“Okay. I’m afraid of her.”
Jane apparently heard the exchange because she was laughing. “You’re not the only one,” she called out.
Griffin saw red again. He strode to the back door and threw it open. Then he advanced on the governess, determined to get back his dog and get her on her way, never to return.
“Stealing’s pretty low, lady,” he said in a menacing voice. “You think it’s okay to purloin man’s best friend? Abscond with an innocent animal?”
She laughed again. “Purloin. Abscond. You’re good with synonyms, at least. Maybe there’s hope after all that you can meet your authorial commitment.”
This close he could smell her. It was a sweet, feminine scent, and it almost dizzied him as he made to snatch the impromptu leash from her hand.
“Don’t touch her!” a cranky elderly voice snapped.
“What?” Griffin glanced over to see Old Man Monroe approaching, his beetled brows and stabbing cane making clear he was on another of his tirades. “What’s got you riled now?”
“I won’t allow you to hurt that young lady.”
Hurt her? He had never wanted to hurt a woman in his life, which was probably how the thing with Erica had gotten so out of hand. He hadn’t even wanted to wound her with the truth. “I’m not touching the young lady. What’s she to you anyway?”
Old Man Monroe, who had likely been bad-tempered for all ninety-four years he’d been on the planet, looked at Griffin with undisguised dislike. It didn’t bother him a lick. It had been the man’s attitude toward both Griffin and his brother every vacation since they’d begun running around the cove on their own as kids.
“She saved me from calling county animal control. Your mangy mutt was in my garden again. Wouldn’t budge an inch, even though I was throwing my old GI boots at him.”
“Couldn’t hit the side of a barn,” Jane murmured under her breath, “but I thought I should get your pup out of there anyway.”
“Would have cost you three hundred bucks to spring him from the shelter,” Old Man Monroe said.
“Or you could just have picked up the phone instead of your army boots and called me. You know the number.”
Monroe continued as if Griffin hadn’t said a word. “So you owe the young lady.”
Jane shot him a triumphant smile. “Haven’t I been saying just that?”
Ignoring them both, Griffin detached Private from the improvised leash and then began walking the dog back toward the house.
“Don’t you have something to say to her?” his curmudgeonly neighbor demanded.
“Yes,” Jane echoed. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”
“Sure,” Griffin answered, not looking back. “Go away. And don’t think you can traipse into my house again. I’m putting everyone at Party Central on notice. Nobody looking like a governess or a librarian is welcome at Beach House No. 9.”
* * *
JUST LIKE THE dognapping, Griffin had given Jane the idea himself. Nobody looking like a governess or a librarian is welcome at Beach House No. 9.
She was determined to get inside the place again. Beyond that? Her plan went hazy there. But she figured if she could make her way into Party Central once more, then he would understand she wasn’t letting him off the hook. Her fortitude might be the prod that would get him sitting down to start those pages.
Unlike this morning, this time she approached the house from the front. It meant trudging through the sand in a pair of strappy wedge sandals, but she plowed forward, passing other cottages and winding around happy beachgoers. Though the month of June often meant coastal overcast in the late afternoons, the Crescent Cove sky was a brilliant blue as the sun sank toward the horizon. The long sweatshirt she wore over her party outfit made her too hot, and she paused in front of the small bungalow numbered “8” in order to slide down the zipper.
A slender woman was tapping a For Rent sign into the ice plant growing beside the front porch steps. Unlike Jane, she must have been immune to the sun, for over her capri jeans she wore a fisherman’s knit sweater that reached her knees. Turning, she let out a frightened bleat. Her hand clutched at her chest. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you standing there.”
“I should apologize,” Jane said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The woman pushed her long dark hair away from her forehead. “Not your fault, really. I startle easily.” Her gaze took in Jane’s outfit, her high shoes, the hair that she’d salt-air-armored with a palmful of styling product and her flat iron set on High. “Visiting Beach House No. 9?”
“Ha!” Jane said, smiling. “I look like I’ll fit right in, do I?”
“Um, yeah. Are you a friend of Griffin’s?”
“Sort of. I’m Jane Pearson.”
“I’ve known Griffin all my life. I’ve always lived at the cove, and the Lowells summered here every year.” She gave a shy smile. “I’m Skye Alexander. Nowadays I manage the rental properties in the area.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jane’s gaze lingered on the For Rent sign as she filed away the thought that Skye might be a helpful resource regarding Griffin.
Skye glanced over her shoulder. “No. 8 had a leaky roof, among other things, that kept it unavailable for a while. Griffin actually wanted it, but he had to take the place next door.”
They both turned to look at Beach House No. 9. A kite attached to a fishing pole was whipping above the second-floor balcony. People were crowded on the first-floor deck, and Jane could make out a Beach Boys tune that changed to something from the Beastie Boys. A nubile female in a string bikini and nothing else climbed onto a table and began gyrating, to the hoots and applause of the rest.
“Has the makings of a rowdy one tonight,” Skye said.
Jane sent her a weak smile. “I can’t wait.”
The short trek to the front door of Party Central gave her time for second thoughts. Not that she was necessarily afraid of a little hedonistic celebrating—she had a friend or two who might say she was past due for some of that—but she wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea or with her costume.
It wasn’t Jane-the-governess wear. Of course, that was entirely the point, but still, she shivered as she let the sweatshirt slide from her shoulders on her approach to the front door. Her exposed skin prickled as the ocean breeze tickled her flesh. Taking a page from the bikini girls of the day before, she’d put on her own suit. The black two-piece had appeared fairly modest in the Macy’s dressing room, and she’d snapped on a mid-thigh-length black jean skirt over the bottoms as well. But the deep plunge of the halter top and the hip-hugging waistband of the skirt left a lot of bare flesh revealed. Her wedge shoes made her legs feel miles longer—which was good until she realized that meant miles more nakedness too.
She
