She felt her eyes go wide. Felt her heart kick hard. From her peripheral vision she was aware that the entire crowd had surged forward to peek over the counter in order to get a look at Ben McDaniel on one knee.
“Are you going to reject me in front of at least one hundred of our closest friends and family?” he asked lightly.
She looked into his eyes and realized he wasn’t nearly as calm, cool, and unruffled as he was pretending to be, and it squeezed her heart. “No,” she said.
His expression grew very serious, and there was absolute silence in the room. “No,” he repeated, clearly trying to figure out what exactly she was saying no to—the proposal or rejecting him.
Letting out a laugh, Aubrey dropped to her knees in front of him, eyes burning as she met his gaze. “I mean yes.”
“So…yes you’ll marry me, or yes you’re rejecting me?”
“Yeah, honey,” Lucille piped up, leaning over the counter. “There’s a pretty big difference there.”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.” Leaning into him, Aubrey wrapped her arms around Ben’s neck as their audience broke out in applause.
“Shh!” Lucille snapped above them. “I can’t hear; I want to hear!”
“There’s nothing more to hear,” Aubrey said, eyes on Ben. “It’s all been said.”
Ben’s eyes smiled first, and then the smile spread to his mouth. And then he lowered that smiling mouth and kissed hers.
“You’ve given me so much,” she said against him. “What do you get?”
His eyes soaked her up, as though maybe he’d never get enough of her. “You.”
Commercial jingle writer Becca Thorne is looking for inspiration in Lucky Harbor.
Sam Brody might be just what she needs…
Please turn this page for a preview of
It’s in His Kiss.
Chapter 1
Oh, yeah,” Becca Thorne murmured with a sigh of pleasure as she wriggled her toes in the wet sand. The sensation was better than splurging on a rare pedicure. Better than finding the perfect dress on sale. Better than…well, she’d say “orgasms,” but it’d been a while, and she couldn’t remember for sure.
“You’re perfect,” she said to the Pacific Ocean, munching on the ranch-flavored popcorn she’d bought on the pier. “So perfect that I’d marry you and have your babies if I hadn’t already promised myself to my e-reader.”
“Not even going to ask.”
At the deep male voice behind her, Becca squeaked and whipped around, spilling some of the precious popcorn.
She’d thought she was alone on the rocky beach lined with stacks of mossy sandstone towers. Alone with her thoughts, her hopes, her fears, and all her worldly possessions—which were stuffed into her car parked in the lot behind her.
But she wasn’t alone at all, because not ten feet away, between her and a huge Ferris wheel on the pier, stood a man. He wore a skintight rash guard T-shirt and loose board shorts, both dripping wet and clinging to his very hot bod. He had a surfboard tucked under a bicep like it weighed nothing, and just looking at him had her pulse doing a little tap dance.
Maybe it was his unruly sun-kissed brown hair, the strands more than a little wild and blowing in his face. Maybe it was the face itself, which was striking for its features carved in granite and its set of sage-colored eyes that held her prisoner. Or maybe it was that he carried himself like he knew he was at the top of the food chain.
It didn’t matter because the wary city girl in her didn’t trust anyone, not even a sexy-looking surfer dude. Taking a few steps backward, she thought about the Swiss Army knife she’d left in her car.
The man didn’t react, didn’t seem bothered by her retreat at all, other than the slightest tilt of the corners of his mouth. “You okay?” he asked, voice a little gruff but not aggressive.
Was she okay? The jury was still out, but that he’d asked at all meant she needed to work on her poker face. “I’m good,” she said, not adding the automatic “thanks” as she would’ve in the old days, back when she’d still been a people pleaser. Of course, being “good” was more than a bit of an exaggeration, but what she really happened to be was none of his business.
He met her gaze and held it, and she knew that he knew she was full of shit. But after a beat, he gave her a short nod and left her alone. Becca watched him stride up the pier steps and then vanish from sight before she turned her attention back to the ocean.
Whitecaps flashed in the last of the day’s sun, and a salty breeze blew over her as the waves crashed onto the shore. Big waves. Had Sexy Surfer really just been out in that? Was he crazy?
No, she was the crazy one, and she let out a long, purposeful breath, and with it a lot of her tension.
But not all…
She wriggled her toes some more, waiting for the next wave. There were a million things running through her mind, most of them floating like dust motes through an open, sun-filled window, never quite landing. Still, a few managed to hit with surprising emphasis—such as the realization that she’d done it. She’d packed up and left home.
Her destination had been the Pacific Ocean. She’d always wanted to see it, and she could now say with one hundred percent certainty that it met her expectations. The knowledge that she’d fulfilled one of her dreams felt glorious, and she was nearly as light as a feather.
Nearly.
Because, of course, there were worries. The mess she’d left behind, for one. Staying out of the rut she’d just climbed out of, for another. And a life. She wanted—needed—a life. And employment would be good—something temporary, a filler of sorts, mostly because she’d become fond of eating.
But standing in this cozy, quirky little Washington State town she’d yet to explore, those worries all receded a little bit. She’d get through this; she always did. After all, the name of this place nearly guaranteed it.
Lucky Harbor.
She especially liked the “Lucky” part, since she was determined to chase some good luck for a change.
A few minutes later, the sun finally gently touched down on the water, sending a chill through the early July evening. Becca took one last look and turned to head back to her car. Sliding behind the wheel, she pulled out her phone and accessed the ad she’d found on Craigslist last month.
Cheap waterfront warehouse converted into three separate living spaces. Cheap. Furnished (sort of). Cheap. Month to month. Cheap.
It worked for Becca on all levels, especially the “cheap” part. She had the first month’s rent check in her pocket, and she was meeting the landlord at the building. All she had to do was locate it. Her GPS led her away from the pier, to the other end of the harbor, down a narrow street lined with maybe ten warehouse buildings.
Problem numero uno.
None of them had a number indicating an address. After cruising up and down the street three times, she admitted defeat and parked. She called the landlord, but she only had his office number, and it went right to voicemail.
Problem number two. She was going to have to ask someone for help, which wasn’t exactly her strong suit.
It wasn’t even a suit of hers at all. She hummed a little to herself as she looked around, a nervous tic for sure, but it soothed her. Unfortunately, the only person in sight was a kid on a bike, in homeboy shorts about ten sizes too big and a knit cap, coming straight at her on the narrow sidewalk.