Half Moon Harbor by Donna Kauffman

towels.”
    She cracked the door open, which was silly, since she hadn’t so much as undone a button. But that didn’t keep her from feeling somehow naked and defenseless around him.
    He held out a folded set of thick, fluffy towels that matched the color of the deep blue water in the harbor. “Thank you,” she said, feeling more foolish by the moment. For God’s sake, get a grip, Grace. For real this time . If she was going to see her dream through to fruition, she couldn’t let the first little obstacle she encountered shake her up just because she wanted said obstacle to throw her on his bed and have his charming Irish way with her.
    She took the towels. “I won’t take long.” She started to close the door, but he kept it open. Her gaze flicked to his hand on the doorknob, then back to his face.
    â€œWhy are you here?” he asked, his expression still that of the distant professional.
    Except she saw that there was nothing professional or distant in those green eyes of his. Storm-tossed seas came to mind.
    â€œYou said you’ve got family here and you were on about putting down new roots with the intent to build something. Presumably using my boathouse as the foundation. Not a law practice, apparently, as you claim that’s no longer your professional intent. So . . . what, then? Is your family in shipping? Boatbuilding?”
    She blinked, surprised by the question, though she quickly realized it probably seemed the most logical one for him to ask.
    â€œStorage?” he prodded, when she didn’t respond right away.
    â€œAn inn,” she blurted, knowing it was not how she’d intended to have this particular conversation, being on the defensive. “I’m going to turn your— my —boathouse into an inn. ”
    His stormy green eyes went wide. “So, it’s an innkeeper you are now, is it?”
    He hadn’t said it unkindly, or even mockingly. Still, she immediately felt her hackles rise. Probably because he’d have been well within his rights to be both of those things, considering. “Aye,” she said, mirroring his accent. “That I am.”
    Or will be. Just as soon as I figure out how to get you to stay out of my way.
    She clicked the door closed right in his face. Then leaned her cheek against the freshly painted wood and tried desperately to regroup.
    â€œWe’ll see about that, Grace Maddox,” came his voice—far too softly, far too confidently, and all so very, very Irish—through the closed door and right at her ear . . . as if his lips were pressed directly against it. “We’ll just see about that.”

Chapter 4
    â€œI nnkeeper, my skinny Irish arse,” Brodie grumbled, then added a few far more colorful thoughts under his breath as the fragrant steam eased under the closed door to the bathroom and filled the loft air. He caught Whomper giving him a baleful eye while keeping a safe distance near the top of the iron stairs. “Don’t go chiding me with that look. You might have turned her head with that woe-is-me mug, but you won’t trick me. I wrote the book on those tricks.”
    Whomper just blinked at him and somehow managed to look even smaller and more vulnerable.
    â€œOch, for the love of—” Brodie slapped his thigh. “Come here before ye break me heart.”
    Instantly perky, the scruffy mongrel wasted no time in getting a running start and launching himself into Brodie’s arms. Laughing, he fell back on the bed, twisting his head this way and that to avoid the tongue bath of adoration Whomper insisted was his due reward. “Enough,” he said, finally lifting the still-damp mutt away, then laughing again as Whomper merely dangled, legs akimbo, tongue lolling, simply happy to be with his chosen human of the moment. “If only your mistress were half as affable as you.” He plopped the dog on the quilt next to him, then rolled