The One Who Stays Page 2

  “I just...have to wonder sometimes how much he really cares,” Meg confided in them. Both were good enough friends that she could do that.

  But Dahlia was quick to reply as she always did when the topic came up. “He loves you, honey. I know he isn’t always the steadiest sort, but trust me, he’s steadier with you than he’s ever been with anyone in his life.”

  This time, though, Meg lifted her gaze and met the older woman’s. “Are you saying this is as good as it gets with him?”

  Dahlia peered back at her through tiny silver spectacles. “I’m saying he’s a work in progress, so give him more time to be the man you want him to be.”

  Meg took that in. She knew Zack had grown up in a troubled environment and left home young. She knew he had commitment issues. She knew that Dahlia was putting it lightly—he was more than a work in progress; he was...broken in ways Meg had never quite gotten to the bottom of, because he wouldn’t talk to her about it. She’d accepted all that because she loved him and did believe he could grow and change.

  And he always came back. He always left again, too, but...he always came back. Always. That was the flip side to a man who was always leaving—when he came back, you knew it was because he wanted to be there.

  But Suzanne was rolling her eyes again. “No offense to Zack, Dahlia, but sometimes waiting is overrated. If I wanted a man around all the time—and I don’t, mind you, which is why I came here—but if I did, I’d...want him around. Not just coming and going without warning.”

  “His job is on the water,” Dahlia pointed out.

  “And I knew that from the start,” Meg had added—even as she wondered why she was defending him. Maybe because it defends me, too. Defends my staying in this situation.

  Yet Suzanne had shrugged. One of the things Meg loved about her friend was that she never pulled any punches. “I just want Meg to be happy, and I’m not sure Zack is making her that way. I mean, he’s a great guy in a lot of respects—but...”

  She hadn’t finished. And so Meg had concluded, “He is who he is. And it’s...fine. And I invited you two over to get my mind off the big lug, and yet here we are talking about him, so let’s chat about something else, okay?”

  And so they had. They’d speculated on the coming tourist season. They’d agreed that one afternoon soon they’d take the ferry to the mainland and see a movie at the old theater in St. Simon. Suzanne had updated them on her current project of refurbishing several of the little greenhouses on the hill behind the shop that had always allowed Aunt Julia to grow her own flowers despite the long winters here. And Meg had never once mentioned that there were two steaks in the fridge, and that today was an anniversary no one would celebrate, ever.

  After a lot more concentration, perspiration, and the fresh fury she’d apparently tired of pushing down, she finally succeeded in getting some of the screws out of the first shutter. Oh, how she regretted not keeping the electric screwdriver in the toolshed charged. How she regretted not having done this when Zack was still here. And she refused to think about the fact that there were over thirty more shutters on the inn.

  Drawing the ladder away from the house since the last screw could be reached from the ground, she wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, then struggled out of her shirt to the plain tank underneath. A little sun plus some exertion had her drenched and exhausted already.

  But also determined. Maybe the anger was good for that part.

  Because sure, there were people around town she could ask for help and they’d gladly give it. Only right now she needed to prove something to herself. Simply that she could do this. That she was no less strong or capable than she’d been before Zack had entered her life. That she didn’t need to depend on anyone. She’d gotten in the habit of counting on him, a mistake she intended to rectify. There’d been a very long time, after all, when she’d counted on no one but herself—and she’d done just fine that way. I don’t need you, Zack. I don’t need you, I don’t need you, I don’t need you.

  Drying her palms on the thighs of her blue jeans, she took another look at the task before her and approached it, screwdriver in hand.

  As the last screw in the shutter loosened, though, she realized just how large her shutters were, and that she didn’t exactly have a grand plan to keep this one from slamming to the ground when the last screw was removed. So she began trying to support its weight with one hand while still awkwardly freeing the last screw with the other.

  But it was heavy, and trying to keep control of it challenged her—she was only just now realizing that each shutter was as tall as her, and awkward to manage. The truth was, when the shutters had been painted in the past, it had been more of a family project, with her father taking them down—and he’d made it look much easier than this, so she’d just assumed she could do it.

  Damn you, Zack Sheppard. This wasn’t his fault—and yet somehow it was. Misplaced anger—maybe. But anger just the same, making her want to drop the stupid thing, send it crashing onto the lawn, kick it, stomp on it, rip it to pieces with her bare hands.

  Only she was far too practical of a woman for that—like it or not, she couldn’t afford a damaged shutter. Not only financially, but she didn’t think her ego could handle it today, either. She felt stuck in place, her body lodged against the massive old shutter, wondering how much longer she could hold it up, but fearing the result if she let go.

  She let out a growl of frustration.

  And that was when a smooth, deep voice came from directly in back of her, saying, “Whoa now—looks like you need a little help with that, darlin’,” just as the warmth of an unfamiliar male body pressed into her from behind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MEG TENSED FROM head to toe, sucking in her breath as she saw two masculine hands close over the shutters’ edges on either side of her body. Then instinctively turned her head to take in light hair, a strong, stubbled jaw, and blue eyes—no more than an inch from hers.

  “I... I...” He smelled good. Not sweaty at all the way she surely did. The firm muscles in his arms bracketed her shoulders.

  “I think I got it if you just wanna kinda duck down under my arm.” Despite the awkward situation and the weight of the shutter, the suggestion came out sounding entirely good-natured.

  And okay, yes, separating their bodies was an excellent idea. Because she wasn’t accustomed to being pressed up against any other guy besides Zack, for any reason, not even practical ones. And a stranger to boot. Who on earth was this guy and how had he just magically materialized in her yard?

  The ducking-under-his-arm part kept her feeling just as awkward as the rest of the contact until it was accomplished. And when she finally freed herself, her rescuer calmly, competently lowered the loose shutter to the ground, leaning it against the house with an easy, “There we go.”

  He wore a snug black T-shirt that showed his well-muscled torso—though she already knew about that part from having felt it against her back. Just below the sleeve she caught sight of a tattoo—some sort of swirling design inked on his left biceps. His sandy hair could have used a trim, and something about him gave off an air of modern-day James Dean.

  “Um... I...” Wow. He’d really taken her aback. Normally she could converse with people she didn’t know—she did it all summer every year at the inn. But then, this had been no customary meeting. Even now that she stood a few feet away, she still felt the heat of his body cocooning her as it had a moment ago.

  That was when he shifted his gaze from the shutter to her face, flashing a disarming grin.

  That was when she took in the crystalline quality of his eyes, shining on her like a couple of blue marbles, or maybe it was more the perfect, clear blue of faraway seas.

  That was when she realized...he was younger than her, notably so. But hotter than the day was long. And so she gave up trying to speak entirely, and settled on just
letting a quiet sigh echo out, hoping her unbidden reactions to him didn’t show.

  “Sorry to sneak up on ya like that,” he told her. “But I was passing by and when I saw a pretty lady in distress, I couldn’t very well keep going, could I?” Again with the grin, and this time he added a wink.

  She knew instantly that his brand of charm worked well on women—it was working on her, even when she saw through it for what it was.

  “Well, thank you—you definitely came along at the right time.” She then glanced toward the troublesome shutter because it suddenly felt easier than holding eye contact with him. He had a way of looking at her so intently that it was a little unnerving. Though she suspected most women liked that—because it gave the impression she was the foremost center of his attention. Something that might have appealed more if she hadn’t been such a hot, sweaty mess. “I, um, apparently bit off a little more than I could chew here. I didn’t realize the shutters would be so heavy.”

  “No one to help you with this?” he asked, motioning vaguely toward the inn.

  “Not...at the moment, no.” But rather than get any deeper into that, she decided to ask the obvious question. “I hope it won’t sound too nosy if I ask where you were passing by to. We don’t get many strangers around here until summer—so if you’re a tourist, you’re early.” She ended with a smile, to sound less nosy, but on an island so small that it could only be reached by ferry, strangers were downright rare before late May or June.

  He tilted his handsome head back, letting out a small, deep laugh before he said, “No, not a tourist—more on the flip side of that, in fact. I’m a handyman by trade, and hoping to find work here for the spring, helping businesses get their places fixed up for the season—and maybe stay the summer, too, if the work holds out.”

  Ah, a handyman. He wasn’t the first fix-it guy to come to Summer Island in spring looking for employment—he was only the youngest, most handsome one she’d ever seen. He didn’t fit the usual mold.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Rented a little cabin from a fella named Walt Gardner.”

  She tipped back her head in recognition. She knew Walt and she knew his three cabins—aging bare bones structures a twenty-minute walk from here that could be rented cheap due to the poor shape they were in and the proximity to town. On an island without motor vehicles, distance was measured a little differently than in most places.

  “Seth Darden,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She wiped the sweat off her own once more before taking it, feeling the warmth of him again, even if only through his palm this time, and actually, that was potent enough. “Megan Sloan. But my friends call me Meg.”

  He lowered his chin, his eyebrows raising in speculation. “Do I make the cut, Megan Sloan?”

  She’d set herself up for that, so said, “Sure.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Meg. And now—” He glanced to the house again, this time more toward the second story, from where she officially had no idea how she’d possibly remove the shutters. “Would it be too bold of me to offer my services on the task at hand?”

  Meg drew in her breath. In one sense, the question came as no surprise. But it also meant that this strange, awkward, and somehow heated little encounter—heated for her at least—might be more than a five-minute thing.

  “No pressure, darlin’,” he said with another sexy wink, “but I could use the work and you could surely use the help.”

  She couldn’t argue the point. And while she could indeed ask around the island for assistance, she didn’t particularly want to bother her friends and neighbors. Nor was she inclined to have to tell everyone that Zack was gone again—even if no one would judge the situation as harshly as she did—and she wanted to get this project done in the coming few days. “How much would you charge to remove the shutters and put them back up if I handle the sanding and painting?” It was the one aspect of this she still felt equipped to accomplish.

  And true, she hadn’t planned to pay for any help this spring as she did in some years—but when he answered with a reasonable price and she weighed it, it sounded better than having tacky-looking shutters all summer, something that simply wasn’t done on Summer Island.

  Just before his arrival, she’d been determined to do this on her own—but maybe it was time to accept a little help.

  * * *

  SHUTTERS LAY IN a neat row on the long canvas drop cloths she’d unrolled in the front yard, each being buffed with the electric sander, then getting two coats of the same white paint they’d had before. Every now and then, she looked up from her task to glance over at him, watch him working. Seth Darden. Now he stood on a tall ladder, detaching the shutters from second floor windows, one by one. Even that he made look easy and she couldn’t help being impressed. He handled the big shutters like they were feathers.

  She’d finished sanding the last shutter in line and had just opened a fresh can of white paint when her cell phone buzzed.

  Her first thought—Zack. But no—she didn’t hear from him much when he was working, and never this soon. Thinking it was him was only a habit—and an annoying one at that. A man who you’re always trying to get out of your head when he’s not around—is that a good thing or a bad one, a help or a hindrance in the big picture of life?

  Setting the brush down on the can’s lid, she made sure her hands didn’t have any paint on them, then reached for the phone in her back pocket.

  It was a text from Suzanne: Who’s on your ladder?

  Damn. She’d been hoping no one would notice she had a visitor. In the summer, no one would even bother asking—they’d all be too busy with their own businesses and lives. But in the spring, anything out of the ordinary on the island became a question worth investigating.

  She texted back. A handyman I hired to help with the shutters.

  Where did he come from?

  I don’t know.

  Do you know him? Is it safe to have him working on the inn?

  Meg sighed, peering at the phone. Suzanne was still a relative newcomer to Summer Island and she still often thought in mainland ways. The island was virtually crime-free because it was hard to hide here and even harder to make a quick getaway. No, but yes. And she left it at that.

  Which didn’t fly with Suzanne. So you just hired some stranger? You islanders are too trusting.

  You’re an islander now, too. Get with the program and quit being so suspicious.

  It’s a dangerous world, Meg.

  What’s he going to do, steal my shutters and make a run for it?

  Just be careful.

  Cross my heart.

  He looks cute from my window. Is he? Or have I just been on this island too long?

  At this, Meg glanced again from the phone to the man on the ladder. Took in the muscles in his arms. Sweat had his black T-shirt sticking to him a little more than when he’d started. When she sweated, it was gross, but when he did, she didn’t mind it so much. He didn’t see her watching and appeared very serious as he worked the large screwdriver she’d handed over to him—much more serious than she’d seen him look so far—and she found herself wondering what thoughts floated around his head.

  He’s cute, she typed. And young.

  Hmm. Young can be good. As in fun.

  Meg wasn’t sure if Suzanne meant fun for Meg or fun for Suzanne, but knowing her friend, the former. And she almost replied by reminding Suzanne that she was taken—but then she remembered that she, in fact, wasn’t. And that the one time she’d ever said anything in front of Zack to that effect, he’d quietly corrected her in a good-natured way. “We are what we are, Maggie May, and it’s good that way,” he’d said on a deep laugh. “Don’t complicate it.”

  So instead she typed: Nice enough change of scenery, I suppose. But mostly I’m looking at the shutters I’m painting. Back to work. And don’t
you have some flowers to tend to or something?

  The view out my window is a little more interesting right now, but you’re right—a fresh shipment of azaleas are calling my name.

  As she picked the paintbrush back up and resumed working, she did the math in her head—the guy on the ladder was an unplanned expense, but cheaper by far than a bunch of broken shutters if she’d started dropping them. And having his help would make this project go much more efficiently even if she could have done it all on her own. In a couple of days, all the freshly painted shutters would be rehung and she’d feel ready for her summer customers.

  Keeping the place up wasn’t only about business, though—she did it for her grandma, too, who she suspected was peering down at her from some cloud or other floating across the sky today, smiling. She’d loved this house in a way Meg had seldom seen anyone love anything. That had been at least part of why she’d chosen to stay here, run the inn, keep it the way Gran had. The other reasons had been more complex.

  “Got another paintbrush?”

  She looked up to see Seth Darden casting the same alluring grin as before. Not so serious now. Turning on the charm again.

  She smiled in reply, but reminded him, “I said I’d do the painting, remember? I can’t really afford to pay you more than we already agreed to.”

  He tilted his handsome sandy-haired head and said, “I’m more charging you for the time I figure the work will take than the particular kinda work, and you’re sorta backed up here.” Then added a wink that moved through her in an unexpected way.

  Young can be good. As in fun.

  Or...maybe it could be a reminder of roads not taken.

  Refocus.

  She did, and realized he’d detached the shutters way faster than she could sand and paint them.

  “Don’t much care what work I’m doing,” he told her. “It’s all the same to me as long as I’m making some cash. So I can stand around and literally watch paint dry, or I can help you out to get more of it drying. And besides, I figure if I do right by ya that maybe you’ll be good enough to recommend me to your neighbors when I’m done.” He ended with another grin, another wink. They fell from him like promises from a salesman.