Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)(17)

James pulled over on the side of the road and took out his phone. One missed call—Parker Welles, the screen said. Cell-phone service was spotty up here, so no surprise there. The surprise was that she called him at all. He listened to the message, frowning. He didn’t know anything about a security system or code. When he’d called his uncle to tell him about his plans, James asked him if he knew the Harrington place. “Ayuh,” Dewey had said. “Needs a little work. I’ll make sure the electric’s on.” Nothing about a security system.

Well. He’d be there in an hour. He could figure it out then. Besides, making Parker wait had its own appeal. And he did owe Leah a call.

“Hey, Leah, it’s James.”

“Hi there, stranger! How are you doing?” she said, her cheerleader-style exuberance making him hold the phone a little farther away from his ear. She was cute, but best in small doses, which explained why they only saw each other about once a month.

“How are you?” he said.

“I’m awesome! What’s up? You wanna get together this weekend?”

“Well, actually, I’m in Maine right now, and I’ll be here for a while. Six or eight weeks. Figured I’d let you know.”

There was a pause. “Oh,” she finally said.

It was impressive, how much could be packed into a two-letter word. They must teach it at woman school. “Yeah. So, just wanted to say bye and have a nice summer and all.” James pressed his thumb against his eye socket, bracing for the relationship talk.

“What about…you know? Us?”

Ah, mooseshit. Was there an us? Because he’d seen Leah, a very pretty redhead who liked to play pool and flirt, maybe six or seven times since they’d met at a wedding on New Year’s Eve, and if there was an us, it was pretty anemic. There was him, and there was her, and the two of them intersected at a bar once in a while, which generally led to more intersecting in bed, which had always seemed like enough.

Until this moment.

“Well, I have to be in Maine this summer,” James repeated.

“For Harry?”

“Yep. So I figured I’d call, tell you I wouldn’t be around. And after the summer, I really don’t know where I’ll be jobwise.” There. Mission accomplished.

“You want some company up there? I love Maine!”

Mission not accomplished. James sighed and closed his eyes. “Well, I’ll be busy, Leah. And it’s far. Way up the coast. But it’s been fun hanging out. Good luck with everything.” He winced. He didn’t mean to sound like a dick. They just taught it in guy school.

There was a lengthy pause, then a sigh. “Fine.” Another pause. “Where are you staying?”

“A town called Gideon’s Cove. Harry’s daughter has some property up there.”

“Harry’s in jail, right?”

“Yeah. But his daughter needs a little help. Real-estate stuff.” James never liked talking about what he did, just in case what he didn’t do came out. Well, I sit in my office a lot. Shot thirty-nine Nerf baskets in a row one day. I was really stoked.

Another pause. “Well, try to have fun,” she said, her voice a little brighter. “And thanks for calling, James! That was so thoughtful.”

Atta girl. Leah was sweet. Not tremendously bright, but good-natured and fun. It’d been really easy, hanging out with her. And easy was good so far as he was concerned. “You take care, Leah.”

“You, too, James. Give me a call when you’re back, if you feel like it.”

“You bet. Take care,” he repeated.

There. His condo was sublet for the summer. Leah had been informed. Stella, his secretary, had told James not to worry; she’d been about to quit anyway and become a jujitsu instructor. The guys he played basketball with on Saturday mornings had taken him out for a beer as a farewell. No point in telling Mary Elizabeth about work…she pretty much only cared if he brought her a present.

His parents could wait.

So. On to Gideon’s Cove to see Parker. Maybe she’d be glad to see him.

Right. And the ice-skating in hell was fabulous this time of year. But she was Harry’s daughter, and James owed him more than he could say.

Six years ago, James had been stuck on the tarmac in L.A., where he’d interviewed for a job—one of 204 prospects, apparently. He’d been out of law school for a year and had yet to get a job offer, and panic was setting in. His father was sixty-two and business was slow; his brothers were just getting by. The law was supposed to have been a sure bet for James, a guaranteed decent salary, and making money had always been the goal.

At any rate, James had been upgraded to first class—the girl at the desk had liked his “smies,” whatever those were. James was enjoying the extra four inches of legroom when a man sat in the seat next to him, growling about the inconvenience of having to fly commercial. Harry Welles, legend of Wall Street, in the flesh.

A guy who probably had a whopping-size legal department.

James introduced himself, made wry comments about the joys of air travel, spent his last hundred bucks on a bottle of champagne—which Harry had declared cheap swill—got the guy to laugh and a few hours later found himself with a job offer. Not a corporate position, though. Harry’s longtime personal attorney had announced his retirement; would James like the job? On retainer for personal and family business, no other clients in case Harry needed him. It would be mostly real-estate dealings, as Harry owned a couple dozen corporate buildings, maybe some trust and estate planning. When Harry had named a salary, it was all James could do not to hump his leg. For that salary, he would’ve done anything. He needed money, a lot of it, and fast.