The Wrong Mr. Right (The Queen's Cove Series #2)(83)

We floated out there for an hour before heading back in.

“I’m going to open up the store,” she told me as we stepped inside the house. I started to protest but she held up a hand. “If my head hurts, I’ll come home. I promise.”

I nodded, my mouth set in a firm line. She had referred to my place as home, and that might have been the only reason I let it go. “Okay.” I cleared my throat. “I was thinking…”

She raised an eyebrow. “Mhm?”

“We’re going on a date tonight.” I stepped up to her and put my hands on her upper arms. One hand skimmed up her shoulder and played with the strap of her swimsuit. She shivered under my touch and I grinned.

“A date?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Where?”

“Let me handle that.” I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her neck.

She made a soft moan. “Wyatt. I can’t think when you do that.”

I huffed a laugh against her skin and kissed her again. “Be ready for seven.” I thought about her sitting in The Arbutus by herself, wearing a pretty dress. “Wear something that makes you feel beautiful.”





That evening, I finished up at the surf shop, locked the door, and walked to my parents’ place. That was one of the things I loved about Queen’s Cove—nothing was more than a half-hour walk away. The evening was warm and while I walked, I thought about Hannah. I thought about this morning in my bed, about last night in my bed, about seeing the pod of orcas, about how the second she left for the bookstore, my home felt empty.

“Hello again,” my dad called as I stepped into his workshop. He lifted his safety goggles and gave me a big grin.

“What are you working on?”

“Your mom thought the community center could use a new bench.” He gestured at the plywood he was measuring. “We’re going to put it in front of the walkway, near the rose garden.” He took his gloves off and gestured for me to follow him. “Come on.”

I followed him out of the workshop, through the backyard where we all sat last night, to the kitchen.

“It sure was nice to have Hannah here the other night,” he said, standing at the sink and washing his hands.

“She had fun.”

He continued washing his hands. I liked this about my dad. He said his piece and left it. I appreciated the restraint. I knew where he stood but he didn’t push. I was grateful, because there were a lot of thoughts at the forefront of my brain, confusing thoughts, and if I started talking, I might say a lot more than I meant to.

“You want to borrow the Porsche?”

I frowned. “How did you know?”

My dad was not a materialistic guy. My mom bought most of his clothes. He wasn’t showy or flashy. He valued his family, his community, working in his workshop during the day and drinking a cold beer with my mom in evenings on the patio he had built himself.

But he had this car.

He bought it when my brothers and I were teenagers. For years, he searched for a specific make, model, and color, and when it was finally available, he called the guy that day, test drove it, and rolled it into our garage.

He loved that vintage, emerald green Porsche 911. He forbade my brothers and I from driving it. In our mid-twenties, he had allowed us to drive it while he sat in the passenger seat. This car was his fifth child.

I had come here today with the intention of asking him to borrow it for my date with Hannah tonight. I wanted to make her feel special. I wanted her to know she was worthy of effort and something memorable.

His mouth hitched into a grin as he dried his hands on a tea towel. “You have that look about you.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

He moved to the cupboard and pulled down a glass. “Water?”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

He turned the tap on to fill the glass.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What look?”

The grin on his face was ear to ear. “Same one Emmett had last year.”

My heart wrenched in my chest. I wanted that with Hannah. Hearing it from my dad, the possibility of having what Emmett and Avery had, it choked me up with a mix of feelings. I waded through them in my head but they clouded my mind.

My dad clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t overthink it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t talk yourself out of it. Trust your instincts.”

Holden walked into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

I snorted. “What are you doing here?”

“Mom said the tap was leaking in the guest bathroom.”

I made a face and pointed at our dad. “Why can’t Dad fix it?”

My dad shrugged. “She likes to create problems for Holden to solve to lure him over for lunch.”

A laugh burst out of me and Holden scowled. “Are you fucking kidding?” he asked.

My dad’s tone was warning. “Don’t tell her I told you that.”

Holden grunted and rolled his eyes. “I won’t.”

My dad opened the drawer where he kept the car keys and tossed them to me. Holden watched with a frown.

I caught them and leaned against the counter, crossing my arms at Holden. “Jeeze, no wonder half the women in town are afraid of you with a mug like that.”