And I’d sooner die right here and now than never find out, he thought, grinning down at her.
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t ask for your help,” she said softly to his back as he brushed past her and placed the last two coolers on top of hers.
“I figured you wouldn’t. But, sometimes, Freckles? Sometimes you just lend a hand because you can, not because there’s a gun to your head.”
He wasn’t certain where that sentence had come from, because the filthy, fantastic images in his head were a lot less lofty than the words that came out of his mouth. But he found that he meant them—there was room to want her and to help her. Both objectives cohabited together in the front of his consciousness.
“These sumbitch coolers are heavy,” he said. “I don’t know how you did the first four.”
“For starters,” she said, “I didn’t carry two at once.”
“Impressed?” he asked, winking at her.
The half smile on her lips said she was, but the way she shook her head, like he was incorrigible, said that she wouldn’t allow herself to admit it.
“You could say thank you,” he said, raising his eyebrows at her, “if you wanted.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“You finished quick, Laire,” said an older woman. He was fairly certain she was the head catering lady, and she looked at Laire with admiration. “I guess that ties up our business for today, honey. I’d offer you a tip, but . . .”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
The woman nodded as though they had an understanding, but Erik, to save his life, couldn’t understand why they weren’t tipping the little mermaid for her work. In a world where everyone was tipped for everything, she’d actually sweated through a job, and she’d get nothing extra for it? Huh. Didn’t seem fair, but one look at Laire’s face told him that she didn’t share his feelings so he remained silent.
“You remember my offer, Laire?” asked the woman.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hope to see you at the Pamlico House real soon now.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Get on home now before your father gets worried, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman nodded at Laire, her eyes warm, then turned to Erik, all business. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Rexford?”
He frowned at her. Yes, he was accustomed to people working for his parents calling him “Mr.” but it sounded way too formal in front of Laire . . . which, he suspected, was partially the point.
Dismissed, Laire waved a hand at the woman, then turned, walking away from the kitchen with her hands in her back pockets, more of a stroll than the serious march she’d employed back and forth between the house and her father’s boat. He watched her go, enjoying the way the sun caught the gold and copper strands of her hair.
“Mr. Rexford?”
“Uhhh . . . no. No, thank you.”
“Mr. Rexford,” she said again, this time trying to get his attention with a bit more urgency in her tone. He turned away from Laire to face her, finding her eyes a lot less warm than they’d been a moment ago. “She’s an island girl.”
“Yes. I know.”
“You don’t have any business with an island girl, now, do you?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. He didn’t especially appreciate the not-so-subtle warning in her voice. “What if I do?”
Her lips tightened, and he expected her tone when she next spoke to be harsh or judgmental. It surprised him that it wasn’t. In fact, it was soft and beseeching. “Let her go, son.”
She gave him a sad smile, then turned and walked back into the kitchen, letting the service door close slowly behind her.
Let her go.
Why? Why should he?
Let her go.
He turned back to watch Laire, who, with each step, moved farther and farther away from him.
Let her go.
She was at the lawn now. A few more steps and she’d be on the boardwalk.
Damn it. He couldn’t let her go.
He took off at a sprint, losing his flip-flops on the decorative footbridge between the pool deck and the lawn, and catching up with her halfway down the boardwalk.
“Hey!”
He heard her sigh before she slowed down and turned to face him. “You don’t give up easy.”
“No, miss, I don’t.”
“You should.”
“I won’t,” he said.
She kept walking, but he fell into step beside her, his arm occasionally brushing hers and sending lightning bolts up his arm every time.
He cleared his throat. Concentrate.
“Give me your number.”
“So you can call my house and start a ruckus? No way.”
“How about your cell?”
She glanced up at him just before stepping onto the dock. “Don’t have one.”
“How is that possible?”
“No need for it,” she said as she leaned down to uncleat the bow line.
Completely taken aback, he froze, staring at the back of her head as she bent down. He’d never met anyone who didn’t have a cell phone. It was beyond strange.
And totally fascinating.
She stood up and made her way to the stern line.