“Teenagers,” she murmured as they watched Garrett walk out the door. When she turned back to Ronan, she caught him staring, his blue eyes direct and intense.
“You’re Charlie?” he asked. “You’re the boss?”
“Yes. Charlotte. Charlie. Sibley.”
“I was expecting a man.”
“And I was expecting a chef,” she countered.
“What do you want me to call you?”
She caught a look in his eyes that appeared to be amusement. Was he just toying with her? Or had she completely lost control of this interview. “You don’t have the job yet.” She picked up the paint scraper and safety glasses and handed them to him. “If you want the job, show me what you can do with this scraper first.”
He nodded. And for the first time since they met, he smiled. To Charlie, it was as if the morning mist had suddenly parted and the sunshine shone down. He was even more attractive, if that was possible.
Men who looked like Ronan Smith usually learned to wield their charm early on. By the time they reached their teens, they knew the effect they had on the opposite sex and used it to their advantage. But Ronan seemed reluctant to use his God-given advantages.
He set to work on the skiff, a shower of paint chips flying off with each stroke. Charlie watched him for a moment, her gaze falling on the finely cut muscles in his arms. A shiver skittered down her spine and she turned and hurried back upstairs to clean up the tasting room. A bit of privacy gave her a chance to take a deep breath and focus her runaway thoughts—on Ronan Smith. It was an odd name, Ronan.
She grabbed the bottle and guzzled the remainder of the champagne, then opened another split. He’d mentioned he was from Seattle. She really ought to ask for references. Or a resume. For all she knew, he could be a criminal or a con artist—or a competitor, out to get an inside look at their operation.
Sliding onto one of the stools, she opened up another oyster and slurped it down. Ronan was a complete enigma. But then, when it came to men, she really didn’t know what she was doing. She’d only had one romantic relationship in her life and that had lasted six years.
She and Danny had started dating when they were juniors in high school, playing opposite each other in the school musical. When they graduated, they were both determined to chase their dreams on Broadway.
But New York was a rude awakening. Danny was easily discouraged and took a full time job selling cell phones. After some minor parts in a criminal drama, a series of commercials for generic laundry detergent, and an appearance in an off-off-Broadway play, Charlie was beginning to break through.
But as she got more work, Danny became more and more distant—and jealous. Their relationship began to fracture and Charlie realized that New York wasn’t where she wanted to be. So, she moved out and came home to Sibleyville, older and a little wiser.
She glanced up at the chef’s mirror above the granite counter. A groan slipped from her throat. Her chestnut hair looked liked a tangle of seaweed. Charlie grabbed a clean oyster brush from the drawer next to the fridge and ran it though the shoulder-length strands, then pinched her cheeks to give herself some color.
She rarely wore make-up when she was working and usually didn’t care to dress in anything that showed off her figure. Yet she couldn’t help but regret that it wasn’t the New York City actress Charlotte Sibley that opened the door to Ronan Smith rather than the oyster farmer Charlie Sibley.
She looked at herself in the mirror once more. Though she could pretend to be a myriad of interesting and exotic characters, Charlie knew that the woman she was would have to be enough.
Shaking her head, she walked to the door, but found herself off balance from the champagne she’d guzzled. If she was going to hire Ronan, than she’d have to keep her feelings to herself and her wits about her. A man like Ronan probably had women drooling over him everyday. And Charlie had never aspired to be one of the crowd.
RONAN SMOOTHED HIS hand over the hull of the twenty-foot skiff. The boat was old, maybe sixty or seventy years old from the clues he’d found in the construction. Nowadays, most commercial outfits chose fiberglass boats for their easy upkeep and long life.
“How’s it going?”
He glanced up to see Charlie watching him. Jaysus, she was pretty. Her wavy dark hair framed a beautiful face, each of her features a perfect complement to the others. She had the kind of beauty that made him want to sit her down in front of him so he might study her in greater detail, like a fine painting or a famous sculpture.
“Good. This is a beautiful boat,” he said. “I love the lines.”
“It’s old,” she said.
“They don’t make them like this anymore. I think the best boats are made of wood.”
“My dad would totally agree with you.” Charlie came closer to examine his work. “You’re very thorough,” she murmured.
The compliment pleased him, more so because it came from her. “This scraper is kind of dull. If you’ve got a way for me to sharpen it, I’d get more done. And you might want to use a better grade of marine paint next time,” he said. “If you apply it properly and maintain it, you shouldn’t have to repaint as often.” He stopped himself. Now he was sounding like the boss.
“You know something about boats?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Ronan said. “Just a little.”
“You said you were from Seattle. What are you doing in Maine?”
“Just traveling,” Ronan said. “Seeing America.”
“Well, if you’re willing to work hard, I’ll pay you a fair wage,” she said. “We have the office and shop here in town. And our nursery and hatchery is out at Kepley Pond. Then we grow out the oysters at Mistry Bay.”
Kepley Pond. Mistry Bay. That sounded like a lot of water. Since he’d been eight years old, Ronan made a point to stay off the water, at least the ocean. But he wanted this job and he’d need to put his fears aside. Maybe it was time to face the past. Besides, no one ever got lost at pond or at bay like they got lost at sea.
“You’ve done good work on the boat,” she said. “The job is yours, if you’d like it.”
“There is one thing,” he said. “I need to find somewhere to stay. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“We’ve got a small apartment upstairs next to the office. I could rent that to you,” she said. “As long as you’re quiet and tidy, I don’t see any problems.”
“Great,” he said. Ronan knew he ought to tell her his real name. She didn’t seem like the type to discriminate, although he still hadn’t figured out what the problem was with the rest of the town. “I tried to find a place in town, but no one wanted to rent to me.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. As soon as I told them my name, they suddenly didn’t have a room to rent.”
“Ronan?”
