Summer at Seaside Cove (13 page)

“Does that feel good baby?” she crooned.

Godiva made happy noises in her throat, licked Jamie's chin, then flopped on her back and presented her belly, which Jamie obligingly rubbed.

“She'll give you three days to knock that off,” Nick said from behind her.

Jamie looked at him over her shoulder. He stood several feet away, looking down at her with an expression she couldn't read. She gave Godiva a final pat, then rose.

“Cupcake enjoys having her belly rubbed, too. Must be a pet thing.”

“Yeah. It's also a guy thing.”

Her gaze dropped to his abs and an image flashed in her mind . . . of her fingers trailing over that taut belly, exploring all those fascinating ridges.

“Thanks for your help with Godiva, princess.”

His voice yanked her from her heat-inducing thoughts. She jerked her gaze upward. There was no mistaking the fire kindling in his eyes. She locked her suddenly wobbly knees and swallowed to find her voice.

“You're welcome. And I'm not a princess.”

A frown creased between his brows. “Maybe not,” he conceded, although he looked both displeased and surprised.

“
Definitely
not.” She held out his towel. “I, um, had fun.”

He took the towel, and something that looked like confusion clouded his eyes. “Me, too,” he said slowly, as if he couldn't believe he was actually saying the words. He studied her for several long seconds with an expression that made it clear he didn't quite know what to make of her. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth and all Jamie's girl parts went on red alert. Then his frown deepened and he took a slow step toward her, as if reluctantly being dragged closer, but unable to stop himself.

She went perfectly still. Holy crap, was he going to
kiss
her? That would be great, er, bad. Really bad.
Bad
idea. Yet it certainly looked like he was thinking about it. Which had her thinking about it. Which had her lips—among other things—tingling in anticipation of that oh so firm yet oh so soft-looking mouth touching hers.

A faint ringtone sounded. He blinked twice, as if emerging from the same lustful fog that had engulfed her. “That's my phone,” he said in husky voice. “Excuse me.”

He took the stairs two at a time. The screen door banged behind him, then she heard the low murmur of his deep voice.

“Saved by the bell,” she murmured. “Literally.” And thank goodness. Good grief, what was
wrong
with her? She was in full I Hate Men mode. Her mind and common sense and better judgment knew it—and wanted nothing to do with anything that had a penis—but apparently her libido hadn't gotten the memo and thought Nick Trent was the greatest thing to come along since triple-fudge brownies. With whipped cream. And a cherry on top.

Damn it, now she was hungry.

Kate's words suddenly popped into her mind.
The best way to get over a man is to get under a new one . . . I'm talking about indulging in a summer fling.

Oh, no. That would be a really bad idea. Bad, bad, bad.

Wouldn't it?

Yes, definitely bad. Very bad. Bad, bad, bad.

The screen door opened and Nick stuck his head out, his iPhone pressed to his ear. He whistled for Godiva, who bounded up the stairs and pushed her way past Nick's legs to enter the house. When Nick looked at Jamie, all traces of heat were gone from his eyes.

“Sorry, but I'm going to be a while,” he said in a voice as neutral as his expression. “See you around.”

With that he disappeared back inside, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

See you around? “Not if I can help it,” Jamie muttered as she walked back to Paradise Lost. She'd clearly lost her marbles for a few minutes there, something she'd put down to Hormone Overload Due to Unexpectedly Sexy Guy syndrome. But she was officially cured. Looks, as she well knew when it came to men, meant zero. Raymond was a perfect example, with his Upper East Side, Ivy League perfection. And he'd turned out to be a Super Shit.

While Nick wasn't handsome in that classical sense like Raymond, his brand of good looks was even more dangerous because he oozed sex appeal. The sort that made clothes just sort of fall off of their own volition—like too much tequila on an empty stomach. Raymond looked like a gentleman you'd want to go to dinner with at an expensive restaurant, while Nick . . . Nick looked like the sexy waiter who you'd want to drag into the pantry, press up against the vegetable bin, and beg to screw your brains out.

Well, there'd be no screwing. Absolutely not. She'd been screwed enough—and not in a good way. Her roof was fixed (hopefully); her stairs, windows, and screens were repaired; and she, therefore, required nothing further from Nick Trent. She'd gone above and beyond helping him bathe his zany but lovable dog, so it was peace out. She was going to pour herself a glass of wine, prepare herself a nice dinner, take a stroll on the beach, then read in bed. No drama, no family, no phone calls, no craziness, and nothing with a penis. Just her and Cupcake and a lot of peace and quiet.

And that sounded absolutely perfect.

J
amie's first clue that peace and quiet might be harder won than she'd anticipated hit her like a hammer on her head the next morning when she was awakened by a raucous banging sound.

She blindly reached out and grabbed her cell phone from the bedside table, then pried open one eye to check the time. “Who the hell is banging on the door at ten to seven in the morning?”

Cupcake didn't even bother to raise her head from her spot at the foot of the bed. Jamie sat up and pushed her tangle of sleep-flattened hair off her face. The banging continued and she rose, snagged her plaid flannel robe to cover up her Bugs Bunny camisole and sleep shorts, then staggered from the bedroom, squinting against the bright sunlight pouring through the sliding doors that led to the screened porch.

She managed to stuff one arm into the robe, but couldn't quite manage the other arm. With the garment half hanging off, she peeked through the slats in the blinds covering the kitchen window to see who the hell was knocking this early. She'd half expected to see Nick—she wouldn't put it past him to enact revenge for the early-morning wake-up door pounding she'd treated him to the other morning—but instead of her sexy neighbor, three women stood crowded on the small landing outside the kitchen door. Two of them held Tupperware containers, and the other balanced an aluminum foil–covered pan.

Jamie unlocked and opened the door and discovered three pairs of curious eyes staring at her through the screen.

“Oh, dear, were you asleep?” asked the petite covered-pan lady who stood closest to the door. Her poof of snow white hair was adorned with a pair of bifocals—odd given that a pair also dangled dangerously close to the end of her small nose—and her skin was as tanned as shoe leather. She smiled at Jamie, showing off a set of ultra-white dentures that resembled Chiclets. “We're not too early, are we, dear?”

“Um, too early for what exactly?”

All three simultaneously lifted their Tupperwares and pan. “Breakfast,” they chirped in unison.

“I'm Dorothy Ernst,” said pan lady. “I live across the street. My house is named Beach Music. And this is Grace Cole,” she continued, nodding at the attractive blonde behind her, “and Megan Richardson. They both live two blocks over, on Carolina Street. We would have stopped by sooner but we were all at the Shrimp Festival for the past few days and didn't return until late last night.”

“We wanted to welcome you to Seaside Cove, seeing as how you'll be here the entire summer,” said Grace, who was a good thirty years younger and a foot taller than Dorothy. “There aren't too many of us permanent residents.”

“We heard you were from New York and thought you might enjoy a real Southern breakfast,” added Megan, a smiling, gorgeous redhead Jamie judged to be in her midthirties, who in spite of the ungodly hour looked as fresh and dewy and perky as if she'd just stepped out of the Fifth Avenue Elizabeth Arden spa.

Apparently word really did travel fast in a small community. Neighbors arriving at the crack of dawn (at least it felt like it) bearing food—definitely not what Jamie was accustomed to, yet she was both touched and charmed by the friendly gesture. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she smiled at the ladies and opened the screen door. “It's very nice to meet you. I'm Jamie Newman. Please come in. I'm sorry I look like road kill.”

“You look lovely, dear,” said Dorothy, entering the kitchen and setting her foil-covered pan on the counter.

Yeah—said the lady who required two pairs of glasses.

Megan set down her Tupperware next to the sink. “We didn't mean to wake you.”

Grace shot Dorothy a frown. “I told you it was too early to drop in on her.”

Dorothy gave Jamie a sheepish smile. “I thought for sure you'd have been awake for hours already. Nick Trent assured me you were an early riser. In fact he stressed that if we wanted to catch you in, we'd best arrive before seven A.M. And that we should knock very loudly until you answered the door because you always had in your iPod earphones.”

Coward. Sending the neighbors over to exact his revenge. She wasn't sure if that made him clever or a chickenshit. A bit of both, she decided.

“Wasn't that thoughtful of him,” Jamie murmured. “When did he tell you this?”

“Last night, around eleven. He was leaving just as I was on my way in from the Shrimp Festival and we exchanged a few words.”

“Leaving?” Jamie repeated.

“Him and Godiva. Nick had a duffel bag with him. Probably be gone a few days, as is his habit.”

“No one knows where he goes,” Megan chimed in, “but word is that he goes off on benders. After a few days away, he always stops in at Crabby's Bar. Bob Wright—Crabby's bartender—told Joey Morrison who told Todd Benton who told his wife Shari who told me that Nick always keeps to himself at Crabby's and seems down.”

“There you go gossiping again, Megan,” Grace said, shaking her head. She leaned closer to Jamie. “Some folks think he has a bunch of different women, while others say he has just one honey on the side. A
married
honey, which is why he goes off for days at a time—to meet up with her. Then, when he has to leave her, he's all sad.”

“Now who's repeating gossip?” Megan asked mildly.

“I never repeat gossip,” Grace said. Then she grinned. “So you'd better listen carefully the first time.”

Dorothy frowned and shook her head. “I don't think he has a bunch of women. In fact, I think he's lonely.”

“Men who look like that are never lonely,” said Megan.

“Sometimes they are,” Dorothy insisted. “Especially if they're nursing a broken heart. But regardless of his situation, I think he's a very sweet boy. Why, I only mentioned in passing that my doorbell was broken and the very next day he showed up and fixed it. Refused to let me pay him. If I had an unmarried granddaughter, I'd have her here pronto to check him out.” She smiled at Jamie. “Shall I get a pot of coffee going, dear?”

Jamie snapped out of the fascinated stupor she'd fallen into while following the women's rapid-fire discourse about Nick. “I'll do it,” she said, moving to the pantry to get a filter and the can of coffee.

While she counted out scoops of dark, rich grounds, her thoughts turned to Nick. So her pesky albeit sexy neighbor had taken off for parts unknown late last night. Well, good. She certainly wouldn't miss him. And his absence saved her the trouble of telling him what she thought of his sneaky send-the-neighbors-over-early revenge plan. Still, she couldn't help but be curious as to where he'd gone. And why.

A flurry of activity ensued, with Megan setting plates and utensils on the snack bar while Grace and Dorothy unwrapped the food and opened Tupperware. The savory scent of eggs and sausage wafted up Jamie's nose and her stomach growled.

“Smells delicious,” she said, setting out four mismatched but serviceable coffee mugs.

“It's my breakfast casserole,” Dorothy said, her voice tinged with pride.

“It goes great with my buttermilk biscuits and Megan's red-eye gravy,” said Grace.

Cupcake sashayed into the kitchen and made her presence known with a loud yowl, then a squinty-eyed glare that simultaneously asked,
What's that fabulous smell?
and
Who the hell are all these people?

While the ladies cooed over Cupcake, who graciously allowed herself to be adored, Jamie served the coffee, then poured some of Cupcake's favorite crunchy fish-flavored treats into her bowl.

“Dorothy, Jack Crawford mentioned something about a Cat Colony Committee on the island,” Jamie said as she returned the bag of kibble to the pantry. “What's that all about?”

“Me and six other local residents make sure the feral cats on the island are cared for, although dozens of families leave out food for them. You'll see the cats roaming around—you can identify them by their ears. The tips of their left ears are clipped. The committee uses the TNR method—that's trapneuter-release. We humanely trap them and bring them to the local vet, who spays or neuters them and vaccinates them for rabies. They're then returned to the beach.”

“But we also find strays on the island,” Dorothy continued. “People hear about the island cats and they dump off litters of unwanted kittens.” There was no mistaking the anger in her voice.

“You mean they abandon them?” Jamie asked, aghast.

“Sometimes right on the side of the road,” Grace said, shaking her head. “They figure islanders will take them in, which we do.”