Patty’s caught her eye. It was a man. A tall, confident, complicate-your-life-beyond-reason man, walking down the street without so much as a glance at the people he was passing.
“Typical,” Lyddie said, and booted it until she was in J. T. Delaney’s face.
“Hold it right there,” she said without preamble.
He raised his focus from the sidewalk to her face, clearly startled. Something like pleasure flashed in his eye. It was gone in the instant it took her to scowl.
“We need to talk. Now. ”
“Is it something I said?”
“More like something you didn’t say. Get in my car. We’re going for a drive.”
“I love a woman who takes charge,” he said, but followed obediently as she fished her keys from her pocket and led him to her minivan.
“In.” She pointed to the front seat, not even bothering to clear away the pile of library books Ben had left for her to return. This was a grown man. He could push books off the seat as well as anyone else.
She let herself in her side, slammed the door and had the car out of the parking lot before he had his seat belt fastened.
“I never pegged you for the dominatrix type,” he said over her squealing tires. “Guess you never can tell.”
“This is not a good time for jokes.”
“Fine. No problem. Can I ask where we’re going?”
She stared out the window, bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“You said we need to talk.”
“Yes.”
“You want privacy for this discussion?”
She swallowed hard, nodded. “Yes.”
“Fine. My dad’s old boathouse is empty and I have the keys. You know where it is?”
She did. She passed it every day on her way to and from work. She didn’t bother to answer, just stepped on the gas and carried them out of town and down River Road in record time.
She parked the car in the lot and hopped out, crossing the rutted dirt and gravel in long strides, letting her anger build as she waited by the door. For a second she realized that if anyone were watching—and in Comeback Cove, that was more likely than not—then the gossip network would soon be buzzing with the news that she and J. T. Delaney had been alone together in a deserted building.
Well, that would be one way to get folks to stop calling her the Young Widow Brewster.
It took J.T. a minute to find the right key, another couple of tense seconds to convince it to work in the stubborn lock, but at last the door was open.
“Careful,” he said as she stepped inside. “I haven’t been in here yet. It might not be in the best shape.”
His warning was justified. Standing behind her in the half-open door, J.T. blocked a good deal of the sunshine from outside. Dust motes danced in the weak light of the sole unshuttered window, drifting slowly down to earth. Deep shadows hovered outside that small patch of light. The mingled scents of grease and gas and the sound of water lapping at boards reminded her that this was a boathouse—meaning one wrong step in the unfamiliar darkness could land her in even deeper water than she faced already.
“Hang on.” J.T.’s voice, low and subdued behind her, was oddly reassuring considering he was the reason for her misfortune. “I doubt there’s any electricity, but I’ll try the light—wait—no, nothing. There should be a flashlight up on the shelf. Just give me a...”
The door slammed closed, plunging them into darkness.
Lyddie yelped. J.T. cursed.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“I won’t.”
“Let me get the door open again.” He moved slowly behind her. Something warm—a hand, probably—grazed the small of her back. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t nervousness about the dark and the water that was making Lyddie’s heart do double-time in her chest.
For the first time in four years, she was alone in the dark with a man. And all she could hear was Zoë’s voice, laughing on the phone, telling her to jump him.
Oh. Dear. God.
Four years of zero interest in anything sexual ended in the space of a breath.
“Typical,” Lyddie said, and booted it until she was in J. T. Delaney’s face.
“Hold it right there,” she said without preamble.
He raised his focus from the sidewalk to her face, clearly startled. Something like pleasure flashed in his eye. It was gone in the instant it took her to scowl.
“We need to talk. Now. ”
“Is it something I said?”
“More like something you didn’t say. Get in my car. We’re going for a drive.”
“I love a woman who takes charge,” he said, but followed obediently as she fished her keys from her pocket and led him to her minivan.
“In.” She pointed to the front seat, not even bothering to clear away the pile of library books Ben had left for her to return. This was a grown man. He could push books off the seat as well as anyone else.
She let herself in her side, slammed the door and had the car out of the parking lot before he had his seat belt fastened.
“I never pegged you for the dominatrix type,” he said over her squealing tires. “Guess you never can tell.”
“This is not a good time for jokes.”
“Fine. No problem. Can I ask where we’re going?”
She stared out the window, bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“You said we need to talk.”
“Yes.”
“You want privacy for this discussion?”
She swallowed hard, nodded. “Yes.”
“Fine. My dad’s old boathouse is empty and I have the keys. You know where it is?”
She did. She passed it every day on her way to and from work. She didn’t bother to answer, just stepped on the gas and carried them out of town and down River Road in record time.
She parked the car in the lot and hopped out, crossing the rutted dirt and gravel in long strides, letting her anger build as she waited by the door. For a second she realized that if anyone were watching—and in Comeback Cove, that was more likely than not—then the gossip network would soon be buzzing with the news that she and J. T. Delaney had been alone together in a deserted building.
Well, that would be one way to get folks to stop calling her the Young Widow Brewster.
It took J.T. a minute to find the right key, another couple of tense seconds to convince it to work in the stubborn lock, but at last the door was open.
“Careful,” he said as she stepped inside. “I haven’t been in here yet. It might not be in the best shape.”
His warning was justified. Standing behind her in the half-open door, J.T. blocked a good deal of the sunshine from outside. Dust motes danced in the weak light of the sole unshuttered window, drifting slowly down to earth. Deep shadows hovered outside that small patch of light. The mingled scents of grease and gas and the sound of water lapping at boards reminded her that this was a boathouse—meaning one wrong step in the unfamiliar darkness could land her in even deeper water than she faced already.
“Hang on.” J.T.’s voice, low and subdued behind her, was oddly reassuring considering he was the reason for her misfortune. “I doubt there’s any electricity, but I’ll try the light—wait—no, nothing. There should be a flashlight up on the shelf. Just give me a...”
The door slammed closed, plunging them into darkness.
Lyddie yelped. J.T. cursed.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“I won’t.”
“Let me get the door open again.” He moved slowly behind her. Something warm—a hand, probably—grazed the small of her back. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t nervousness about the dark and the water that was making Lyddie’s heart do double-time in her chest.
For the first time in four years, she was alone in the dark with a man. And all she could hear was Zoë’s voice, laughing on the phone, telling her to jump him.
Oh. Dear. God.
Four years of zero interest in anything sexual ended in the space of a breath.
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