Half Moon Harbor by Donna Kauffman Page A

up to sit on the edge of the bed, casting his gaze toward the closed bathroom door.
    He hadn’t looked at every crossed t and dotted i on the forms she’d handed him earlier, but they’d looked mighty official and orderly. Given she was a lawyer, the chance of their being anything other than completely valid was slim to none. And given he didn’t doubt she was, or had been, a very smart lawyer, he also assumed they were ironclad, no loopholes.
    He debated the wisdom of calling Cami Weathersby and inviting her and her husband Ted, who was the leader of the town council, to come join the conversation. He wasn’t sure if this was a case of personal vengeance on Cami’s part, or another of Ted’s big plans to raise the town’s profile, or some twisted combination of the two. But though it would seem logical to call them, the fact that they’d taken pains to keep him in the dark about the boathouse sale until it was completed led him to think that perhaps it would be best to come at it from a different angle.
    Sue Clemmons was also an unwise choice. Though a darling woman and a source of great assistance over the past year as he’d tried to sort through the labyrinth of ownership documents, deeds, and various and sundry other paperwork that detailed the long and storied history of the Monaghan shipyard property, she’d also not seen fit to let him know that one of his buildings was about to be sold out from under him. Why, he didn’t know, which was something he needed to find out first.
    â€œWhat the hell,” he grumbled, disturbed, and yes, hurt, to think that the townsfolk who’d so readily embraced him and his cause, many of whom he called friend as well as neighbor, might not be at all what they seemed.
    By the time he heard the water cut off in the shower, he’d pulled on an old pair of jeans, a clean white tee, and a faded blue hoodie with twin U’s stamped and peeling off the front. In deference to the morning chill, he’d tucked his bare feet into one of the half dozen pairs of aging boat shoes lying about, only half paying attention if one actually matched the other, not really caring if it did. Then he’d gone down to the main floor, made a pot of strong Irish breakfast tea, and began going over the contracts in more detail.
    He heard the creak of floorboards, then the slight groan of metal as Grace started down the steps. “You went in my bag,” she said, referring to the papers he was poring over.
    Not bothering to look up, he said, “You bought my boathouse without my knowledge or consent. I think the scales of fairness swing in my favor.” He flipped another page. “Besides, you offered them to me earlier. Yet another thing I can’t say in return.”
    â€œI didn’t know about you,” she repeated.
    â€œAnd if you had?” He lifted his gaze then, and almost choked on his sip of tea. He hadn’t given any thought to what she’d look like post-shower, but not in his wildest dreams—and he was a man who knew from wild dreams—would he have conjured up the vision standing before him.
    The navy blue track pants and old faded tee shouldn’t have been remotely provocative on her, especially since they shrouded her slight frame. And yet, somehow, all the extra fabric in the pants had pooled around her ankles in a way that left the rest clinging to shapely legs and a much curvier bum than he’d noticed on the docks, thanks to the coat she’d been wearing. Topping that, his old, pale green T-shirt had been turned siren hot by the fact that apparently her undergarments had also been tainted by the fish smell, and she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra. His gaze dipped lower again, and he shifted in his seat as his body responded to the realization that she’d probably had to go commando . . . everywhere.
    He might have even gotten past the full breasts with those pointy little nipples