Love Me if You Dare Page 11

  Standing beneath a streetlight, she glanced over at his illumined face. And what she saw there was . . . sincerity. So she gently said, “Okay.”

  And as Reece walked her to her door, same as the previous night, she . . . felt him next to her. It was that same awareness, that same warmth—it was his very maleness. And she’d felt it all evening, as well—and okay, maybe in every single moment they’d spent together—but there was something about the solitude of night and privacy that made it grow, feel more pervasive. Her very skin seemed to ache with the simple desire to be closer to him, touching, being touched. What would it be like to kiss him?

  When they reached her door and she turned to face him, she realized her heart beat too hard and her breath had grown short. Damn it. She still wasn’t used to having reactions like that. To anyone. She felt like a high school girl on her first date—though it hit her that she hadn’t even experienced a reaction this strongly then.

  “It was . . . a nice night,” she said. “Thanks for taking me. And for the ice cream.”

  “It was fun,” he told her, but she could have sworn the simple words hid something; she was pretty sure he was feeling the same thing she was. That urge for more.

  “Though I’m sorry to break up you and Fifi,” she teased to lighten the mood.

  He laughed. “You haven’t broken us up, Tink—I’m headed back to her right now.”

  “Two-timed with a dinosaur. That’s a new one.”

  He tilted his head, his look at once probing and sexy. “Sounds like maybe you think we’re a couple, after all.”

  “No,” she said gently, quickly. “In this equation . . . I’m the other woman.”

  Another deep, throaty laugh echoed from him, and she wondered if her desire showed through her iguana jokes. Would he kiss her? Did he want to? It seemed like the night—the very air—was ripe for kissing, and her chest tightened with anticipation as she met his penetrating gaze, until he said. “See you tomorrow for snorkeling, Tinkerbell.”

  “Goodnight, Reecie Cup,” she replied.

  He drew back slightly, eyebrows shooting up. “Reecie Cup?”

  She kept her expression pleasant, playful. “Fun to have a nickname, isn’t it?”

  And he smiled. “Touché, Tink. Goodnight.”

  “It’s only make-believe, isn’t it . . .”

  J. M. Barrie, Peter and Wendy

  Chapter 9

  AS CAMILLE lay down to sleep a little while later she thought about Reece some more. Why hadn’t he kissed her when the pull between them was so obvious?

  Um, maybe because you’re trying to wheedle his property from him with no real concern for his well-being?

  She shook her head slightly against the pillow, trying to clear it, sorry things had to be this way. It wasn’t her fault this was the reason they’d crossed paths and why she was here. It wasn’t like she could just quit her job—or quit doing it—for a guy she’d just met.

  No matter how nice he seemed to be.

  She reflected again on the snorkeling trips. That he didn’t even use them as a promotional tool—as he surely should be—to draw in business. But the fact that he didn’t showed her he honestly did it only to be nice, that it came from the heart.

  The nice just kept right on flowing from him, damn it.

  Of course, that had its upside. If things ever progressed between them, she’d know she wasn’t sleeping with a jerk.

  But maybe sleeping with a jerk would be better—to help her stay emotionally detached.

  You have to stay that way anyway. Even if he rocks your world, in the end, you will leave here—you’ll go home, you’ll never see him again, and he will ultimately resent you for getting him to sell his beloved motel. He will, in the big picture of your life, your history, be a blip on your radar screen. A guy who you knew for a week or so.

  So he can’t mean anything to you. He just can’t. If you let him, you’ll only suffer for it.

  So quit focusing on how nice he is. And how funny. And how smart.

  It would be a much better idea to focus on the fact that he’s hot and that you want to touch him. You’ve wanted to touch him almost since the moment you met.

  She let out a breath at the thought. Wow. She wasn’t sure she’d ever met someone and wanted to touch them that fast. She just wasn’t programmed that way. Her usual hard shell—the one he’d cracked so easily—extended beyond business into other areas of her life. She didn’t get emotional easily. She simply didn’t allow herself to. Because it made her feel weak, and why feel weak if you can feel some other, stronger way instead?

  But Reece doesn’t make you feel emotions of weakness. He just makes you feel . . . good.

  So maybe don’t overthink this too much. Don’t over worry it.

  And maybe he’d never proceed to touching her anyway. If tonight was any indication, that was the case. She was still technically the enemy, after all, and maybe he was doing a better job of remembering that than she was.

  Even if he did sincerely seem to want to take her on the snorkeling trip tomorrow. She’d felt that—in her skin, maybe even down to the marrow of her bones—when he’d eventually asked her so nicely. This wasn’t one-sided.

  And maybe she wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what she wanted it to be.

  Maybe it would take both of them to figure it out and see where this went.

  THE next morning, Camille got a call in her room from Reece, informing her that due to overcast skies and drizzle predicted to clear up around lunchtime, he’d decided the best part of the day for snorkeling would be late afternoon, with a picnic dinner on the boat afterward. Which meant she had some free time today. Which meant she should probably do some work.

  Of course, it was hard to know exactly what work was at the moment. She dealt with some email and administrative issues via her laptop, but after that, she knew it came down to thinking about her current negotiations. With Reece. Just last night in bed she’d told herself she could keep her job and her affection for him entirely separate, so she supposed it was time to prove that to herself. She needed to start thinking outside the box about how to get him to sell.

  A change of scenery often jogged a person’s creativity—and this was the time where creativity came in to play in her profession. It didn’t happen often, but every now and then an acquisition required an entirely new approach she’d never thought of before. And while she still held out hope that she might eventually get the solution from Reece himself, for now, it seemed wise to start coming up with some alternative plan.

  So she grabbed up her cell phone and her crab-shaped keychain and, dressed in simple cotton shorts, a fitted tee, and gym shoes, she left the room seeking inspiration. Indeed a light rain fell, so she stayed under the awning that edged the building and walked toward the breezeway that led to the back of the Happy Crab.

  On the way, she encountered Riley, who carried a beat-up old toolbox as he entered one of the other rooms. “Morning, miss,” he greeted her with an endearing smile. Even with as few words as they’d exchanged, she could see why Reece had gravitated toward the older man and wanted to help him. A quiet sort of kindness emanated from him.

  “Good morning, Riley. Keeping busy on a rainy day, I see.”

  The gray-haired man nodded. “Some repairs in this room I been meanin’ to get to. A guest snuck a cat in here a few months back. You wouldn’t expect a little cat could wreck things so much, but between cat hair and torn bedspreads and smells left behind, it made a mess for sure.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, either,” she mused.

  “Reece wasn’t happy, let me tell ya. You’d think Fifi would do more damage to things—but nope, not compared to what Reece says a cat or a dog can do to a motel room.”

  “Well, Reece is lucky to have you,” she told him.

  “Oh no—I’m the lucky one there,” he replied. And she supposed she could understand his viewpoint. But she’d meant what she said—Reece was lucky, too.


  After they told each other to have a nice day, she meandered past the office. She glanced casually inside but saw no sign of Reece before she entered the breezeway, soon exiting near the pool onto the planked dock area where she’d noticed the boats tied up. The natural bay where they floated so majestically was definitely among the reasons Windchime wanted this spot—with private water access added to the beach’s proximity, it would stand out from the resorts up the road for Coral Cove vacationers.

  Taking a seat in an Adirondack chair that was, fortunately, also covered with a roof overhang, keeping it—and her—dry, she studied the boats. She spotted the sizable catamaran they’d take out this afternoon with ease—and she hadn’t looked closely at it before or she’d have noticed it was named after the motel. THE HAPPY CRAB was painted in red script on the back, which faced her in the slip it occupied, with a small, requisite smiling crab appearing alongside the words.

  Four other boats were docked in a row next to it—two large sailboats, a cabin cruiser, and a sleek, attractive sloop. She was about to wonder which of those was the second he owned when Riley exited through the breezeway and ambled toward a storage shed near the pool. When he passed back by carrying a five-gallon bucket a minute later, she said, “Riley, which other boat besides the catamaran is Reece’s?”

  Riley glanced toward the vessels, then pointed in the general direction of the sloop. “That one. The other three belong to folks who rent the space from Reece, but The Happy Crab and the Lisa Renee are his.”

  The Lisa Renee? Straining to see them, she barely made out the name painted in very thin lettering on the stern of the sloop. “Thanks,” she said. And as Riley continued on his way, her stomach went a little hollow. Who was Lisa Renee? And how important must she have been to Reece if he’d named his boat after her?

  Not that it mattered. At all. No matter what else happened between them, he would ultimately be a very temporary fixture in her life, so what did she care who he named boats after?

  Unless . . . she counted it as one small clue regarding Reece and what he was about. And as it stood, small clues were really all she had.

  She tried to add up what she knew about him. He’d been born and raised in Coral Cove and held it dear, along with this motel, which had been built by his grandfather and passed down to him. He had a house he paid to keep clean but didn’t reside in. He lived a modest, laid-back lifestyle, but seemed comfortable financially—comfortable enough to pass up what Vanderhook was offering and comfortable enough not to have sold off assets like these boats. He was well liked and generous. Quick-witted and smart. He adored his pet giant iguana. Oh, and he had a boat named after a mystery woman.

  When she added all that up, there were definitely more secrets surrounding him than just who Lisa Renee was—but enlightening information seemed slow in coming. Which meant she was right—she needed to start thinking outside the box here.

  And maybe part of her felt a little guilty about that—to still be working so hard at this. But again, it’s not like I have a choice. It’s my job. She didn’t want to take the Happy Crab from him—she had to. And if she didn’t do it, someone else would.

  He knew why she was here—so anything he chose to tell her or any time he chose to spend with her was predicated on that. So there was nothing to feel guilty about.

  Her contemplations flitted back to Riley, to something Reece had said about when he and Riley had met—that it was illegal to sleep on the beach. It reminded her how there were all kinds of laws on the books—pretty much everywhere, but particularly in smaller municipalities—that people didn’t really know about or had long forgotten. Reece might know the law about sleeping on the beach—beach-related laws were often more widely known in a tourist community—but was there any legal way Reece could be driven to sell that he might not be aware of?

  Camille had used threats of zoning changes and eminent domain to convince holdouts to sell before—but that wouldn’t work here. Those instances had been for personal residences and in areas where progress and civic revitalization were already under way.

  And the thought then crossed her mind that perhaps she should pay a visit to the mayor or the town council—try to garner their support and see if they could supply some legal reason that would help move things along. But no—that would be a bad idea for two reasons.

  In a small place like Coral Cove, the people in charge surely knew and loved Reece and would probably want to ride her out of town on a rail. And it might do more to stir up trouble than help her cause. She didn’t need the lawmakers suddenly deciding Windchime was a bad idea here and passing some law against high-rises in the older part of the community—or anything else that could prevent a building permit from being obtained. As it was, the communications between Vanderhook and the local government had been brief and non-problematic—they knew Windchime planned to build after buying the necessary properties and that was all. Vanderhook and Windchime were skilled at flying under the radar and then pushing through zoning changes as needed before some communities really knew what hit them. Let them know Reece was trying to hold on to his motel and it was very possible they’d band together on his behalf and tell Windchime to take a hike.

  So if anything legal could help her out, she’d have to find it on her own.

  Just then, her phone notified her of a text message. She looked down to see it was from her boss, Phil.

  WHAT’S HAPPENING WITH THE CORAL COVE DEAL?

  She replied: STILL HERE AND WORKING ON IT.

  A moment later, another text. IS THERE A PROBLEM I SHOULD BE AWARE OF?

  Camille stared at the phone, a little miffed. Phil had hired her right out of college and she considered him one of the more stable, long-lasting relationships in her life. He could be short, and blunt, but behind that, he was a good enough guy. She’d spent more than one Christmas at his home, having dinner with his family. He knew she did her job well and it was unlike him to question her.

  Finally, she typed back: NO. JUST BIDING MY TIME A LITTLE. SOME HOLDOUTS REQUIRE MORE FINESSE THAN OTHERS. YOU KNOW THAT. She hoped it would appease him.

  But it didn’t. THERE’S A LOT RIDING ON THIS. WINDCHIME WANTS TO BREAK GROUND BY AUGUST AND A LOT NEEDS TO HAPPEN BEFORE THEN.

  Hmm. Thank you for telling me things I already know. There was a lot riding on every deal. Resorts were big money.

  And she was completely aware that there were permits to get, not to mention all the work involved in developing the property for construction before actual building could begin. She knew this was taking longer than usual, but in the big picture of things, she couldn’t help feeling under-appreciated and disrespected. She held this position for a reason.

  So she typed back: IT’S ONLY BEEN A FEW DAYS. PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE. PLEASE TRUST ME TO DO MY JOB AND REMEMBER THAT I’VE NEVER FAILED AT IT.

  She sat staring at her phone, soaking in the scent of rain and the ocean combined, and feeling . . . unsettled. Maybe by everything that was happening. But having Phil act antsy on top of it, rather than supportive, had her stomach churning a bit. She only hoped she’d expressed her point clearly and that his reply would make him appear a little more contrite.

  Yet again it didn’t. OKAY, BUT DON’T LET ME DOWN.

  Still irritated, she wished for the days of an old-fashioned phone you could slam down or even for her old flip phone that she could snap shut to expel a little aggression, but as it was, she could only press the button to make her smart phone’s screen go black. And conclude that she needed another change of scenery.

  The drizzle had ended and she could even see a few gaps of blue sky in the cloud cover, so she decided to walk over to the Hungry Fisherman for a soft drink to go. Making a quick stop at her room, she grabbed up her purse, then crossed the damp asphalt to the restaurant.

  Her first thought as she stepped inside was that the dark woodiness of the place felt too heavy, too much like being on a boat—and made her begin to hum “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” in her
head. The place was in need of a remodel, something that would let in more light. It seemed to her there were things the businesses around here could be doing to help themselves that they weren’t—like Reece advertising his snorkeling trips as part of the room price. She suffered the fruitless urge to remake the whole place, the same as you would redecorate a house.

  Her second was that the Hungry Fisherman was even emptier than the last time she was here. Perhaps because it wasn’t even lunchtime yet—but it still made her a little sad.

  She spotted Polly standing behind the register in that same rust-colored waitress uniform and headed in that direction. “Hi,” she said, smiling.

  Polly’s eyes widened dramatically and she looked a little frantic. “You are a gift from God!”

  Camille blinked, utterly taken aback. “I am?”

  “Yes.” Only then did she realize Polly spoke in a hushed tone. “You’re exactly what I need right now—a friendly face.”

  Camille remained confused. “What’s wrong?”

  “The health inspector’s here,” Polly whispered, pointing over her shoulder toward the kitchen.

  Now Camille lowered her voice, too. “And that’s a problem?”

  Polly nodded emphatically.

  “Why?” Camille asked.

  And Polly answered by reaching beneath the counter with both hands and lifting—until Tiger the cat’s head was revealed. “This,” she said. Then she immediately lowered the cat back down, hiding him again.

  “I see,” Camille said. Though she didn’t completely.

  But then Polly answered Camille’s next question before she could ask it. “I would just put him out the front door, but he’d only run around to the back—and that door gets opened too often, so he’ll only sneak right back in. Business is already in the toilet, but if I get caught with a cat in here, they’ll shut me down, and then what? That’s why you’re a gift from God.”

  Polly seemed so frazzled that Camille began to feel that way, too. But she still didn’t know why she was a gift from God. “What can I do?”