Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(19)

Who is this man, where did he come from?

And how do I stop myself falling hook, line, and sinker for his charms?



Will follows my directions up the coast about twenty minutes, until we pull into the gravel lot outside Pete’s Seafood. “Here we are,” I announce brightly. Will looks surprised.

“This place?” he asks dubiously.

“They have the best fried clams around,” I promise, hopping down from the truck. OK, so it’s basically a glorified beach food stand with a few wooden benches attached to the local mini-golf course, but what was I supposed to do: take him to a romantic restaurant, or, worse still, a dark sexy dive bar, full of hidden corners for getting into trouble? Nope, much safer to be out in broad daylight with the crisp ocean breeze and a group of rowdy kids racing around, blasting each other with water guns.

If Will is put out, he doesn’t show it. “Alright then,” he says, flashing me an easygoing smile. “As long as we get to take a spin on the course after. I’ve got a mean golf handicap—especially when there’s a windmill in the way.”

“Deal.” I relax, despite myself. I wasn’t lying, Pete’s does have amazing seafood, and as we grab a table overlooking the water, my mouth waters at the piles of fresh-fried fish and shrimp boil other people are carrying back to their tables.

“What’s good here?” Will asks, hungrily eyeing the spread at the next table.

“Everything,” I reply, and he laughs.

“Sign me up.”

The teenage waitress stops by, looking flustered. “You need menus, or . . . ?” she asks hopefully.

“We’re ready. Two full plates with fries and slaw,” I tell her, looking to Will for confirmation. He nods.

“And a couple of beers, too.”

She barely nods before, racing off again. “I used to work here,” I tell Will, wincing at the memory. “Summer shifts, back when I was in high school.”

“Oh yeah?” Will grins. “I’m trying to picture you in that uniform.”

I look over at the waitress’s navy shorts and plain white T-shirt. “I wish. Back in my day, we had these little striped hats. They were the worst, could never get the smell of grease out. But they still weren’t as bad as the uniform at the donut stand in town. Or the boat tours. That guy wanted us all dressed up in pirate gear.”

Will laughs. “You got around, huh?”

I nod. “I pretty much held every part-time job in a twenty-mile radius.”

“And now you’re building a real estate empire,” he says, as the waitress brings our food in record time.

“Pretty much.” I grin, grabbing a fry and dunking it in the paper cup of ketchup. “But I love what I do.”

“Why?” Will asks.

“Well, the commissions are pretty great,” I joke, “but . . . it’s not just about the bricks and mortar. When you find someone a new home, you’re giving them a piece of the dream they have about their life,” I explain. “You know, the yard their kids are going to play in, the porch they’ll sit on in retirement. Even if all they want is a studio apartment somewhere they can afford where the landlord isn’t a total *, and the water won’t run cold, I can help make that happen. It’s a good feeling, being a part of that.” I shrug, suddenly feeling awkward. “Anyway, what about you? Have you been building your furniture long?”

“Nope.” Will digs into his food, “But I needed a change. I always said ‘someday,’ and then I woke up and realized, if not now, when?”

“It’s the first day of the rest of your life,” I quip, and he chuckles.

“Something like that.”

“So is Oak Harbor everything you imagined?” I ask.

He holds my gaze, green tonight as the ocean waves. “Everything. And more.”

I look away and focus on inhaling my food. It turns out all those butterflies dancing in my stomach work up quite an appetite, and I demolish my plate in no time at all.

“Ready to kick some mini-golf ass?” I ask, gesturing for the check. The sun is setting over the distant bay, painting the sky with pastel shades of pink and orange. It’s too romantic to be sitting here, watching the water together; the rowdy course is a much safer bet.

“Them be fighting words,” Will teases.

The girl brings over our bill, and I take it automatically. “I’ve got this.”

“No ma’am.” Will says firmly, reaching for his wallet.

“It’s fine,” I insist. The less like a traditional date this is, the better. “I said I was taking you to dinner as a thank you for helping break into my car. You can get dessert,” I add, nodding to the ice cream cabinet.

Will looks at me, amusement suddenly crinkling the corner of his green eyes. “You think I’m broke.”

“I didn’t say that. It’s fine,” I add quickly. “It’s none of my business.” My mother taught me never to talk about money. At least, not when you’re pretty sure you earn three times what your date does.

But Will is still smirking at me with that illegally handsome face of his. He leans back and tosses a fry into his mouth in a lazy arc. “You think I’m a no-good deadbeat who’s going to stick you with the check when we’re through.”