Soldier, Handyman, Family Man. Lynne Marshall
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since, Padraig Delaney, a wise and intelligent man on many other levels, but obviously not this one, insisted each brother would find true love.
Right. And there’s always a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Anyone ever find it?
His oldest brother, Daniel, hadn’t helped Grandda’s notion a bit when he’d hired Keela and, after a few months, started dating her. Now they were newly married with a baby on the way, and calling that proof, Grandda had doubled down on his woo-woo predictions. Especially after he’d had a Guinness or two. He’d gaze over his glass and give Mark, the middle brother, and Conor, the baby, meaningful glances meant to convey they’d be next. What a load of malarkey.
“Remember the selkie, my ass,” Mark mumbled, watching the old man stride up the street without a care. What had made him bring that up again, anyway?
Because their new neighbor was a knockout, that’s why. Mark smiled to himself. So Grandda had noticed, too.
And with that undeniable thought, he grinned and cleaned his hands with the rag hanging on the ladder and headed back across the way, even though she wasn’t likely to give him the time of day after he’d finished helping her. He was still just a fix-it guy.
* * *
Laurel walked back to her car and secretly watched Mark reseal a paint can when an old gentleman approached him.
Here she was, thirty-five, a widow second-guessing her every move. Being the mother of a teenage boy dealing with grief and anger on top of the usual teen angst, and twin four-year-olds just beginning their journey with school, only added to the doubt. Buying the old house with one of Alan’s generous insurance policies had been a risk, for sure, but it had also been her way of beginning again. Lord knew she needed a fresh start. They all did. The last five years had been hijacked by Alan’s cancer, then remissions, praying the worst had been over, followed by the nightmare two years later of those demon cells’ return. If anyone deserved a do-over it was the Prescott family. Though Alan never got the luxury of a second chance.
She swallowed a hard and familiar lump. Life had been difficult without him the past two years, and may have kicked the wind out of her, but now she wanted to move on. What choice did she have, really?
She retrieved a few small items from the trunk of the car and subtly watched on the periphery, the conversation going on across the street at the hotel between the old golfer and Mark, her disturbingly attractive neighbor. The fact she’d noticed him was progress, wasn’t it? He was good-looking. There, she’d admitted it. But so what?
Before the move, she’d been walking around in a trance, dealing with the lowest rung on the Maslow hierarchy of needs—excluding sex, of course. That rarely entered her mind, except on those nights when she missed Alan’s touch so badly she cried. All she wanted to do was build a new life for her family, to keep them safe and fed, healthy, while wondering if this B&B had been the best idea she’d ever had or the craziest.
Regardless, she owned the Queen Anne‒styled house in Sandpiper Beach and planned to become a small businesswoman. A full-time job outside the home would provide a paycheck, but it would also keep her away from the ones she wanted to look after. This solution, buying and running a B&B, was the next best way she knew how to provide for her kids.
She glanced across the street. Why was that man so distracting? She had a world of other things to think about, didn’t need a single distraction, yet there he was, tall, dark hair, intense blue eyes, totally Irish American. Younger than her.
She walked back to the house, trying not to look over her shoulder. What could be the harm in allowing a tiny, secret attraction for someone who lived across the street? Could she go so far as labeling it a crush, or merely an interest? Whichever, she’d felt something the very first time she’d spotted him. Why now? Could it be a signal that, after two years of living in limbo, she was finally ready to move on with life?
Maybe.
A half hour later, after passing each other with arms loaded on trips back and forth to the house, with nothing more than glances and respectful smiles, Mark carried the last of Laurel’s boxes up the porch steps.
The grand entrance and main sitting room were detailed and updated with fresh paint, crown molding, a traditional fireplace, ornate mantel and rich wood balustrades lining the otherwise modest staircase. But the impressive dining room with its long and grand oak table, antique print wallpaper and classic crystal chandelier was clearly the focal point. Visitors were going to love this old house.
“Looks great,” was all he said.
“Thank you,” she said with an earnest gaze. “I’m petrified. After all the money I’ve sunk into it, what if it’s a big bomb?”
“Have you done this before?” He also wondered if she was married, which bothered him. Why should he care?
“Never.” Something close to panic flashed in her eyes, but she recovered quickly. “Can I get you some lemonade? It’s the least I can do for all your help.” Maybe she’s divorced.
He wasn’t the type to stick around and chat. In fact, he’d kept mostly to himself in the year since he’d been back from Afghanistan, skipping socializing outside of his family, but something nudged him to accept her offer. “Sounds good. Thanks.”
He followed her into the modest-sized kitchen for a house this big, and took in the view from the updated double-paned back window. The beach and ocean weren’t far off, and he assumed most of the guest rooms would have views of the same. “I wouldn’t worry too much about bombing out. Unless you overprice the rooms.”
“I’ve done my homework on pricing,” she said, opening the double-wide stainless steel refrigerator and grabbing a pitcher of lemonade. He also noticed she’d gone the modern route with the appliances and the long marble-covered island. Seemed like an efficiency decision, if she planned the usual serving of breakfast for her guests. “I’m right in the middle of the current going rate. Except for the honeymoon suite, of course.” She gave a flirty wistful glance. “It’s beautiful and well worth the price.”
He didn’t get what the deal was with rooms that were supposed to enhance romance—seemed to him you either had it or you didn’t—but figured Laurel was depending on other people who did. Whereas The Drumcliffe appealed more to families and seniors on budgets. So he was content to leave the “lover’s weekend packages” for her B&B. More power to her. Though Mom adamantly voiced the need for their hotel to have broader appeal, and she’d been on a quest to start wedding packages maximizing the gorgeous view and their large lawn area right along the ocean. An idea popped into his head: Why not turn the biggest room with the best view at the hotel into a honeymoon suite? Maybe he could get some ideas for decorating from Laurel. Of course, that would only mean more on his ever-growing to-do list. Which reminded him he was supposed to start building an arbor today, and a gazebo after that.
She handed him a dainty hand-painted glass of lemonade. So instead of gulping like he’d intended from thirst, he took only a sip of the fresh lemon and hint-of-mint liquid. “This tastes great.”
“Thanks. I made it myself using the Meyer lemons from the side yard.”
“Really good.” The yard, he’d noticed, needed some serious trimming and weeding. But she’d probably already made plans with a gardener for that, so he didn’t offer his services. Why would he? Besides, he had enough going on with the hotel.
He sensed she had all kinds of extra-special tricks up her sleeve where the B&B was concerned, like this homemade lemonade, and figured her guests would return because of those extra-special touches. That was if they found the house in the first place. “You have plans for a grand opening or something?”
She took a drink, her lashes fluttering. “I plan to run some ads and have an open house.”
“That’s a good idea.”
She looked gratefully at him. “I grew up in Pismo Beach, so I know we have a long season. Does it ever get really dead around