Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)(14)

But no, no, looky here. He was smiling a little. Heck yeah! Maybe she wasn’t so bad at this after all.

“Good night,” he said.

Nope. She did suck. She would’ve said good-night, but he was already walking away.

That was terrible, the Holy Rollers said in disappointment. They were right. She was very bad at asking men out. This hadn’t always been the case, but it was sure true now, wasn’t it? Tall, Dark and Silent had simply appeared, all tousled and manly with those rough and calloused hands that, come on, probably knew their way around the female anatomy, because really. How many g*y lobstermen were there?

“All right, settle down,” she told herself, getting back into her car. Talking aloud, the writer’s affliction. “Let’s get home before we start jumping the locals.”

Home. That had a nice sound to it, yes indeed.

Julia’s house was at 97 Shoreline Drive, and Parker drove slowly, checking the numbers on mailboxes and doors. The road wasn’t much wider than a driveway. There were a few very nice houses—two Victorians, a Greek Revival—but they grew smaller and more sparse as the road curved with the rocky shoreline, leaving behind the snug little town surprisingly fast. The last house was 66 Shoreline Drive; otherwise, there was nothing, other than a decrepit little shed that appeared to be about to fall into the ocean.

Hang on a sec. The road led to a small peninsula that jutted out into the cove, and Parker glimpsed a clearing in the pine trees. Heart rate kicking up a few levels, she wound down the road, then slowed to a stop. This had to be it; it was the end of Shoreline Drive. An iron gate barred the driveway, flanked by stone posts and a small, tasteful sign—Welcome to the Pines at Douglas Point. Number 66 was a ways back; this had to be 97.

Heck yeah!

She turned off the engine and got out of the car. Lucy had joked about the Bush compound, but Parker wasn’t sure the Bushes could afford this place. The house was gorgeous. Smaller, much smaller, than Grayhurst, but absolutely stunning. The driveway led up through the pines to what had to be a fifteen- or twenty-room stone house. Slate-shingled roof. Iron lampposts. Though the light was fading from the sky, Parker could see mullioned windows galore, huge beds of white and red impatiens, hydrangeas, mountain laurel and ivy…the place was like a park! Good Lord, in ten minutes, she could be inside, wine and bath a reality!

“Thank you, Aunt Julia!” Parker breathed. She couldn’t wait to see what it looked like. Was it furnished? She had an air mattress, just in case, but given how well kept the outside was, she’d bet it was full of solid old furniture. Maybe there was a caretaker; it sure looked that way. Weird that she owned the place and had never been sent a bill or anything. Then again, maybe her accountant had taken care of it. Still, she should’ve known if someone was on the payroll.

Whatever. She wasn’t complaining. You know what? She’d have a party before she sold it. Nicky could wear his little tux, and she’d wear that ice-blue Vera Wang, and they’d send out invitations—Parker Harrington Welles and Nicholas Giacomo Mirabelli warmly request the honor of your company for the weekend at the Pines at Douglas Point, Gideon’s Cove, Maine.

“Okay, okay, let’s get inside,” Parker muttered. There was a code box; she flipped it open. State-of-the-art. Getting back into the car, she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the envelope Thing One had given her the day he told her she was broke. There was the deed, there was his business card, there was a key…but no code. Dang it! She pulled out her phone and found Thing One on her contacts list. It went right to voice mail. The one time she actually needed something from him, and he was unavailable.

“Hi, Thing One, it’s Parker. I’m here in Gideon’s Cove, and I have the key, but I don’t have a code for the gate. Would you please call me as soon as you get this? Thanks.”

Her irritation with her father’s minion faded as she looked back at the house. It was so pretty, and far less imposing than Grayhurst. Good Lord, she could get at least half a mil for this place, probably much more, and hey, maybe she could even hang on to it and rent it out—

“Problem?” came a voice, and Parker jumped and whirled around. It was Fling Material—um, Malone—sitting in a somewhat battered pickup truck, and ten minutes apart hadn’t diminished his appeal. Unless he was stalking her, which, though a flattering thought, was somewhat terrifying.

“Oh, hi again.” She held her phone up to her ear. “Just talking to my lawyer,” she lied, in case he was a serial killer. “But I found it fine, thanks. See you around. Have a good night.”

“You’re at the wrong place.”

Parker blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Julia Harrington’s is back there.” Malone nodded behind him.

“Where back there?” Parker asked.

“That little place you just passed.”

Parker looked back down the road. There was nothing except the shed. She glanced at Malone. He nodded.

No. That couldn’t possibly… Oh, no. Uh-uh. Her stomach twisted abruptly.

That wasn’t a house. It was a shack. A falling-into-the-ocean hut.

“That?” she squeaked.

“Ayuh.”

No. No, no. That house had boards over the windows. It was…crooked somehow. It couldn’t have been more than five feet from tumbling down to the rocky beach below. Square-footage wise, it wasn’t really a house at all! It was the size of her bedroom back home.