Soldier, Handyman, Family Man. Lynne Marshall
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And Grandda didn’t believe in selkies.
“Sure. The sooner you start to advertise the better.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
He refilled his coffee. “Absolutely.”
For now, he’d buy the little white lie about helping her out because she needed it. Otherwise he might get uptight about making another excuse to see her tomorrow, and he didn’t want to be tense when having her all to himself in the sitting room right now felt so right.
* * *
Laurel sipped coffee and watched Mark’s big hands as he grappled with the teapot made for ladies. She hid her smile behind the antique china cup. He’d obviously ogled her pedicure, and she wondered if there was anything else he might like about her. It had been a long time since she’d seen appreciative gazes from a man, and, being honest, she’d missed it.
Was that why she kept asking him to come back?
Or was it because, beyond his all-man appearance, he was nice? He’d intervened on her son’s behalf. He was a man and her boy needed male mentoring? Lord only knew she was out of her depth on that one. She hadn’t a clue that Peter, gangly and new in town, would be the subject of teasing. From what Peter had said, the teasing had been heading in a much more serious direction when Mark showed up.
What kind of mother was she? One who seriously needed to make time to read some books on parenting teens. Maybe if he was more confident, hadn’t been devastated by losing his father...
Her mind drifted back to the present. Instead of required reading, she was sitting in the parlor with a man who emitted more sex appeal than the last three seasons of bachelors combined. Did he have a clue?
Yesterday he’d hinted at needing a life coach as much as she did, so that was something they had in common. With his time in the Middle East, and her husband’s losing battle with cancer, they’d both been through hell. There was one other, more positive thing they had in common, too: they’d both been raised in a small beach town.
She could hear him swallow. Deep in thought, it’d grown too quiet. “So tell me about the history of The Drumcliffe.”
An easy subject to tackle, he did so with ease, giving her the story from all the way back when his grandfather came from Ireland. As he spoke, she enjoyed the sparkle in his blue eyes, darkened by the parlor lighting, and how tiny the teacup looked in his hands. His lower lip curled out the tiniest bit, and she wondered how it would feel to kiss him.
What? She took another sip of her coffee. Maybe she was ready to...
Oh, the mere thought made her stomach knot and a hope chest of guilt crash over her shoulders. But there he was, sharing his family’s story, natural as could be, smiling with pride. What could be wrong with a little longing?
She took another sip, admiring every aspect of Mark Delaney. She’d caught him checking her out earlier, and knew how that felt. Good, by the way. Now the tables were turned, but she didn’t want to give the wrong impression, and the last thing she needed was to get caught. Taking yet another sip of her cooling coffee, she wondered how long she could hide behind her teacup before being obvious.
“Hey, Peter, give me a hand,” Mark said that Wednesday afternoon, as he prepared to sink the white posts for the brand-spanking-new Prescott Bed-and-Breakfast sign.
The teen sat on the front porch playing a handheld video game and didn’t bother to look up.
So he made his loud tooth whistle. “Dude!”
Finally, Peter’s head bobbed up.
“Come help.” It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t know how.”
“So you’ll learn.”
Reluctantly, Peter put down his device and padded in his flip-flops across the grass toward Mark. “Like I said, I don’t know how to do this stuff, and we’re supposed to have another surf lesson.”
“We’ll make up for that tomorrow.” He watched the kid hide his disappointment. “I promise.”
That got a better response.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”
Over the next hour Mark showed Peter how to dig a hole, set an anchor, use an electric drill—which he especially liked—place washers and install a nut. Peter had obviously never so much as hammered a nail, but the how-to approach seemed to capture his interest enough. At least he tried.
“See that pile of wood over there?” Mark pointed to the grassy yard across the road, between the hotel and the beach.
“Yeah?”
“That’s going to be a gazebo, and I want you to help me build it this weekend.”
“Me!” The kid’s voice cracked and his eyes nearly bugged out.
“Yeah, you need experience hammering nails, and I can teach you how to use more power tools, a crosscut saw, table and band saw, you name it. What do you say?”
“Why?”
“Because knowing how to do a few useful things will build your confidence.” Which he needed. And will come in handy for your mother, too. “Like learning how to surf.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Surf?”
“No. Help.”
Not an option. Think fast. “Think of it this way. Our hotel is right on Main Street, the biggest road that leads straight to the beach.” He glanced up the road lined with palm and fruitless olive trees, small local businesses, storefronts and, in the distance on a hill, the local high school. “All the girls come this way to the beach, and they’ll see you building stuff. They’ll notice you. Might open some doors.”
Peter stood staring across the street at the pile of wood, then glanced up toward what passed as the town center, small as it was.
“It’s better than babysitting your sisters, isn’t it?” Mark noticed the click in his expression from on-the-fence to makes-perfect-sense. Whether it was the girls or not dealing with his sisters, Mark had sold him on the proposition, and though the last thing he needed was a novice assistant, he wanted to help the kid. Maybe he’d find out something new about himself, feel better and, like he’d said, be more confident. Or, he could smash his finger with a hammer, get the mother of all splinters and never want to go near wood again. It was a gamble, but worth the risk.
A half hour later, after a few finishing touches on the posts, and with plans to meet Saturday morning to begin building, they’d hung the B&B sign.
“It’s beautiful!” Laurel called from the porch, her eyes bright with excitement. It was obvious she’d made a conscious effort not to hover over her son while he helped Mark, but from a safe distance she’d followed the whole process. “I’ve got to take a picture.” She whipped out her phone and rushed down the yard toward them.
“You get in it, and I’ll take the picture,” Mark offered.
“Oh.” Her hand flew to her hair. “I wasn’t planning on—”
“You look fine. I’ll get a few shots and you can choose the best one, then put it on Facebook.”
“I’m not crazy about social media.”
“But you’ve got to create a buzz.”
“You’ve got a point.” She glanced at her son. “Peter, you worked so hard on this, come be in the picture with me?” she said with pride.
“Ah, Mom.” He obviously didn’t want anything to do with smiling for