One Little Thing (4 page)

“I could never be married to a woman who got jealous over an act of simple neighborly kindness.”

“It is very kind of you, though. I still wish Howie had warned me, though,” she grumbled.

“It's my pleasure. And he should have.”

“I'll hate him in the morning, I'm sure. The sounds and smells of my place aren't exactly hangover-friendly. And they start very early in the morning.”

Gravel crunched under his feet in the small parking area in front of Sophie's B&B, and the wide front porch with its fresh paint job and potted plants looked friendly and welcoming. “By the way, this place is looking really good,” he said as they climbed the three stairs up to the porch. Through the glass in the front door, he could see walls painted a soft blue and highly polished floorboards—and lots of boxes, ready to be unpacked.

“Thanks.” Sophie entered a number into a keypad and he heard the lock click open. “I'd offer you a tour, but . . .”

“I'll wait and be surprised.” He'd known the Palmer family, but the Palmers' grandchildren had little interest in actually operating a B&B. He'd watched the building get more run-down and shabby each year until it was simply too much of a money pit, and he was glad to see it coming back to life.

To his surprise, Sophie rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her cheek against his. It was friendly and casual, but Quinn felt like she'd poked him with a hot brand. “Thanks again,” she said, and disappeared inside.

The short walk back to his place wasn't nearly long enough for him to make sense of that cheek-kiss thing, but it did raise a very complicated question.

What should he do about Sophie Cooper?

Were
those signals of interest she was sending his way? Or just his own hopeful thoughts? Should he play his hand and ask her out, or bide his time and see how it developed? He could run her off by moving in too fast, but at the same time, he risked someone else swooping in and making a move before he made his. Magnolia Beach wasn't that big, and a pretty, single,
new
woman in town would not be without offers for long—especially since Sophie was coming out of her hermitage now.

And, of course, there was the
other
issue . . .

Did he have anything to gain by fessing up to the truth of the matter? Or was that just asking for a problem he didn't want? Wouldn't that just be the shit-stirring-for-no-good-reason Sophie had just decried?

The one thing he
did
know was that he wanted a shot at Sophie Cooper, and he didn't want to screw that up.

Little men with pickaxes were poking at her temples and her mouth felt like she'd licked the beach clean, but Sophie was up the next morning at her usual time, cursing Howie Phillips and his stupid Firefly Tea.

She wasn't much of a drinker. One or two glasses of wine were her normal limit—more than that, and she tended to get legless and silly. She appreciated Quinn walking her home last night, but her memories of that walk were a little fuzzy.

I just hope I didn't say—or do—anything embarrassing.

The surprise, if not the cringe-inducing horror, at finding out Quinn Haslett had grown up to be the same Studly she'd been ogling the past few weeks had faded, and she
might
have a vague memory of finding out that he'd kind of enjoyed her voyeurism, but that might just be wishful thinking on her part or false memories due to Everclear.

But the fact that her stalking had to stop was clear enough. That much she knew, even as she gulped down a tall glass of ice water to battle the hangover and set the kettle to boil. She could survive being busted for her actions, but not continuing them now that he knew.

And hopefully—
please, God—
she hadn't told Quinn how much she'd enjoyed watching him.

But she was pretty sure she'd made a pass at him—but since she'd woken up alone and still in last night's clothes, she had to assume Quinn had deflected it.

Lack of interest or gentlemanly behavior? Either way, her face felt sunburned at the thought.

Yet somehow
none
of that managed to keep her from sneaking out onto the balcony. Eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, hoping some fresh air might clear out the cobwebs of her hangover.

A sharp bark brought her attention to the beach below, and she saw Quinn throw a ball for Scoop. Then he looked up at the balcony and waved.

She might be a little humiliated, but she was still glad to see him there. She returned the wave as casually as possible, stayed a few minutes longer—eyes
totally
on the water—then went inside to splash water on her face and change.

Well done, Sophie. Very smooth.

Feeling somewhat human now, she peeked out the window only to see no sign of Quinn or Scoop now. With a small sigh—she didn't want to examine it to decide if it was relief or disappointment—she went downstairs to the main floor to
unlock the doors and start her day. She had a lot to do.

She jumped half out of her skin to find a man on the back porch. Hand to her chest to keep her heart from falling to the floor, she unlocked the door. “Jeez, Quinn, you scared the life out of me.”

“Sorry.” He grinned, white teeth flashing against bronzed skin, telling her he wasn't all
that
sorry. “I just wanted to see if you were recovered from last night.”

“I've felt better, but I'm functioning,” she confessed.

A whine brought her attention to the dog at Quinn's side. She sat nicely, but her whole body quivered with energy as she extended her neck as far as possible in Sophie's direction.

“You must be Scoop. Aren't you a pretty girl,” she said, reaching over to pet the dog, who wiggled more with pleasure at the attention even as she stayed firmly seated. Quinn had trained her well, it seemed. She could add “responsible pet parent” to Quinn's growing list of positive attributes. She looked back up at Quinn. “Would you like to come in for coffee or water or something?”

“Thanks, but we're both a bit mucky.”

Scoop certainly was—sand clung in clumps to her wet fur. Quinn, on the other hand . . .
Damn.
He had a sexy second-day stubble lining his jaw, and a fine sheen of sweat across his skin. The T-shirt he wore looked old enough to vote, and the shoulders ended in ragged holes where the sleeves had been cut off. Up close, those arms she'd admired from afar were just as impressive—sculpted, but not bulky. His brightly colored trunks were damp around the bottoms, meaning he'd been playing in the water with Scoop. He smelled like sunshine and clean sweat and fresh air, and it was a bit of an assault on her already-heightened awareness of him.

She'd spent too much time picturing him—before she knew it was him—appearing on her verandah, pushing her up against the clapboard siding and . . . In her mind, she'd had her tongue against that skin a dozen times, traced the shape of the muscles under his skin with her fingertips . . .

Having a fantasy appear in the flesh was enough to throw her off her stride. She had to force herself to concentrate on
Quinn
, the man in front of her
now
who had not been privy to her activities with Studly.

She cleared her throat and forced the pictures aside. “Then why don't I bring something out here?” Then she remembered she wasn't exactly set up yet for entertaining. “I don't actually have any coffee . . .”

“A glass of water would be great.”

She looked around at the wicker furniture, still in its plastic wrap.
So much still to do.
“Feel free to unwrap a chair and have a seat.”

In the kitchen, she splashed water on her heated face again and took several deep breaths to get her head together. Then she grabbed three bottles of water and a metal mixing bowl. It wasn't fancy, and it went against all her hospitality training, but it would have to do. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass front of the microwave and wished she'd spent a few extra minutes on herself this morning, then shrugged. She returned to the porch to find that Quinn had industriously unwrapped two of the chairs already and was starting on a third. She set two of the bottles of water on the table, then poured the third into the bowl and set it on the ground for Scoop.

Scoop drank greedily, splashing water everywhere, then shook herself, sending a fine spray of damp sand everywhere. Quinn laughed. “And that's why we're not allowed inside.” He stretched out his legs under the table and leaned back. “How long until you open?”

“The first guests arrive July fourteenth. It's a soft opening, just a few rooms to work out the kinks, but then we're booked almost solid starting the twentieth.”

“Impressive.”

“I'll be able to catch the last of the season, so that's good. Income instead of outgo will be a nice change.”

Quinn nodded and drank while Scoop watched the people below with longing on her face. The silence wasn't necessarily uncomfortable, but it was dragging out, making Sophie feel like she needed to say something. And with Quinn right there looking all well,
studly
, all her questions about last night were bubbling to the surface. She could placate herself with the knowledge that he wouldn't be here
now
if she'd made a fool of herself or said or done anything too off-base, but having only ragged edges of a memory was frustrating at best.

“Thanks for walking me home last night. I don't know how I would have made it alone. They'd have found me sleeping in someone's yard this morning, and that's not quite the impression I want to give people this early into my return.”

An eyebrow quirked up. “You were that far gone?”

“Enough for everything to be all fuzzy.”

“Well, you covered it well.” He sounded a little impressed.

“At least I'm not an obnoxious drunk, right?” That sounded a little too hopeful, and she cringed slightly even as the words left her mouth.

“You are a charming drunk,” he said with a grin.

The front door, visible from their spot on the verandah, opened, and Alyse backed in, her arms loaded down with brand-new cleaning supplies. Scoop jumped to her feet, tail wagging, and Quinn rose as well. “You need some help?” he called.

“I got it.” Alyse dropped the supplies into a pile at her feet. “Morning, y'all. It's such a beautiful day, isn't it? I can't believe I'm going to spend it inside cleaning toilets.”

Quinn chuckled quietly. “That sounds like my cue to leave before I'm recruited to help.”

“Smart man,” Sophie replied, but she was internally groaning at Aylse's timing. Not that she wanted to talk more about her public drunkenness, but she did want to know why Quinn had come by . . . Just a neighborly chat? A follow-up on something she'd said last night but didn't remember? She had questions, but no answers, and she'd lost her chance to ask them now.

Quinn, seemingly completely at ease and not facing the same internal roiling as she, pulled a battered leash out of his pocket and snapped it to Scoop's collar. “Thank you for the water.”

“Anytime,” she called as he bounded down the stairs with the same energy as his dog.

“What did Quinn want?” Alyse asked once she'd gone back inside.

Grabbing the handles of the shopping bags, Sophie hiked four of them up and over her shoulders and headed for the kitchen like a loaded pack mule. She thought wistfully of bronzed biceps caging her against the French doors. “Just a glass of water.”

Sadly, that was probably the truth.

*  *  *

Quinn wasn't exactly proud of himself. Chickening out was hardly something to crow over. While he had an open invitation from Sophie to stop by, now he didn't know if she even remembered extending that invitation. And while he'd been a little concerned when she hadn't been on her balcony this morning, her eventual appearance had been encouraging—only for him to find out that she was suffering a hellish hangover from a night she didn't quite remember.

Any plans he might have had stalled at that point, making his grand plan sputter into little more than a drive-by beg for a drink of water.

Smooth moves, buddy.

He wasn't that seventeen-year-old dork anymore, and Sophie wasn't the Homecoming Princess, either, but that knowledge didn't keep him from spending the rest of the day in a high school flashback strong enough to make the entire idea of asking her out seem ridiculous.

It was embarrassing.

But he wasn't one to give up easily, and he wasn't about to lose his chance to ask her out by dicking around.

Which meant he was just going to have to suck it up and do it. Tonight.

Scoop gave him a sad look and retreated to her cushion with a bone once she realized he was going out and she was staying home. “Walking the dog”
would
give him an easy excuse to be out by Sophie's, but he didn't want to stoop to subterfuge or have Scoop's toenails destroy Sophie's hardwood floors.

It was a short walk from his place, and this time of year it didn't get dark until nearly nine, so it was cooler, yet still light. The Palmer House, though, was dark, both the porch and the interior lights off. One window on the top floor, though, was lit, and a car was in the small lot. He had to assume Sophie was home.

A new intercom panel jutted out of the wall to the left of the door, and Quinn pushed the button. A few seconds later, Sophie's voice came out of the speaker. “Hello?”

“It's Quinn. Are you busy?”

There was a long pause. “Give me a minute and I'll be down. Make yourself at home, okay?” A buzzer sounded and he heard the lock click open.

He'd gotten a glimpse of the place this morning, but he'd been more focused on Sophie, so not much had registered. This front room was large, with a fireplace in the far corner near French doors that opened out onto the back porch. An archway opened into another large room that basically looked like a mirror image of this one. Built-in bookcases lined two of the walls, and the polish on the floors and woodwork glistened in the dimming light. A faint aroma of lemon polish and cleaner hung in the air, and in a big change from this morning, a large number of boxes were piled around the room, some with their tops open and packing material falling out.

Sophie had been busy today.

That was just another reason why he probably shouldn't be sniffing around Sophie right now. The woman was trying to get her business open; she probably didn't have time to do much of anything else.

But she'd come out last night, he reminded himself, so Sophie wasn't all work and no play, and honestly, she looked
like she was making good progress—not that he had a lot of inn-keeping experience to base that judgment on.

The only piece of furniture in the room was a roll-top desk with mock-ups of brochures and key rings that had “The Old Palmer House Inn” imprinted on them. He smiled at the name. Last night she'd laughed and said, “Like anyone in this town is ever going to call it anything
other
than ‘the old Palmer house.' It's less confusing this way.”

Hard on that thought, he heard her feet on the stairs and he stepped back from the desk, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said as she rounded the newel post. She was barefoot, wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, making him wonder if he'd interrupted some kind of exercise or meditation. Then he noticed that her hair was damp, curling softly around her face and shoulders, and a whiff of citrus hit his nose. Coupled with the rosy tint to her cheeks, he realized she'd just gotten out of the shower, and that felt like intimately erotic knowledge somehow. He cleared his throat and told his mind not to wander off inappropriately.

It wasn't quite listening.

Sophie, though, didn't seem the least bit bothered. “So what brings you by?”

“I'm hungry.”

Her eyebrows pulled together. “Excuse me?”

Good God, I'm such a dork.
“I meant, I'm on my way to get some dinner. I thought I'd see if you wanted to come with. Me,” he added a little lamely, wanting to smack himself with something hard and spiky.

“I'm not really dressed to go anywhere . . .”

He nodded, and started moving toward the door. “Maybe some other—”

“But I have some corn and potato chowder warming on the stove. It's not fancy or anything, but it's filling. And you're welcome to join me.” She smiled shyly at the end of that statement, and Quinn felt a little less lame and a little more confident in his plan in general.