“I don’t grind my own coffee.”
“You have to. That coffee is too amazing not to be freshly ground. Besides, you told me you made your own.”
“Yes, but it comes already ground. I found two flavors I kind of liked and discovered that when I mix them together, they’re perfect.”
“So, you make your own blend—that amazing, wondrous tasting coffee—by . . . mixing commercially ground coffees?”
He lifted his head from the doorframe at her surprised tone, a smile hovering on his tired face. “I’m pretty sure it’s not illegal.”
“No, it’s not. I just—I’ve had coffee all over the world, and I’m not saying I’m a coffee snob—”
He smiled. “Oh, you don’t have to.”
She made a face at him. “I am complimenting you, be nice. I was going to say that your coffee is too incredibly rich and aromatic and full-bodied and perfect to be some off-the-shelf ground stuff you mixed together like a kid mixes box cereals.”
“Which is why snobs shouldn’t be so . . .”
“Snobby?”
“I was going to say close-minded and overly self-important, but you said it more succinctly.”
She bared her teeth in a fake grin. “I also said I made plenty of bacon and eggs, but maybe I misjudged.”
His smile grew, even though it wasn’t remotely contrite. “Present company excepted.”
She realized why she’d missed him so much even though she hadn’t known him long enough for it to make any sense. Even exhausted, sleep-deprived, and understandably a bit cranky, he was sharp, willing to engage, and kept up with her pretty effortlessly. He also made her smile. Often. She couldn’t begin to explain how something so simple felt so huge without sounding like Overly Clingy Girl, so she kept that part to herself. It made her smile, anyway.
She turned and picked up a large metal serving spoon she’d gotten from the crock full of utensils on the counter to scoop up the scrambled eggs. “Do you want to go take a shower while I put all this together and on the table?”
“Once I go upstairs, I don’t plan to come down again until I’ve slept enough hours to feel human.”
He angled off the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen, but she held him at arm’s length with the as yet unused metal spoon. “You can use the shower in the hall, then.” She smiled. “I fixed it. Sink, too, if you feel like shaving.”
He stared at the spoon, then at her as if he couldn’t comprehend being told he couldn’t come into his own kitchen.
“No offense,” she added, “but I just spent the past half hour creating all these delicious aromas you said smelled like heaven, and while, up to this point, I have always found your aroma equally delicious, this morning . . . it’s a little . . . well . . . off-putting.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He stopped. “That’s probably the furniture polish. And the oven cleaner. I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Furniture—” She waved the spoon. “I probably don’t want to know.”
“Smart call. Why don’t I go shower.”
“Great idea.” She beamed. “Thanks for thinking of it.”
It was his turn to aim a fake smile her way. To which, she batted her eyelashes and waved her spoon in bye-bye fashion.
She squealed when, like lightning, he snaked out his hand, grabbed the end of the spoon and used it to yank her up against him, then claimed her mouth in a kiss so hot and steamy the spoon clattered to the floor. She wasn’t even aware of the smell of oven cleaner until he lifted his head and smiled.
“I’m a sucker for eyelash batting. What can I say? The coffee is in the plastic cocoa container in the cupboard next to the mugs. Keep the bacon warm.”
“O . . . kay,” she said weakly, sinking against the doorframe space he’d just vacated.
Wow,
she mouthed as she waited for her knees to regain enough strength that she could trust them to support her the few steps it would take to get back to the stove. It was a miracle she’d kept her eyes from rolling back in her head. “And I don’t even care if I smell a little like really old lemon Pledge with a side of oddly clean, wild forest creature.”
She did go change into a fresh T-shirt, and was just moving the freshly brewed pot full of heavenly smelling coffee to the hand-painted tile trivet on the kitchen table when she heard him come back downstairs. The downstairs bathroom might be functional, but fresh clothes were upstairs.
Clad in old gray sweats and a forest green sweatshirt so faded and worn she had no idea what the decal on the front might have once said, he was still toweling his damp hair when he paused in the open doorway. “One more second.”
She heard him in the mudroom-slash-laundry room rustling around, cupboards or drawers opening and shutting; then he was back, sans damp towel, but with towel-tousled damp curls clinging to his forehead and neck, his still unshaven face, and sleepy eyes framed by those ridiculously gorgeous eyelashes, the sum total managing to exude every bit of the gorgeous he’d been born with.
“I wish I could do that,” she said as she set plates with napkins and silverware stacked on top at their respective places at the table. “But I’ve already proven, oh so dismally, that I can’t.”
“Do what?” He scuffed by her, barefoot and clearly not all that physically refreshed despite the shower. It was still all she could do to keep from leaning in as he passed behind her. He smelled like soap and shampoo and manly man.
“See, that you have to ask is even more annoying.”
“Minefield question,” he decided as he took his seat and poured his coffee.
She tilted her head, thought about it, then nodded. “Probably.”
“Then I pass.” He crunched a piece of bacon, groaned in appreciation, and spooned eggs onto his plate. He took a bite of eggs and another bite of bacon, then paused long enough to close his eyes in abject pleasure. “I can almost forgive the past eighteen hours for happening. This is really good.”
“Thick cut. And fresh. Blueberry Cove has an actual butcher shop,” she marveled.
“Yes, I know. But I’ve never known Sam’s bacon to taste like this.”
Eyes still closed, he finished off the bacon strip, enjoying each bite in a way that made her squirm a little in her seat, wishing he was enjoying her like that. Wondering when he would again.
“Well, I might have doctored it up a bit. Sort of like maple cured ham, only with bacon. Your little grocery had those incredibly adorable little handled jugs of maple syrup that came right from trees here in your own county.”
He opened his eyes long enough to take another strip of bacon off the plate and pick up his coffee mug. “I know that, too.” He took a bite, groaned, then sipped his coffee, eyes shut again. “For a worldly person such as yourself, you seem easily impressed.”
“Given the fact that you’re making a sex face over a piece of bacon, I think we’re even.”
He cracked open one eye, but it was the accompanying sleepy grin that made her wriggle a little more in her seat. “What, exactly, comprises a sex face?”
She picked up a piece of bacon, bit into it, and did her best Meg Ryan “I’ll have what she’s having”
When Harry Met Sally
reenactment. Then, instantly composed, deadpanned, “You know, like that.”
“Wow, that good huh?” He took another bite. Sighed a little. “You might have a point.”
Alex snickered, making his grin sleepy and sexy. She picked up her coffee and tried really hard to stop thinking about how wonderful it was going to be when they ended up in his bed again. Or across the kitchen table.
They ate in silence for a few moments, helped themselves to more eggs and bacon. He was on his third piece of toast when he noticed. “Hey. It’s not burnt. How did you do that?”
“By replacing the heating element and old frayed cord. God only knows what kind of voltage was going through that thing. I figured since you didn’t just replace it that it meant something to you, but it’s a miracle the cord didn’t catch fire or the whole thing didn’t explode.”
“I did intend to replace it, but it’s been here since before I was born and . . . I never got around to it. I don’t eat at home much.”
“No,” she said with mock surprise.
He sent a sleep-slitted glance her way over his second mug of coffee. “Most mealtime hours I’m in town, so it just makes sense. Plus, cooking for one . . .” He just let that go with a shoulder shrug.
“Speaking of which, there’s chili in the fridge and cornbread in the pan on the counter with the foil wrap on top. Help yourself.”
He opened his eyes then, catching her gaze directly as he cradled his heavy mug in his hands. “I should have let you know I wasn’t going to make it back last night. I’m sorry. It was—”
“No worries. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“You said you were cooking, and—I should have let you know.”
She lifted a casual shoulder. See, she could wing it. “So, were the mayor and the council folks trapped there all night?”
“It got a little . . . complicated. But that’s mostly on Teddy.”
“Weathersby. Yeah. I met him yesterday when I was at city hall.”
Logan’s gaze sharpened a little. “Did he give you any problems?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
Logan’s gaze narrowed. “What would you say?”
She toyed with her mug, debating on how much of her initial visit to city hall she wanted to relate. Most especially the parts that involved Ted Weathersby. “He was there when I went to get the plans on record for Pelican Point. Before I say anything else, you two aren’t close friends or anything, right? Because it’s none of my business what’s going on between you two.”
“We grew up together, played high school football on the same team, but no, no one would characterize us as buddies.”
She paused to see if he would elaborate, but when he didn’t add anything, she went on. “He just struck me as kind of . . . well . . . he comes across as that guy who is always trying a little too hard.” That was putting it kindly. Too kindly. Ted Weathersby was a self-important ass who thought his title came with certain liberties. The kind of liberties that no one was entitled to, no matter who they were. “My grandfather used to use the word
smarmy
. I don’t know that I ever really got what that was, but I’m pretty sure Ted’s the kind of person he meant. Maybe it’s a politician thing. Always on the campaign trail.”
“Teddy has been on that campaign trail since birth. And trying too hard is probably as apt description as any.” Logan paused and sipped his coffee as if debating on saying anything further, then finally asked, “Did he say anything about the restoration project, or you working for me? Did he get in your way?”
She shook her head. “He was just really interested in why I was there. Very . . . chatty.” Actually, he came across like an overly confident, egotistical, narcissistic lounge lizard, but she didn’t see any point in going into that much detail. “He made it seem as if he was pretty tight with the chief of police and was quite happy to see you were finally making some headway out on your ‘historic property’ as he called it.”
“He’s been pushing to get Pelican Point tied in to the tricentennial celebration. Not so much for the town’s sake, but because it would make him look good to claim responsibility for it when he campaigns for reelection next year.”
“Then let him come up with the money for it,” she retorted, liking the guy even less.
“We’ve had that discussion, trust me.”
“So, I’m guessing my taking that stand at The Rusty Puffin didn’t help you out much. Was he there that night? I didn’t stay to talk with anyone other than Fergus for a brief moment.”
Logan nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. The thing with Teddy is, he’s always seen himself in direct competition with me. For anything. Mostly it was sports when we were in school, but he could turn anything into a sport. And he keeps score. For life.”
“Sounds incredibly annoying.”
“Can be, but it’s a known quantity, so you just learn to deal with it.”
“He said your family was a cornerstone of Blueberry, back to its inception.” She smiled. “Is this one of those Hatfield-McCoy things with your two families?”
“No. Weathersby is third generation, so his family has been here a while, but they’re not historic in the way he’s talking about.”
“Maybe that’s what sticks in his craw.”
Logan shrugged. “Maybe, but we can hardly change the choices our ancestors made as to where to live and build their lives. I can say that I know he places great value on holding a position of prominence in town, and that being in a position of power is central to his identity.”
“Is Blueberry Cove bigger than I thought? How much power does he have? Is his extended family political?”
“No. And the Cove is exactly what it appears to be. A small town with very deep roots in the state’s history. But that can be said of a lot of little towns dotting our coastline. Ted is nothing if not proud to be a big fish in our very small pond. He’s made it clear he wants the mayor’s job and that he has designs on state politics and more.”
“Will he make it, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I do know that when I am involved in police business on a county or state level, his name has come up. Not always in a good way, but I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing in politics. So . . . who knows? His wife is very determined to help him get there, and if anyone can make that happen, it’s Cami Weathersby.”
“He’s married?” Alex snorted in disgust.
Logan had been about to take a sip of coffee, but paused. “Why is that a surprise?”
It surprised Alex how quickly his attention went from being halfway to Mr. Sandman to alert and intently focused. “What? Oh, nothing. Weathersby was just . . . really friendly, if you know what I mean.” She shrugged it off, just as she had done the day before. Right after wishing she could take a quick shower to get the slime off her skin. “It goes hand in hand with the smarmy personality, I guess. Maybe he sees it as friendly small-town charm. Who knows?”