Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove) Page 12

  She made herself another vow: if there was any way possible to make it happen, to make him see her potential, her value, she was going to be the one to get this job. Not a year from now, or five years from now. “But one week from now.” She swallowed. Hard. It might have been more of a gulp. “Yeah, so we might have to work on that deadline a little.”

  Tomorrow, she’d start early. With her camera, ladder, and a handful of other necessary tools, she’d begin the slow process of documenting and running tests, along with all the general poking and prodding.

  At the moment, she had a different to-do list. With her clipboard under her arm, she headed back around the house, intent on going straight to her truck and heading into Blueberry Cove to find the county offices so she could look up the various drawings and plans that had to have been made and filed over the years. If she was lucky, they’d have records in some form or other dating back to the initial plans for the lighthouse, cottage, and house. She could probably save herself some time and ask Logan for them, but she preferred to handle it on her own. Then she’d head over to Delia’s for some lunch and free Wi-Fi and start the due diligence on the property she should have done before ever leaving Thunder Bay, as well as her initial reach-out to her contacts.

  She knew she should call rather than reestablish contacts via e-mail, but it was an easier start, and for most steps in this project, easier wouldn’t be an option. She wasn’t going to beat herself up too much for taking the easy route first. She’d be making calls and talking to people directly, soon enough. Hell, she’d talked to more people in the twenty-four hours since she’d been in Blueberry Cove than she had since the conclusion of her court case.

  She’d also hit the library and see what old publications they had on New England architecture. Sometimes libraries were the best resource around, along with used bookstores. Maybe the Cove had one of those, too. She’d make a stop by Brodie’s boathouse and start the punch-out list, then another stop by the hardware store for the chat with Owen, who probably knew a specific thing or ten about the McCrae property and lighthouse. Then the grocery and back to the Point by dinner. Big day.

  Logan had said she was on her own for the evening meal, but she thought maybe she’d get the fixings for her grandfather’s chili and some cornbread. If she was going to try to wrangle a few extra days out of him, she wasn’t above working it so the house smelled delicious and there was a hot meal bubbling on the stove whenever he got in.

  Feeling lighter of mood than she had in so very, very long, she changed direction and opted to head inside first for a quick change of clothes. She’d never been one to dress for anything except comfort and practicality, but the Bunyan remark was still floating around the back of her mind, so perhaps something a little less lumberjack might not be a bad thing for her trip to town.

  Rather than go all the way around to the mudroom entry, she tried the side door to the north addition and smiled when it opened with little more than a shove. Warped wood was a continual issue on coastal properties, with the constant damp, the salt spray, and the wind. There were short-term fixes, but over the long haul, wooden things like doors and window frames needed regular replacement. Most folks had long since shifted to synthetic products to avoid such costly repairs, but despite Pelican Point being privately owned and therefore not restricted by any National Historic Registry limitations, the McCrae family had clearly wanted to preserve it as close to its original state as possible.

  She had other ideas on some cost-saving compromises Logan might be willing to make as she tugged the door closed behind her. Then she turned toward the wall of windows that lined the exterior wall of the addition. “Oh . . . wow.”

  She’d been so very right. The view of the lighthouse, the expanse of bay that spread out beyond it, and the curve of the little harbor town of Blueberry Cove nestled in and around Half Moon Harbor was breathtaking. So much so, she hardly paid any attention to the drooping ceiling, the watermarks below every window, the rotting frames, and the cracked and loose panes of glass that were rattling constantly with the wind. All of that was fixable. And all worth any price for the sheltered viewpoint this room provided.

  Though she’d only lived there for short periods of time between jobs, the MacFarland home base had always been on the shores of magnificent Lake Huron, specifically in Thunder Bay. In addition, she’d spent most of her adolescent years and all of her adult ones working on lighthouse sites all over the United States and Canada, and even a few in the islands and in Europe. By their very nature, all the sites were coastal, and had afforded her a lifetime of some of the most beautiful views ever to be seen. “And this one is right up there,” she murmured, already imagining how much more impressive it would be from the top of the tower. The shudder of unease that accompanied that thought wasn’t unexpected, but it also wasn’t as crippling as it had been before.

  Before she’d felt the familiar tingle again. Before she’d wanted it again.

  So what if her fingers were trembling as they gripped the clipboard, and sure, her knees might even be a bit shaky . . . okay, more than a bit. But she was smiling as she made her way through the long windowed room, then worked her way through a rabbit warren of smaller rooms toward the main section of the house. I can do this, she thought. More important, I want to do this.

  She opened another door and found herself at the landing leading up to the second story in the main part of the house where Logan’s bedroom was, and where she’d showered what now felt like a lifetime ago. She opened her clipboard and quickly sketched out the overall shape of the house perimeter, then blocked off rooms as she saw them in her mind’s eye. It would be good to have the record of how it was now, to match up to whatever plans were on file with the county. She thought about grabbing her camera, but her sketch was detailed enough for the time being.

  She glanced up the stairs. She knew Logan’s bedroom was up on the right, with one of the three full baths as the master, but she had no idea what the rest of the layout was.

  What the hell, why not? It would only take a quick walk-through to get the basic lay of the land. She put her clipboard down long enough to take off coat, hat, and gloves. She checked her boots. No mud or dirt clumps. Okay, then. Clipboard open and at the ready once again, pencil poised, she headed upstairs, intent only on doing a rough sketch of the second floor. The real examination would start the next day.

  The previous time she’d come through here, she’d just wanted to grab her stuff and get the hell out, but even then, she’d noticed his bedroom.

  The door was open, so she stepped in, made a quick sketch of the layout, the two recessed dormer windows that faced the front of the house, thinking she’d have done something with them, utilized them better. Logan’s height and the slant of the roof angling toward the dormers was probably why he’d left them empty of any furnishings. He’d have to all but fold himself in half to tuck in there. Even custom shelving wouldn’t have been all that practical for someone so tall.

  He might have put a small desk on the short wall between the dormers—though, privately, for herself, she’d have put an antique dressing table there. Then, in the alcoves themselves, there could be custom-built shelves for books or knickknacks. “Or both,” she mused. A bench seat built in under the windows, storage underneath for quilts and throws, topped with a thick, cushy pad and a few comfy throw pillows.

  Smiling at that visual, she took a quick look around the rest of the room. He was a big man, long-legged, broad-shouldered, and his bed reflected that. King size with a whole-log frame, it was clearly a custom piece, and worth every penny. “Now who’s Paul Bunyan?” she murmured dryly, but sighed as she ran her hand along the heavy beam footboard and stared at the virtual sea of thick mattress, the tangle of white linens with a heavy, marine blue down comforter piled on top, as if he’d spent a restless night. Her mind went to other, far more pleasurable ways the bed linens could end up in that kind of tangled heap and she found herself pressing her thighs together again
st the rather insistent ache that started between them.

  She’d spent more than a minute or two in his shower the morning before picturing him naked, sprawled across that sumptuous expanse. And, so okay, maybe he hadn’t been alone. In her imagination.

  Today, that was the last thing she could allow herself to imagine. Any possibility that she could use her attraction to him as a distraction from her other issues had died when she’d put him on the spot in front of his entire town. Of course, he hadn’t been real thrilled with her when she’d passed out all over him, either. And goodness knew he’d made it quite clear his opinion of her today was even more dismal. So, she could cross out indulging in an office fling.

  He didn’t have to be attracted to her, or even like her. He just had to respect that she could get the work done and that she was the one for the job. Despite the excitement she’d begun to feel about getting back to work again, she still had no idea what obstacles lay ahead for her, what the reality of working another tower would truly be like. However, proving herself to Logan McCrae was all kinds of motivation.

  She just hoped she didn’t win the battle only to lose the war. Last night had just been a skirmish. The true campaign had started today.

  And time was a-wastin’.

  Rather than head down the hallway to check out the remainder of the second floor, she found herself wandering over to the dormer windows. Even at five-foot-five, she had to duck her head, but the twin dormers, with their double-sash windows and cutout eaves, would make charming little alcoves. The windowpanes were a little clouded from years of salt spray covering the exterior of the hard-to-reach windows, but she could see enough to note that they faced the front of the house, with a view across the tops of the thick pine forest that hugged the coastline.

  She backed up a step and sank down on the side of his bed, sketching the room as she’d envisioned it, the sitting table, the bookshelves, knowing it was utter folly, but also knowing if she got the images on paper, then they’d be out of her head, freeing her mind up to focus on the real matter at hand.

  When she was done, she clutched the clipboard to her chest, and gave in, just for a moment, to the temptation to lie back on the bed. It was like lying on a cloud. Her eyes drifted shut, an entirely new series of images taking over . . . those broad shoulders, big hands, deep voice . . .

  “Something I can help you with, Goldilocks?”

  Chapter 7

  Alex shrieked in surprise, leaping straight off the bed and grazing the side of her head on the edge of the alcove eave. “Ouch! Dammit!” Crouching, hand to her head, she turned to find Logan standing just inside the door between his bathroom and the bedroom, wrapped in nothing more than a damp, forest green bath towel. Had she been so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t heard him in there? “Sorry. I didn’t know you were home. Why are you home?”

  “Why are you lying in my bed?”

  “I wasn’t. I mean, I was, but just for a moment. I was . . . sketching.”

  “Sketching.” He nodded toward her head. “Are you okay?”

  She rubbed at her forehead, happy to see there wasn’t any blood when she lifted her hand away. “Yeah. I’d be more worried about the wall; I have a pretty hard head. Don’t say it,” she warned.

  She shifted the clipboard she was still hugging to her chest, looking at her sketches of the alcoves . . . and, more to the point, not at half-naked Logan. “Just taking a few minutes to get the layout of the house on paper. Then I was going into town to look up the architectural drawings and any other plans filed with the city.”

  “You could have just asked me.”

  She made herself look at him—which was hard, because part of her mind and pretty much every part of her body was still back in that giant sea of soft linens and thick pillows. With him. Naked. Which was so much easier to visualize now. “I—” She paused, cleared her throat, and dammit, looked down at her clipboard again. But his body matched that voice. And she was only human. “This morning when you left, you made it pretty clear that you were merely tolerating me. You definitely had no interest in helping me. Plus, you have your job, and I have mine. I’m perfectly capable of doing this on my own. I know you don’t believe that. That I’m capable. But I am.”

  “I never said—”

  “You didn’t have to. Sometimes actions speak louder. In fact, they almost always do—which is why you have no faith in me, and, frankly, I wouldn’t, either, since my actions so far include having a less-than-professional-looking vehicle that breaks down practically in your driveway—”

  “It was a flat tire.”

  “Trust me, it could have easily been complete engine failure. It failed off and on all the way from Michigan. And it was driven by a tear-streaked woman who immediately up and fainted on you.”

  “Well, when you put it like that.”

  She caught the corner of his mouth kicking up in an ever so slight grin and wished she didn’t admire the comeback as much as she did. It was exactly the kind of thing she’d have said.

  “Saying it was aberrant behavior and far off the grid of who I am is fine—not to mention true—but you don’t really know that. The breaking down and the fainting is all you really know of me. So I’m taking this opportunity to show you the rest of my act.”

  He lifted one brow. “By playing Goldilocks?”

  She gave him a look that said really? and continued. “I explained what I was doing. But if that’s what you honestly think, then I guess that makes you the grumpy papa bear?”

  Now it was his turn for the what gives hand gesture. “Why is everyone suddenly calling me grumpy?”

  “Have you heard you? Not exactly lightness and sunshine. I mean, it can’t be easy being police chief in a small town where you know everybody’s business and have to get in the middle of it on a regular basis, so I get it. Unless you’re normally a regular barrel of laughs and it’s just me bringing out the worst. Which, I suppose, is also a fair assumption.” She looked down, shook her head, and blew out a breath. “Yeah. This is so not how I saw this next part going.”

  “And what way was that?”

  Her brain went immediately to how it had been seeing things just a few moments ago, before she’d been so rudely startled. She shut that right down. All business, all professional, that’s how. Why don’t I start now? “Doing my job, doing it well. Just as I always have. Somehow you have a knack for continually finding ways to catch me at my worst.”

  “I see it more as stumbling over them, but okay. I’m not doing it on purpose.”

  “Neither am I.” With a cleansing breath, she squared her shoulders, forged a bright smile, and faced him squarely. “Let’s try this. I’m going to let you get back to”—her gaze skipped down to the towel and jerked straight back up again—“whatever it was you needed to do. And given I’m under a pretty strict deadline that only a grumpy person would consider reasonable, I’m going to get back to what I came here to do.” And ignore how much more he does for damp terrycloth than I do.

  Okay, so maybe she hadn’t exactly pulled off that bright and sunny part as well as she’d hoped. But he rankled. Standing there, all sex-god perfect with the voice of a fallen angel. Damp, dark curls clinging to his forehead, the perfect amount of manly man-hair matted to his quite beautifully muscled chest, and, worse—far, far worse—those topaz eyes of his that reached right past every barrier she was rapidly throwing up against their too-insightful-for-their-own-good power. Not to mention an attitude that she really didn’t think she’d earned. Much.

  Added to that was the fact that while he was all effortlessly godlike, she stood there looking like a pale-faced Mrs. Bunyan, sporting several layers of shapeless tops inspired by the winter lumberjack collection, complete with matching ever-so-not-flattering clunky black work boots. The backs of her legs clad in well-worn denim were pressed against his very big, very manly, ridiculously sexy bed made for sex, and not just any sex, but deep-into-the-mattress take-me-like-you-mean-it sex, the kind she was n
ever going to have, at least not in that bed and not with him. So, it was clear why she was a bit off her game. Not to mention that just the thought of the deep-into-the-mattress thing had her heart pounding like she’d just run up the side of a very steep hill. She made a mental note: more food, less caffeine. She really should have forced down the toast.

  He didn’t respond. But he didn’t tell her to get the hell out of his house, either, so she took that as a win and turned to exit the room before he changed his mind or before she lost what was left of hers.

  She got as far as the foot of the bed.

  “That’s not all of you I know.” He said the words so quietly that she realized hers hadn’t been.

  She’d been shooting for sunny, confident. Strident was probably a better description. Okay. A lot less caffeine. She turned, looked at him. “I’m really not sure I want to know what else you think you know about me,” she said more quietly and quite honestly. “What I do want is more time. This house is . . . well, it’s amazing. Just its endurance alone, the history it’s been through.”

  Warming to her subject, she found a source of much needed distraction, something that wasn’t about his naked body and her wanting to jump it, and she let the words flow. “It’s such a strong testament to you and all the McCraes that came before you. I want to find a way to make this work, not because you deserve it or because I do, but because this house deserves it.”

  She stepped closer, feeling the tingling in her fingertips, across the back of her neck, down her spine. It was familiar, like an old friend. It was excitement for her work, and she latched on to the comfort of something she understood. “The keeper’s cottage is . . . it’s breaking my heart. I don’t even know its full story, and it breaks my heart, sagging and struggling to remain strong . . . yet failing all the same. And your lighthouse. It’s proud, Logan. It makes me want to know its secrets and its stories, and I want to give it the chance to tell them to another generation. You couldn’t possibly know what that means to me personally, to feel that, to want that, but I can promise you that you won’t find a person more committed to finding a way to make it happen. To making it all happen.”