Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(41)

“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.”

“You hear that, li’l Laire? The best.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, barely daring to breathe as she searched Erik’s eyes, which were still fixed on Uncle Fox.

“You need some fresh catch, son?”

“I thought I’d pick some up. I was huggin’ the shore on my way back to Buxton from Ocracoke and saw your sign on the dock.”

She had no idea why he was here, and she was terrified of being found out, but seeing his handsome face and windblown hair still made her sigh with pleasure. Swallowing, she took an order form from under the cash register and tried to smile at him like she wasn’t about to have a heart attack.

“Can I take your order, um, sir?”

“What do you recommend?” he asked, his voice deep and warm, and God, but her whole body was reacting to seeing him so unexpectedly—her nipples tightening, her mouth watering. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to grab him by his navy blue Ralph Lauren collared shirt and drag his lips across the counter to hers.

“Well,” said her uncle, assuming he was speaking to him, “got some blues came in yesterday . . . sea trout—”

“Sea trout’s a spring catch,” said Erik, flicking a teasing glance to Laire. “How about mackerel? That should be more in season now, right? Young, but fresh?”

“I’ll be damned.” Uncle Fox nodded, obviously impressed. “A dingbatter what knows his fish.”

“Come again?”

Laire couldn’t contain a small grin and stared down at the counter, hoping to God her uncle wouldn’t catch her smiling at his expense.

“Just a li’l island speak,” said her uncle. “Sure. I’ve got some mackerel.”

“Actually,” said Erik, his eyes flitting to Laire’s for a moment. “I need somethin’ that’ll travel well.”

“How d’ya mean?” asked her uncle.

Erik looked at her again, his smile disappearing, before raising his glance over her shoulder to her uncle. “I’m headed up to Raleigh for a few days. Leavin’ today. Family business. I’d like to bring somethin’ for my mother. Somethin’ that’ll keep on the car ride.”

Her lips parted as her uncle started talking about blues keeping nice on ice. Now she understood. He was here to tell her that he wouldn’t be around tonight or tomorrow night. He had no other way to tell her that he wouldn’t be sitting at his regular seat at the bar, to explain his absence, and so he’d risked coming here to tell her in the only way he could.