll leave. If you tell me you don’t love me.”

  Horror filled me.

  No.

  I tried to coerce the words to materialize out of nothing. To let the lie trip off my tongue. However, even knowing what was at stake, I couldn’t physically force out the words. They were like sandpaper against the inside of my throat.

  The ire in Michael’s eyes dissipated at whatever he saw in me. Confusion and affection replaced his disappointment, and I froze as he crossed the distance between us. Holding still, my breath caught and my belly fluttered as Michael bent his head toward mine. His heat and spicy dark cologne wrapped around me, and I closed my eyes against his impact.

  A shiver caused the hairs on the back of my neck to rise as he whispered in my ear, “And that’s why I’m staying.”

  Holding in a shudder of longing, I felt him pull away, and my eyes automatically opened to track his movements, hungry for the sight of him. He gave me a soft, knowing smile and retreated. “I’ve got to get to work. Can’t be late for my first day on the job.”

  And then he was gone.

  I listened to the sound of his footsteps moving across my floorboards, to the ring of the bell above my door as he opened it, and the soft click of it closing behind him.

  Holy shit.

  Oh, holy shit was I in big trouble.

  Scrambling for my purse, I pulled out my cell and hit Bailey’s number.

  “What’s up?” she answered after a few rings.

  “Michael’s here.” I was breathless. “He took a job here. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck … Fuck!”

  “I’ll be right over.” She hung up.

  I was still standing, heaving in shallow breaths when I heard the front door to my shop open a few minutes later.

  And then Bailey was there, standing in my doorway, her green eyes big with concern.

  “Fuck,” I whispered.

  That Dahlia hadn’t jumped into his arms as soon as she realized he’d moved to Hartwell for them didn’t surprise Michael. Would it have been nice? Hell, yeah. Realistic? Not so much. Michael knew he needed to give Dahlia some time to adjust to the idea of him being in Hartwell before he determinedly pursued a relationship with her. Not a lot of time. But some.

  And judging by the enigmatic comments his new boss, Sheriff Jeff King, had made when he’d accepted the job heading up the department’s Criminal Investigations Division, Michael would have enough to distract him from his impatience.

  Michael walked down Main Street from Dahlia’s gift shop. He’d arrived in town on Friday, took a short meeting with the sheriff, and then gotten settled into his small apartment. He’d looked for a place before Jeff had even offered him the job and had been frustrated by the higher amount of short-term rentals versus long-term. It made sense with it being a popular beach resort, but no less concerning.

  After he’d accepted the job with Hartwell SD, Michael was considering taking on a short-term rental until he could find something permanent, even though it would eat into his savings. However, thankfully, Jeff found him a condo in a private community called Atlantic Village on the outskirts of town. The lawns and trees around the three sets of buildings that housed the condos were immaculately cared for. Each unit had its own parking space, and there was a private gym, indoor swimming pool, a day care center, a convenience store, health food deli, and coffee shop. Apparently, there was a list of people waiting to rent there, but Jeff pulled some strings, and the co-op board was happy to have an experienced police detective living in the village.

  So he got bumped up the list. The condo was a one-bedroom, and Michael begrudged paying the extortionate rental costs for it. He’d have to look elsewhere for a long-term solution, but for now it would have to do.

  Yesterday he’d driven into town for some supplies. Having visited Hartwell with his ex-wife last summer, he’d seen most of the town center, so there was no reason to explore. But he’d wanted to familiarize himself with the town as quickly as possible. Despite it being off-season, the place was busy with tourists coming in for the weekend.

  Michael had found a parking space at the top of Main Street and had gotten out at the boardwalk. He knew where Dahlia’s shop was. It was highlighted on Google Maps, so he strolled along the familiar wooden planks. The building with its slightly weathered white-painted shingles and the porch was typical New England design. Hart’s Inn sat next to it, a larger version of Dahlia’s building, and Michael wondered about its owner. Bailey. He wanted to get to know the woman who had saved Dahlia’s life in more ways than one. He wanted to thank her for being there when he wasn’t.

  That thought made his gut churn with self-reproach. He stared back at Dahlia’s store. It was open. And she was inside.

  The urge to go to her was overwhelming, but it wasn’t the time. He’d find the right time. Instead, he drank in the sight of her place, wondering what it was like on the inside. A mammoth sign above the door of the building proclaimed Hart’s Gift Shop in a feminine script. He’d wondered if Dahlia made the sign herself. Probably.

  From where he’d been standing, he could see items in the window sparkling in the low February sun. Jewelry. Probably Dahlia’s jewelry. Forcing his curiosity aside, Michael had turned back down the boardwalk. The ocean had been calm, and there had been plenty of people walking along the soft sand. Having found Dahlia, knowing she was within reach, Michael had relaxed enough to take in the rest of the boardwalk.

  It hadn’t changed much, except now he was really taking it in. When he’d been there with Kiersten, he’d been so uptight and stuck in his own head over their failing marriage, he hadn’t opened his eyes to his surroundings.

  Beside Dahlia’s shop were a candy store and arcade, and from there the boards ran along the main thoroughfare. A large bandstand sat at the top of Main Street. Michael had remembered the bandstand—next to it was a plaque that told of a town legend about one of its descendants of the founding family.

  Michael had stopped to peer at the plaque. 1909. Eliza Hartwell. He’d realized then that Eliza Hartwell must have been Bailey’s ancestor. The story went that she fell in love with a steelworker called Jonas Kellerman. He was considered beneath Eliza in social station, and they were forbidden to marry. Instead, Eliza was betrothed to the son of a wealthy businessman. On the eve of her wedding, a devastated Eliza walked into the ocean. By chance, Jonas was up on the boardwalk with friends, saw Eliza, and went after her. Legend said he reached her, but the waves took them under, and they were never seen again.

  Michael thought it was a pretty fuckin’ depressing tale, but Kiersten had gotten all moon-eyed over it. The plaque further said Jonas’s sacrifice for his love created magic. For generations since the deaths of Eliza and Jonas, people born in Hartwell who met their husbands or wives on the boards stayed in love their whole lives. It told tourists that if they walked the boardwalk together and they were truly in love, it would last forever, no matter the odds.

  Kiersten made them walk the boards hand in hand after that.

  Of course, minutes later she’d discover Dahlia’s existence and realized Michael had already met the one years before her.

  Wincing at the memory, Michael had headed toward the boards. Main Street was wide enough for cars to park in the middle, which was where Michael had parked his Honda, and al
ong either side were commercial buildings. Trees lined the street, where restaurants, gift shops, clothing stores, fast-food joints, spas, coffeehouses, pubs, and markets were neighbors in the kind of well-groomed tourist environment you’d expect from a popular vacation destination like Hartwell.

  Michael had decided to get his supplies at the grocery store later and kept heading along the boards. He’d passed the small ice cream shack as well as a building beside it he didn’t remember that seemed to be under refurbishment and had large classical signage along its roof that read The Boardwalk. A banner across the blacked-out windows told everyone COMING SOON. If Michael could guess, it was probably a restaurant.

  Beside The Boardwalk was a surf shop, an Italian restaurant called Antonio’s, and then the largest building on the boardwalk. It stood out from the New England seaside buildings around it with its stern, clean lines of whitewashed walls and lots of glass. There was no neon sign for this building. Huge gold metal letters three stories up spelled out its name—Paradise Sands Hotel.

  Michael looked up at the huge building. He’d had dinner in the five-star hotel with Kiersten, and its interior was as modern as its exterior. It was more masculine on the outside, however, than it was on the inside and somehow added a quality to the boards that weirdly worked. At least Michael thought it did.

  At the end of the boards, Michael had noted the traditional, earthy-looking bar called Cooper’s. He and Kiersten had drinks there their first night in Hartwell, and it was his kind of place. Low-key and unpretentious. Next to the bar, a little farther down the boards, was the site of his infamous run-in with Dahlia last summer. Emery’s Bookstore and Coffee House. Michael couldn’t remember much about it—all he remembered was seeing Dahlia McGuire for the first time in nine years.

  Distracted Michael had walked back to Main Street, bought necessities like coffee, milk, and bread from Lanson’s Grocery, and took a walk farther down the street to Hartwell City Hall. The attractive sandstone building housed the sheriff’s department at its rear. After he’d returned to his car, Michael hadn’t gone directly home. Before leaving Boston, he’d done something he could have done years ago but hadn’t. Deciding not to regret that or he’d never move on, Michael checked the DMV database for Dahlia’s current address.