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 here?”
“I’ve only been back the past year, so I’m not a great resource. I’ll check with my parents, if you’d like.”
“Oh, sorry, I just assumed you—”
“—I was in the service for ten years. My parents run the hotel. I’m still getting used to being back.” Would that matter to her, that he wasn’t the guy in charge? Again, he chided, why should he care?
He’d left home at twenty-one an accomplished surfer, surf bum as Grandda often teased. Then he’d come back after a few tours in the Middle East, mostly Afghanistan, but also in Iraq, someone he didn’t recognize anymore. He’d dealt with his mood swings in his own way, spending the last year withdrawn, just trying to get his bearings in the real world again, while working on the hotel. And surfing. It had all been part of his healing journey, as the VA therapist had suggested. That was the reason he and his brothers had been fishing the day of the “selkie” incident. A bonding trip, they’d called it. But in truth, Daniel and Conor were worried about him and had wanted to help him over the slump he’d slipped into. Some trip that’d turned out to be. He still wasn’t 100 percent past PTSD. Still had occasional nightmares, hated being in big crowds, but he was on the road back to being a combination of the guy he used to be and the man he’d become. Less outgoing, more inclined to think things through before acting. Less lighthearted, grimmer. Someone he’d have to get used to. Maybe all thirty-one-year-olds went through the same thing?
Laurel studied him, those caramel eyes subtly moving around his face, her mind probably wondering what his story was. Well, she wasn’t the only one with questions. “What brought you here?”
“Oh.” Obviously unprepared for him to turn the tables. “I missed the beach. After college I got married and moved inland to Paso Robles to raise my family. Then I lost my husband a couple years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” And he meant it, even though he could only imagine how horrible it would be to lose someone you loved.
She quietly inhaled, then took another sip of lemonade. “Yeah. It’s been rough.”
That was something he could relate to, the rough part. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing, sympathy or empathy or whatever it was called, but he honestly felt bad for her. She had a lot going on, and a big project like opening a B&B all alone was probably as stressful as it got for a person. There went that nudging sensation again. “If you need any help, I’m around.” What happened to being too busy?
“Thank you.” She looked sincere and grateful. “I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.”
Good. A decisive and wise woman. But, out of character, he’d just opened a door he wasn’t sure that (a) he had time for or (b) he wanted to go through. Yet. She might be single, but she had a family, for crying out loud.
Her appreciative eyes suddenly widened. She frantically looked at her wrist. “Oh, no! It’s time to pick up the girls.” She grabbed her purse and rushed for the door. “It’s their first day at school. Kindergarten! I can’t be late.”
He followed, then noticed she had to work extra hard to get the front door locked. “I’ll come back later and have a look at that lock, if you want.”
She flashed another earnest gaze, this one accompanied with a pretty smile, which caught him off guard. “That’d be great!”
Then off she ran for her white minivan, where identical car seats were installed in the back—such a total mom.
Man, he must be completely out of his antisocial mind, because somehow, he found the whole entrepreneur—and multitasking-mother bit—sexy as hell. And that was way off course for his current game plan—keeping a low profile and figuring out where he fit in life...or even if he wanted to.
* * *
Laurel kept to the speed limit, but barely, trying desperately to get the image of Mark Delaney out of her head. Did he have any idea how gorgeous he was? Dark brown hair combed straight back from his forehead and just long enough to curl under his ears, clear blue eyes, a two-day growth of beard with the hint of red in the sideburn whiskers. His black T-shirt stretched across a broad chest and shoulders, with a peekaboo tear along his sleek abs, and arms that qualified for a construction worker calendar. His faded black jeans had matching tears at the knees from hard work, not superficial fashion, and fit his slim hips and long legs like he’d been born in them. Damn he was hot! Whether he realized it or not was the question. He certainly didn’t act “all that.” In fact, there was something dark and tender about him that put her at ease. And that ease put her on edge.
Laurel glanced at her face in the rearview mirror, horror soon overtaking her. She’d been looking like that? Her hair in a messy ponytail, not a stitch of makeup. Not even lip gloss. The man probably thought of her as a poor, struggling aunt.
She slammed on the brakes, nearly missing a red light. Woman, get a hold of yourself! You’re thirty-five, obviously older than him, and not to mention the mother of three. It doesn’t matter how you look, he’s not interested. Still, there was much to appreciate about Mark Delaney, and she wasn’t blind—or dead—in that department. Yet. Sometimes she thought she might be, so he was a pleasant surprise, after all she’d been through. She tugged the elastic out of her hair and let it fall to her shoulders.
Pulling into the parking lot, she prayed she hadn’t cut it too close and that
