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“This Erik,” she said, caution competing with amazement as Cornelia joined them with a tray of tall porcelain mugs. “May I ask the terms of his agreement with you?”
Taking the chair on the opposite side of her, Cornelia passed mugs to her and Phil. “It’s nothing complicated. I just requested that he help you with the business if I buy the property for the Sullivans’ asking price.”
“But why did he agree to that?”
“Because he wants a decent price for his grandparents and I offered him one. He’s been taking care of the property for them, so I also imagine he’d like to be free of that responsibility. I don’t think he begrudges his grandparents his time. He sounds quite fond of them,” she offered, approval in the soft lines of her face. “But he’s a busy man.”
Rory remembered his strong, workingman’s hands, the calluses she’d felt brush her palm. Right behind the thought came the disquieting memory of what his touch had elicited. “He said he builds boats.”
“Oh, they’re more than boats. He and his business partner build world-class sailing sloops. Their boatworks is down past the marina, but their sales and rental office is next door. J.T., one of my stepsons,” she said, identifying Harry’s second oldest, “commissioned one from him years back. He said Erik is the only man he’d ever do business with on a handshake. If you knew my stepson, you’d know that respect for someone’s character doesn’t get any greater than that.”
Her carefully penciled eyebrows arched as she offered cream and sugar. “Did you find him disagreeable?”
Disturbing, yes. Disagreeable? She couldn’t honestly say they’d disagreed about anything. “No.”
“Are you not wanting help?”
Rory shook her head. She’d be a fool to turn it down. “I’m sure he has far more information about how the market is run than anything I can even begin to find on my own.”
The unguarded admission brought Cornelia’s smile back. “Then it’s a win-win for everyone.”
Baffled by the woman, more uncertain than she wanted to admit about her mentor, Rory touched the handle of her mug. “Please don’t think I’m not beyond grateful, Mrs. Hunt—”
“It’s Cornelia,” the woman said graciously.
“Cornelia,” Rory corrected. “But I’m having a hard time making sense of all this. I understand from Phil that you helped someone else when she needed it. But why do you want to help me like this?”
“Because I can,” she said simply. “My Harry gave me a ridiculously large amount of money for a wedding gift. Since I have the means, I decided to make it my mission to offer deserving young women a hand up when the going gets rough for them, or when they just need the right break.
“In your case,” she admitted, “I know all too well what it’s like to be financially strapped and the only parent. My first husband was a dear, but he left me in a real financial bind when he died. I had to sell my home, just as you’ve had to do. And I had to work hard to raise my girls.”
She gave Rory’s hand a pat, drew back her own. “From what we learned about you from your real estate agent—and other resources,” she admitted, making it clear she thoroughly vetted the recipients of her largesse, “I don’t doubt that you’ll do what you must to make it work. Erik has proven himself to be an excellent businessman,” she assured, as the opening door let in the back-up beep of a truck. “I’m sure you can trust him to help you succeed.
“Can’t she, Erik?” she asked the man himself as he walked in.
Seeming oblivious to the way his presence suddenly filled the space, much less to the faint tension leaking from him in waves, Cornelia raised an eyebrow in his direction.
“Can’t she what?” he replied.
“Trust your business judgment.”
“It hasn’t let me down so far.”
The disarming smile he gave Cornelia and Phil seemed to come easily. The wattage, however, lowered considerably when it settled on her. Having met her eyes long enough to make her heart jerk, Rory watched him lower his glance to the older woman’s coffee.
“Mind if I get some of that?”
“Not at all. The pot is fresh.”
His heavy footsteps muffled by the carpet, Erik headed for the coffeemaker in the alcove. Behind him he could hear the elegant matron and the bookish blonde he’d met last week explaining that the paperwork for Rory’s mortgage would be handled at a title company Monday afternoon. Since he had power of attorney for the sale for his grandparents, he and Cornelia had already agreed to take care of their business there that morning.
The Hunt name tended to eliminate delays.
He could hear the low, soft tones of Rory’s responses, but he had no idea what she said. He was too busy telling himself that the next six months wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared.
They’d probably be worse.
He didn’t question the sincerity of the rather shell-shocked-looking young woman reading the papers in front of her. Her determination to do what she had to do for her child had been nearly tangible to him. But her impulsiveness had raised about a dozen red flags.
Women spent more time making up their mind about buying a pair of shoes than she had about taking on something that would require a nearly 24/7 commitment. Especially at first. He knew. He ate, slept and breathed his own business. And that business was something he’d wanted since he was a kid. She’d only wanted the store since she’d learned about it that morning. She’d even admitted to knowing nothing about what she’d agreed to get herself into—which meant she’d take far more time than he’d planned on devoting to the care and feeding of her education.
It was that last part that he’d explained to his business partner when he’d called a while ago to tell him he’d still be tied up for a while. Pax had said not to worry about what he’d committed himself to. He’d cover for him if he needed time during the day to work with the store’s new owner.
Though they’d never talked about the reasons for it, Pax knew how badly Erik wanted to be out from under that property. And why. They’d grown up together. Pax had been his best man. He’d also gone through the ugliness of his divorce with him by letting him take on however many projects it took to keep him too exhausted to think about anything else.
It had been seven years since the demise of his eight-year marriage, and Erik had long since recovered from what he had no intention of ever repeating again, but he already felt guilt about the time he’d be taking away from work. Especially with an April delivery date on their present work under construction, another client waiting for his final blueprints and two others hovering in the wings to get on their list.
Then there were their evening commitments with past and future clients. The holiday party season had just started—and Merrick & Sullivan Yachting never missed a business or philanthropic commitment.
With the women still talking, and feeling the tension creep up his back, he took his filled mug to the nearest window and rubbed at his neck. He’d do what he had to do where the woman behind him was concerned, and hope she wasn’t the sort who required a lot of hand-holding to come up to speed. Heaven knew he wasn’t a coddling sort of guy.
Erik took a sip of the coffee that was infinitely better than the sludge he and his partner had been brewing since their secretary had gone on maternity leave. It didn’t help the situation that Mrs. Rory Linfield had a son. He’d made it a point over the past several years to avoid women with children. They tended to want more of a commitment than he was interested in. But that deliberate lack of exposure left him feeling less than capable when it came to anyone under four feet tall.
With his pretty little project deep in conversation, he looked out over the blue-tarped sailboats yawing in their slips. He and Pax had pulled their rental fleet out of the water last month, but farther up the shoreline, he could see the point that anchored the rest of their operation: the boatyard where they stored their boats over winter and the boatworks where they built their custom sailing yachts, one sloop at a time.
“How come that boat has a Santa on it?”
The little boy had walked over from two windows down. Now, with his chin barely clearing the windowsill, the sandy-haired child pointed to a row of decorated sloops in the marina. Several had colored lights anchored fore and aft from the mainsail mast. One had a blow-up Santa at the helm.
Erik gave a shrug. “Some people just like to decorate their boats this time of year.”
“How come?”
“Because they entertain on them,” he said, thinking of the cocktail parties he and his partner had hosted on their respective sloops for their clients over the years. They had one scheduled next week. “Or maybe they’re going to be in one of the boat parades.” The floating parades were legend around the sound during the holidays.
The little boy’s brow furrowed. Digesting what he’d been told, he said nothing else. For about five seconds, anyway.
“Do you have a boat?”
“I do.”
“Do you decorate it?”
“I have.”
“Do you put a Santa on it?”
“No.”
“Oh,” the child said.
He took another sip of coffee, waited for another question. When none was forthcoming, Erik tried to focus on the conversation behind him.
The small voice immediately cut in.
“I’m glad your house has a fireplace. So Santa can come down,” Tyler explained, still looking out the window. “Mom said he can visit without one, but it’s easier when he has a chimney.”
It took a moment for the boy’s conversational leap to make sense. Apparently since Santa was on his mind, any context was fair game.
“I’ve heard that about chimneys, too,” he assured him. “And the house you saw isn’t mine. It’s my grandparents’.”
The distinction apparently didn’t matter.
“We have a fireplace in our house. But we didn’t have a tree last time for him to put presents under.” The small voice sounded utterly matter-of-fact. “Mom said this year won’t be sad. We get a tree no matter what.”
His mom had mentioned that he hadn’t had a very good Christmas last year. Sad, the child had just called it. Yet Erik didn’t let himself consider why that had been. Telling himself that her personal business was none of his, he murmured a distracted, “That’s good,” to her son and focused on the only business of hers he needed to be interested in. The store.
Cornelia had asked for his presence in case Rory had questions for him. He figured now was as good a time as any to see what those concerns might be.
The three females at the table glanced up as he approached.
It was Rory’s dark eyes that he met.
“Is there anything you want to ask me about the property?”
Her shell-shocked look had yet to fade. With her ringless hand at the base of her throat, she slowly shook her head. “I don’t even know where to start right now.”
“Make a list as things occur to you,” he told her. “I’ll come by the market next week and we can go over it.
“The sale is being expedited,” he told her, knowing now that part of the appeal of his grandparents’ home, for her son, anyway, had been the fireplace his own family had gathered around at Christmas. “You can move in whenever you’re ready. I’ll check my schedule and Phil can set us up with a day and time next week to go over inventory.”
He set his coffee on the table with a decisive clink and pulled his business card from his pocket. Walking around the table to give it to her, he watched her rise. As she did, his glance slid over what her coat had hidden earlier. The long black turtleneck she wore skimmed her feminine curves, molded the sweet shape of her hips.
She had the body of a dancer. Long, lithe and sexy as hell.
Masking his misgivings about having to deal with her, feeling them mount by the minute, he ignored the vague tightening in his gut. “Do you need help moving in?”
“No. I’m... No,” Rory repeated, hating how flustered she felt. “But thank you.” The last thing she wanted was to impose on this man. Considering what he’d been asked to do for her, she’d be obligated enough to him as it was. “I’d planned to be out Monday, so I’ve already arranged for movers.”
She pushed back her bangs, revealing the pinch of her brow. “You really don’t mind if I take things over before the sale closes?”
“You said you want to be settled before Christmas.” He assumed now that that desire had something to do with putting up a tree. “The earlier you start, the sooner you can be.”
Rory swallowed. Hard.
“Thank you.”
He held out his card. “My office and cell numbers are on here. Call me if something comes up. I’ll leave a key under the rock by the back porch. You’ll get a full set at closing.” His fingers brushed hers. Her skin felt cool to him, soft, and though he was trying not to notice anything in particular about her, he could have sworn he felt her trembling.
Without looking up, she palmed his card and clasped both hands in front of her.
“You’re sure you’re covered on the move?” he asked
“I’m positive. I arranged everything a couple of weeks ago.”
Standing as close as he was, he caught the tremor in her breath as she eased it out. He didn’t doubt she felt overwhelmed with all that was happening for her. Yet she managed to maintain the composure that had her graciously assuring Cornelia that she truly needed nothing else as far as help was concerned. Something about that composure seemed practiced to him, though. It was as if she’d found herself in overwhelming or uncertain situations before and wasn’t about to let anyone see how unsettled she really was.
She wouldn’t look at him again. She seemed to know what he’d seen, and felt totally embarrassed being so exposed. A huge burden was being lifted from her slender shoulders, but she wasn’t letting herself feel the relief of that weight. It appeared that admitting the scope of that relief would be admitting how truly desperate she’d begun to feel. So she just kept it all in, as if that was what she’d become accustomed to doing anyway, and turned to the women.
With a choked little laugh, she said she had no idea how to thank them.
Leaving her to figure it out, he looked to the matriarch running the show, thanked her for the coffee and headed for more familiar territory.
He’d given his word that he’d help. And he would. He never promised anything he didn’t intend to deliver. But when he showed up for the meeting Phil arranged for him with Rory the following Wednesday, he discovered something about his charge that he hadn’t anticipated.
The young widow with the sweet, sharp little boy might have looked as fragile as sea foam, but she had a stubborn streak as wide as Puget Sound.
Chapter Three
Erik hesitated at the store’s front door. For years he’d simply walked in when the business had been open. After his grandparents had moved, he’d let himself in with his key. Since the sale had closed two days ago, he no longer had the right to come and go as he pleased from a place that had been part of his life for as long as he could remember.
The odd sense of having been displaced lingered as he rapped his knuckles on the frame of the screen door, and promptly disappeared the instant the inside door swung open. Even with her pretty features schooled into a smile of greeting, the unease in Rory’s guarded expression made him suspect she was already having second thoughts about what she’d taken on.
Or so he was thinking when she let him in and his glance cut from the black hoodie and yoga pants molding her curves to the furniture behind her.
It looked as if every possession she owned sat piled in the interior of the market. Bedroom sets, tables, chairs, boxes.
“You said you didn’t need any help moving in.”
Good morning to you, too, Rory thought. “I didn’t think I did,” she said, stepping back for him to pass.
Deliberately overlooking the accusation shadowing his rugged features, she crossed her arms over her hoodie and the teal turtleneck and thermal undershirt layered beneath it. She wanted to believe her shiver had more to do with the chill in the large space than with the big man in the waffle-weave pullover and charcoal cargo pants. After all, the thermometer by the dairy case did read forty-nine degrees.
The man should wear a coat, she insisted to herself. It was easily ten degrees colder outside.
She turned on her heel to lead him inside where it was warmer. “The college kids I hired were only available long enough to drive the U-Haul over and unload it into the market,” she explained, heading between the packing boxes that formed an aisle to the interior door. “It wasn’t until we got here that they told me they wouldn’t have time to carry everything to the rooms. They did take one of the beds upstairs, though.” The thud of heavy hiking boots echoed behind her. In running shoes, her footsteps barely made a squeak. “A mattress, anyway,” she qualified. “And a box of bedding.” That had been huge.
Spending the past couple of nights on a hard floor would have guaranteed even less sleep than she usually managed. Even with a reasonably comfortable place to rest, she’d spent most of both nights trying not to disturb Tyler and listening to the building’s unfamiliar creaks and groans while hoping to heaven she could make this store work.
“They’ll come back to finish sometime next week,” she continued, “so I’ve been taking in what I can by myself. Tyler’s helping.” Boxes too heavy to carry she’d emptied one armload at a time. The method wasn’t the most efficient, but she now had one bathroom in order and the kitchen organized, except for the table and chairs. The old refectory table weighed a ton. She knew—she’d tried to move it last night.
She chafed her arms along her sleeves, winced a little when she rubbed a spot above the elbow that now sported the bruise she’d earned in the attempt. She had a matching one on the back of her shoulder. No longer hearing Erik’s footfalls, she glanced around to see that he had stopped.
Across ten feet of worn plank flooring, she saw his dark eyebrows merge. “Isn’t the furnace working?”
“It’s working just fine.”
“Then why is it so cold in here?”
