Summer at Seaside Cove (10 page)

He studied her for the space of two heartbeats with an inscrutable expression, then one corner of his mouth tipped up. “If I'd known you were paying, I would have ordered the smoked salmon and linguini with lobster.”

“I knew you would have—that's why I didn't tell you.”

She left cash for the bill and tip, then slid out of her chair. Walking behind Nick, she found her eyeballs straying to his butt. How annoying was it that he looked as good leaving a room as he did entering it? Boy, it sure was a good thing he wasn't
at all
her type, otherwise she might find herself heaving a gushy sigh over him and his hotness.

And that nonsense Maria had said about chemistry and sparks? Ha! Any sparks she'd detected were purely from annoyance. A little voice in the back of her mind whispered,
Any kind of spark can start a fire
. Jamie frowned, but then shrugged off the words. She had plenty of things to worry about, but anything happening between her and totally-nother-type Nick Trent definitely wasn't one of them.

N
ick set the final trio of galvanized roofing nails on top of a new shingle and hammered them in place, the reverberations from each whack shooting a pleasant zing up his arm. When he finished, he covered the nail heads with roof cement, then wiped his dripping face with his T-shirt sleeve. Not that his grimy shirt was any drier than his face; after six hours spent in the broiling sun making repairs to Paradise Lost's roof, there wasn't a centimeter of him of that wasn't soaked with sweat.

He took a long swig from his water bottle and surveyed his rooftop handiwork. A damn good job if he said so himself. Of course, the big test to see if he'd patched all the leaks would come when it rained again, but he'd certainly fixed all the major problem areas.

Yesterday after the Home Depot run, he'd fixed the steps as well as the sagging screens on the porch and replaced the cracked windows—damn good jobs, too, if he said so himself—and gotten a head start on the roof repairs. Now that the roof was completed, the princess would get off his back.

Not that she'd been pestering him, he had to admit. In fact, he'd barely seen her since yesterday's return from their Home Depot/Piggly Wiggly trip. She'd lugged home an enormous amount of bags filled with food, a forty-pound container of cat chow, and God only knows what else, and had disappeared inside the house. He noticed her leaving and returning yesterday afternoon on what he assumed was a walk along the beach, as she had in ear buds attached to an iPod. He hadn't seen her after her return, but he'd certainly heard her.

Since all the windows of Paradise Lost remained open, he couldn't help but hear the music she played. At least her taste in music was good—classic rock with some jazz tossed in. He'd even heard her singing along a few times. He winced at the memory. The woman couldn't sing for shit. If Godiva ever heard her, she'd start howling along.

She'd left the house a few hours ago, a big floppy hat shading her face, and carrying a canvas bag and a beach towel. His gaze had zeroed in on her toned, shapely legs, shown off to advantage in a short, bright orange dress—the kind women wore over their bathing suits. His imagination instantly shifted into overdrive, wondering what she wore underneath that little dress, and annoyance pricked him. What the hell did he care what she wore? She was nothing more than a bossy pest who couldn't sing worth a damn. When she returned from the beach, he'd be able to tell her the repairs were finished, and he'd be done with her. He'd spend the rest of the summer working on Southern Comfort, then, when the princess went back to New York, he'd start renovating Paradise Lost.

A sense of deep accomplishment filled him, something he hadn't felt in a very long time before pulling up stakes and moving to Seaside Cove. He'd left a great deal behind him, but he was slowly regaining ground, finding the part of himself he'd lost, that had gotten sucked dry by the life he'd been leading.

His gaze drifted to Southern Comfort and peace washed over him, like a gentle wave of incoming tide—the sort of tranquil calm he'd spent years struggling to find in his old life. It wasn't until he'd chucked it all and walked away without a backward glance that he'd finally felt, at age thirty, as if he'd started to live.

A huff of laughter rushed past his lips at the sight of Godiva sleeping in the shade of Southern Comfort's carport. She lay sprawled on her back in her cushiony outdoor doggie bed, all four paws dangling in the air. “Jeez, you really need to learn how to relax, Godiva,” Nick muttered, chuckling.

With a sigh of contentment, he drained his water bottle and carefully swiveled around to face the beach. From his vantage point on the roof he could see the sun glinting sparks of gold off the dark blue ocean. Several boats zoomed along about a half mile out, small dots cruising through the water, leaving trails of white wake foam behind them. A trio of kites flew high in the sky, their colorful tails flapping in the salt-scented breeze. The soothing sound of the waves hitting the shore was muffled by the dunes, as were the excited shouts of kids playing in the sand and water—a background music he'd grown to love over the past few months.

A spot of bright orange caught Nick's attention. He pushed his Ray-Bans higher on his nose and saw Jamie emerge from the beach-access path and pause to look both ways before crossing the street. She wasn't wearing her floppy hat and her honey-colored curls floated in wild disarray around her shoulders. His heart lurched—like he'd just taken that first downward swooping rush on a roller coaster.

He frowned. What the hell was
that
about? Probably because he could now tell her he was done with the repairs and wish her a happy adios-have-a-good-summer-don't-call-uswe'll-call-you.

Yup, that was why.

He slipped his supplies back in his tool belt, made his way to the ladder, then climbed down. He'd just stepped off the bottom rung when she walked up the driveway.

“Roof's all fixed,” Nick said.

“Great.” Her gaze swept over him, taking in his dirty, sweat-stained shirt; faded, worn jeans; tool belt; and sturdy work boots. “You look hot.”

“Thanks, babe.” He slid down his Ray-Bans to give her a head-to-toe look. “You look pretty hot yourself.”

Which she definitely did. Up close, he could see that the orange dress was made of some sort of lacy material that afforded tantalizing glimpses of a bright yellow bathing suit underneath.

And it suddenly felt about ten degrees hotter.

Color rushed into her cheeks. Damn, he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen a woman blush so easily.

“I meant hot as in
sweaty
,” she said in the same prim tone she'd used on him yesterday—a tone that for some reason amused, rather than irked, him.

“That's what happens when you toil in the sun.” He unhooked his tool belt and set it on the cement. “How was the beach?”

“Really nice. The waves were great. Got beat up by a few of them, but that's half the fun.”

“You went swimming?”

She cocked a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am a little.” Actually, more than a little. His experiences had convinced him that women favored pools. Beach trips usually involved a lot of complaining about the sand and the lack of bar service.

“I don't see why you'd be surprised,” she said, shaking her head. “It's the
beach
. You know, the place where you swim, splash in the waves, body surf—that sort of stuff. I also built a sand castle and picked up some shells, but didn't find a sand dollar. I sure as heck didn't get this sand all over me and my finger-in-the-light-socket hairdo by lounging elegantly on a chaise.”

Just another thing that surprised him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been to the beach with a woman when she actually got her bathing suit, let alone her hair, wet.

“I'm definitely going to shop around for a Boogie board,” she said.

“I have an extra you're welcome to borrow.”

She blinked. “Oh. Well, thanks. That's very, um, nice of you. Very neighborly.”

“I'm guessing you meant that as a compliment, but since you sounded so shocked that I'd do something nice or neighborly, it kinda lost some of its charm.”

“I wasn't shocked.”

Nick couldn't help but grin. God, not only could she not sing, but she was a horrible liar, too. “Yes, you were.”

Her lips twitched. “Okay, maybe I was a
little
shocked.” She hesitated, then said, “I'm dying of thirst. In keeping with this neighborly thing, may I offer you a cold drink?”

He had his own cold drinks at home—the place he couldn't wait to return to. To take a shower. To get away from her. Yet when he opened his mouth, the words, “Sure, that'd be great, thanks,” came out.

He watched her dig her key from her beach bag, then followed her to the stairs so he could again check out the two new bottom treads. Yup, he'd done a really good job. He looked up from admiring his handiwork and stilled.

As far as he knew, he'd never been the guy who ogled a woman wearing a short dress as she climbed stairs—until right now, when a freakin' nuclear blast couldn't have unglued his eyeballs from her shapely butt as it swung from side to side with each step.

Damn. He needed more than a cold drink. He needed a damn cold shower.

After she disappeared into the house, he released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Her voice wafted down from behind the screen door, and he found himself cocking his head to better hear her.

“Hey, Cupcake, how are you, sweet girl. Did you miss me?”

Apparently Cupcake performed some sort of cat maneuver that indicated she had indeed missed her, because Jamie laughed and said, “I missed you, too. Are you hungry?”

Cupcake let out a meow Nick bet was heard in the next county.

“Let's see what we have . . . Okay, would you prefer the tender turkey Tuscany with long-grain rice and garden greens, or the wild salmon primavera with garden veggies?”

Nick rolled his eyes. Sheesh. No wonder cats were so prissy.

“Here you go, baby,” Jamie crooned. “I'm going to bring a drink to that pest Nick, then I'll be back. And you can tell me all about your day.” The screen door opened and she stepped outside, carrying two bottles of water. And halted when she saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs. Nick liked that she wasn't wearing sunglasses and he was—definitely put him at an advantage as she couldn't see his eyes, which he knew held a combination of irritation, amusement, and worst of all, an avid interest in watching her descend the steps.

He settled one booted foot on the bottom tread, then braced his palms on the banisters. “ ‘That pest Nick' ?” he repeated, looking up at her. “And here I thought we were being all nice and neighborly.”

Her cheeks turned bright red. By God, that absolutely fascinated him. Made him want to tease and embarrass her for three days straight just so he could see that wash of brilliant color stain her skin.

She hoisted her chin up a notch. “Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.”

“I wasn't eavesdropping. I was standing.”

“Listening to me talk to Cupcake.”

“How was I supposed to know you were going to chat with your cat?”

She started down the stairs and his attention was riveted on the way the hem of that short orange dress flirted with her thighs. The next thing he knew she was standing on the next to the last step, there was less than two feet separating them, and his eyes were on the same level as her chest.

And speaking of chests, she slapped an ice cold plastic water bottle against his. “Here's your drink.”

He lifted one hand from the wooden banister and took the bottle, purposely resting his hand over hers. “Thanks.”

She snatched her hand away as if he'd scorched her and he had to fight the urge to grin. He could almost hear her debating the advantages of telling him to move out of her way versus remaining where she was on the second tread, which allowed her to look down at him. Clearly she opted for the latter because she merely unscrewed the cap of her bottle and took a sip.

He mimicked her actions, never taking his gaze from her, although given his dark lenses, she wouldn't necessarily know that.

She took another sip, then asked, “What's wrong with talking to my cat? Don't you ever talk to Godiva?”

“Sure. But all she hears is
blah, blah, blah, Godiva, blah, blah, blah
.”

“Cupcake would tell you that that's because cats rule and dogs drool.”

“Shows what Cupcake knows. Godiva hardly ever drools.” Okay, that was a stretch—she drooled. A lot. But he wasn't about to let some soufflé-eating cat insult his dog. That's just what dogs did—drool. “So which meal did Cupcake choose? Personally I would have gone with the wild salmon primavera.”

“She picked the chicken and cheddar cheese soufflé.”

Figures. “They sure make fancy stuff for cats to eat. Bet that crap costs a fortune. Lucky for me, Godiva isn't picky.” Damn right she wasn't. She'd eat gym socks if he put them in her bowl. Hell, she drank from the toilet every chance she got. “She'd scarf down that prissy cat food in a single gulp and not even know she was tasting tender turkey Tuscany. And by the way—you calling anyone a pest is like Cupcake accusing someone of having tuna breath.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that your poetic way of telling me I'm a pest?”

“It was rather poetic, wasn't it? And yes, it is. And at least I'll tell you to your face, rather than saying it behind your back.”