“Yes, I do.” He paused. “So how does this plan work exactly? Laire going to college?”
She sighed. “Laire works for two summers at the Pamlico House and saves every dime. Little by little, she tells her father about her plans until he stops forbidding her to go. And then, when she’s twenty, she applies. With any luck, she’ll be accepted, and . . .”
“And she’ll go to New York and become a big-time designer.”
“In a nutshell.”
“And I’ll be able to say, ‘I knew her when,’” he said wistfully.
Reaching for his hand, she pulled it to her lips and kissed it as the sun drew closer and closer to the sea.
Hopefully, she thought, you’ll still know me then.
Chapter 10
Laire leaned her elbows on the countertop at King Triton Seafood on Wednesday morning, staring out the front window and dreamily remembering every detail of last night with Erik.
He’d been back at the bar on Monday night during her shift, but after Sunday’s date, she felt a new closeness to him, a new intimacy with him that made her heart thrum with love every time she looked over and saw him. She refilled her water pitcher at the bar so many times, the bartender began to joke with her about the patrons floating away. He didn’t know she’d fill two or three glasses, dump the rest in the kitchen, then return to the bar to fill it again ten minutes later. Any excuse to lock eyes with Erik.
When he pulled her into his arms on Monday and Tuesday nights after work, they’d kissed hungrily, like their lips touching and tongues entwining was the only sustenance they craved and needed. Last night, holding her close on the dock in the dim moonlight, he’d told her again that he was falling in love with her and asked her for another date on Sunday.
Unfortunately, however, Laire had to say no.
She wasn’t working on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday brunch, though she’d picked up some hours on Sunday night to make up a bit of the loss. This weekend, she was attending Kyrstin’s rehearsal dinner, wedding, and wedding brunch. After Thursday night, she wouldn’t see Erik again until Sunday night at the earliest, and her heart ached at the thought. It seemed like an eternity.
“Laire, all good?” asked Uncle Fox, who peeked into the storefront from the back of the shop, where they had butcher and prep counters and freezers.
“Aye-up,” she answered, looking at him over her shoulder.
“Lookin’ forward to Kyrstin’s festivities this weekend, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, swiveling on the stool to face him.
Her uncle was only two years older than her father, though he’d worked a lifetime on fishing boats and it showed in the weathered creases on his face. His two sons—her cousins Roland and Harlan—were out working his boat today.
“First Issy. Then Kyrstin, Ro’s weddin’ is comin’ up in September.” He scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “Just leaves you and Harlan outta the five Cornish cousins.”
She nodded. “Guess so.”
Her uncle cocked his head to the side. “What about, uh, Brodie Walsh for you, Laire? Preacher’s grandson. Nice boy, good family.”
Laire’s heart sped up, her cheeks flushing with heat. “I don’t know Brodie that well.”
“That so? Hmm. I think I mighta heard different on that count.”
Shit, fuck, and damn it. Her uncle knew. He knew what that snake Brodie Walsh had been saying. She could see it on his face.
“You heard wrong, Uncle Fox, and I will call out anyone who says I have an understanding with Brodie Walsh!”
He raised his eyebrows, an irritating grin hanging on the edges of his mouth. “Well, well. Lover’s spat, I guess.”
Lovers? Gyah! “Whatever Brodie says about me is a filthy lie!”
“Okay, okay, li’l Laire. Don’t get yourself in a snit, now. Ole Brodie’s prolly just tryin’ to win you over with a little—”
The bell over the door jingled, and her uncle stopped midsentence, his posture changing from relaxed to professional. His arms, which had been crossed over his chest, fell to his sides, and he cleared his throat, using his proper business voice when he asked, “Can we help you, sir?”
Swiveling back around on her stool, Laire gasped, her eyes widening, no doubt, to saucers, even as her heart leaped with sudden and unexpected delight . . .
Erik Rexford.
. . . and disbelief . . .
In my uncle’s goddamn fish shop.
. . . and terror . . .
What. The ever-loving. Hell?
“Laire, honey,” said her uncle cajolingly. “Can you help out this fine gentleman?” Her uncle stepped up to the counter beside her and nudged her with his elbow. “My niece ain’t used to tourists.”
Erik’s lips turned up just slightly as he looked from her uncle to her. “I’m not a tourist. I’m Erik Rexford. I live over in Buxton.”
“Huh,” grunted her uncle. “Rexford. Like the governor?”
“His son,” said Erik, keeping his eyes trained on her uncle. “Heard y’all have the best seafood in the Banks.”