Hooked on You Page 2

  “I like that even better,” he says, his grin widening. “Now that you’re indebted to me…”

  As he lets his words fall off, I engage my mouth before my brain and blurt, “How about dinner? I’ll cook for you.”

  What the hell am I doing? I have work to do, a house to sell—and the sooner the better. Not only do I never ask men out, I don’t cook. Not well, anyway. Plus, I suck at making small talk. My work is my life and does not make for good dinner conversation. It’s boring to those outside my circle and would likely put this man into a coma. But there is a part of me that feels I owe him something. That horse could have killed me.

  “Payment for saving me. It’s the least I can do,” I add. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea here.

  “Sure, when?”

  “Tonight,” I say. Better to get this over with, so I can turn my focus to more important things. Like work and Gram’s B&B. It’s been vacant for quite some time now and must need repairs before I can list it with a realtor. “If you’re not busy, that is.”

  “I’m not busy.”

  I grab a notepad from my purse, scribble Gram’s address down, and hold it out to him. “Is seven okay?”

  “Sounds great.” With his hands full of lobsters, he gestures toward the pocket in his shirt, and I stuff my paper in, get a feel of his hard pectoral muscles. I quickly pull my hand back and make a move to go, but stop when he says, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  To cop a feel? Nope, nope, already did that.

  “No, what?”

  “Doug offered you a free ride.” He gestures with a nod. “He does a great tour of the town. You’d probably enjoy it.”

  I scan the street, find Doug feeding his horse an apple. I sigh. “Yeah, right after the second coming, or better yet, after I prove that a quantum computer has really followed my instructions and used them correctly.” Which could be at least five more years. The second coming is likely to happen first.

  As I head toward my car—wondering why the hell I just talked about my research—his laughter fills the air. The man must think I’m a lunatic. I hurry to my vehicle and work to remember where the grocery store is. I’ll have to get supplies before he shows up, not that I have any idea what to cook for him, and damn, I’m so tired of living off fast food and cupcakes.

  I take a fast glance at him over my shoulder, and the strangest little shiver goes through me. Okay, the hot fisherman is a distraction I don’t need. A thank-you dinner tonight, small talk that has nothing to do with my work—I’m not interested in watching him nod off—then I’ll never set eyes on his gorgeous face or body again.

  Yeah, I got this. Sort of.

  Not really.

  Chapter Two

  Nate

  Crate of lobsters in hand, I stand on the road for a moment and watch Kira climb into her car, a rental judging by the sticker in the window. She gives a quick shoulder check and drives off, disappearing around a corner, out of my sight. What was it she said about quantum computers? I have no idea, and I can’t say as I’ve ever met anyone quite like her before. Cute, quirky, with a sense of humor. The perfect trifecta.

  With a face free of makeup, and her mess of hair clipped haphazardly on the top her head, she has that whole girl next door thing going for her. But she looked a little lost when she was crossing the street, like she was having a hard time navigating this small coastal town. Damned if that doesn’t bring the protector out in me. And who the hell smells like cupcakes? I kind of like her, even though she’s different from the women in my social circles.

  Tourist season has died down, but it was clear from the start that she wasn’t from around these parts. I guess it takes a CFA (come from away) as they call it here, to know one. But seriously, it’s mid-October, and she’s not dressed for Nova Scotia’s weather. Just last week there were snow flurries.

  Then again, I don’t have a coat on, either—and it’s not because I hadn’t grown up in these parts. I took it off when I tugged on my fishing apparel to check on today’s catch. As the CEO of Hooked—a multi-million-dollar seafood company with its home base in Lunenburg, I don’t usually oversee the daily running of things. I leave that to my trusted employees because I have other matters that need my attention.

  What I don’t need is the distraction of a quick-witted, pretty woman. Which begs the questions, why did I flirt with her, and agree to dinner? I’m not sure, but I’ll have to think about that later. Right now, I need to drop these lobsters off and get back to the office. I walk to my pickup truck, set the crate in the back, and climb into the driver’s seat. I swing around and head to Frank’s garage.

  Chester Johnson waves to me as he saunters down the road, his cane leading the way. In this small town, everyone knows everyone.

  I slow my truck and roll down the window. “Hey, Chester, need a lift?”

  “Headed up to Edna’s,” he says and taps his cane.

  “Hop in. I’ll give you a lift. It’s on my way,” I say, even though it’s not.

  I lean across the cab and open the door for him. The last time I jumped out and tried to help him in, he nearly beat me to death with his cane. Pride is a big thing here. That was a lesson I learned the hard way when I arrived six months ago. I chuckle as I adjust the radio, and patiently wait for him to get in. He finally settles, but his breathing is heavy and labored.

  “I’m quite capable of walking.” He purses his lips. “Just in a hurry today.”

  “Edna making her famous quiche?” I put the truck into gear and head up the hill to Edna’s.

  He smacks his lips. “Nothing like it. It’s her fresh eggs.”

  I turn the heat up even more when he shivers.

  “You still staying at Gram’s?”

  “My house isn’t ready yet.”

  He nods. “You’ll get settled soon enough.”

  I bought a heritage house here in town for a couple of reasons. One, to live in while I attended to business in Lunenburg—except it isn’t live in ready yet—and two, as an investment. The plan isn’t to live in this small town permanently. Once I get the processing plant done, I’ll be on to the next facility that needs my attention. I just hope it’s in a big city somewhere in the states, maybe along the Eastern coast, close to Portsmouth, Maine, where I was born and raised.

  This town’s new plant will be designed with top-notch equipment and will allow us to process more fish at a faster rate. It’s been hush, hush so far. The last thing we want is rumors started. Many folks don’t trust the conglomerate as it is, feel it puts profits ahead of safety. They wouldn’t be wrong. But the bottom line is this: my carefully designed facility will bring us into the twenty-first century and make us more profitable.

  “Did I see you making time with some girl on the dock?”

  Making time?

  I nearly laugh at that. “I saved her from a head-on collision with Eddie.”

  “She was a looker.” He taps the top of his cane on the dashboard. “Might want to think about courting her.”

  Again, I bite my tongue at his old fashion lingo. I don’t bother telling him today Netflix and chill has replaced courting. His heart isn’t as strong as it used to be. His cane, however… I think I’m still bruised.

  Taking my foot off the gas, I coast into Edna’s driveway. “Enjoy that quiche,” I say.

  “Can’t leave without saying hello,” Chester says in a low gravelly voice. “Uncivil around these parts.”

  Since there is no point in arguing, I’ll only lose, or get smacked with his cane, I put my truck into park, and slide out of the cab. In the yard, dozens of chickens cluck and peck at the pellets sprinkled in the grass. By the time I circle the hood, Chester is slowly making his way to the porch. I move ahead and open Edna’s door for him. Nobody in this town uses locks. This town lives by different rules than the rest of the planet.

  Ch
ester grumbles and gives me a crotchety look for holding the door, but he moves past me and I follow him in. The warm scent of freshly baked bread reaches my nostrils as Edna comes around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Nate,” she says, fine lines crinkling around cloudy blue eyes. It’s nice that Edna and Chester are there for one another after losing their spouses. “Come in. Come in. I just made quiche.”

  “I heard, but I can’t stay. Have to get a crate of lobster over to Frank.” I lean in and give her a hug. Her warmth reminds me of my mother, and my stomach tightens. How can a mother just walk away without a backward glance? “Just wanted to say hello.”

  “Well, you wait here, young man.” She disappears for a second and comes back with a dozen fresh eggs.

  I’d offer to pay, but Chester has an eye on me and a grip on his cane. “Thanks, Edna. We’ll all make good use of these.”

  I head back out, sidestep a few chickens, and climb back into the driver’s seat. I drive back to Main Street and pull into the town’s only gas station. In the bay, my sports car is still up on a hoist. I grab the crate of lobster and step inside. Whistling comes from the back room as I set the lobster on the gas station’s nasty green, aged, and pitted counter.

  Frank comes out from the back and wipes his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag. With a ball cap over his bald head and grease-stained, blue coveralls that are big and baggy on his slim frame, he nods at me. Frank is well into his seventies but has no desire to retire. His kids took off for bigger and better out west in the oil rigs, and he’d be damned before he lets one of the “shinier” stations, as he calls them, move in, restructure and put in a damn convenience store. That ain’t what gas stations are for—his words not mine.

  “How’s it going, eh?” he asks, giving me a toothless grin.

  I chuckle inwardly. It took time to get used to the local accent and the “eh” at the end of nearly every sentence. I finally figured out it’s a sound Canadians use for a lot of things—state an opinion or express surprise, make a request or command, or soften criticism. Now and then, I find myself saying it, too.

  “Going good. Thought you and Nancy might like a feed of lobsters.” I pick one up. “Good size, eh?” I say.

  “Mighty nice of you.”

  A bell behind the counter jingles, and Frank glances over my shoulder. I turn, as Kira parks her car at the pump. She sits there for a moment, then steps from the vehicle with her credit card in hand. Frank shakes his head.

  “Damn tourists. They all expect to pay at the pump.”

  “When are you going to bring this place into the twenty-first century anyway?” I tease, just to get a rise out of him.

  “Don’t you start. Folks need to pay inside, and that ain’t gonna change anytime soon. I like meeting my customers.”

  Kira stands there, her brows drawn as she walks around the pump, trying to figure out where to put her credit card.

  “I’ll be right back.” I step outside, and Kira’s eyes go wide when she sees me. A few hairs tumble free from the clip working hard to keep her strands afloat.

  Might want to think about courting her.

  Not a bad idea, but I have other things on my mind, like buying up the last of the old neglected cottages on the shore. My hands are currently tied, the plans for the processing plant on hold until I can secure the land. Everyone has a price; I just have to figure out what those still holding out want.

  I clear my throat. “Hey,” I say.

  She glances over her shoulder. “You’re not here to save me from another runaway horse, are you?”

  I smile at her when she turns back to me. “Nope, there’s only room for one asshole horse in this town,” I say in a ridiculous western accent that results in a raised brow and a half grin from Kira. “I just want to let you know these old things don’t have pay at the pump. You have to go inside. Small town. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Won’t be around long enough for that,” she says. Then under her breath, she adds, “At least, I don’t think so.”

  I pick up the nozzle and put it into her gas tank. “Pick your poison,” I say and gesture to the three different grades of gasoline. She presses unleaded, and I begin to pump. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head when she realizes I’m not about to step out of the way and let her take over.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Filling your tank.”

  “I know, but what are you doing?”

  I finally figure out what she’s getting at. “Another small-town thing that you won’t be around long enough to get used to. The people around here, all help each other. Chivalry is alive and kicking in these parts.”

  “I…I’m not used to that.”

  “You haven’t seen the half of it yet.” Wait until she learns about the B&B that runs on the honor system. At first, I thought it was ludicrous. Sooner or later, one of the locals, or any of the seasonal fishermen who stay at the place, would rob the jars of money left on the dining room’s mid-century walnut credenza. But nope. Only in small-town Nova Scotia could one pull off such a gig. The place would be robbed blind anywhere else.

  “You’re not dressed for this weather. Head inside, stay warm, and I’ll be done shortly.”

  She hesitates for a second. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

  “No problem.”

  “Oh wait, I’m short on lobster. Do you think this will work?” She waves her credit card and gives me a grin. Jesus, she’s cute.

  “I’m sure Frank will make an exception.”

  She retreats to the warm garage, and I finish filling her up. I tighten the gas cap, and when I get inside, Frank is ringing her up with his manual swipe credit card machine from another century. He hands her a receipt, and as she glances at it, she has that now familiar confused look on her face.

  I lean into her, my mouth near her ear. “That would be an old school receipt.”

  She tucks the copy into her pocket. “Thanks again,” she says and heads to the door.

  “Better put a coat on girly, storms coming,” Frank warns.

  She turns back around, her big brown eyes wide. “I didn’t hear anything about a storm.”

  He offers her a toothless smile. “These old knees don’t lie.”

  She stands there for a second like she’s not sure what to make of that, and I come to her rescue. “People around here know the weather depending on which body part aches. It’s a thing.” I glance over my shoulder, but Frank has disappeared into the bay to work on my car. I push open the door for Kira, and she steps past me, her body brushing up against mine. Her barely-there touch burns through my blood and settles deep between my legs, as her sweet scent washes over me.

  All I can think about is placing my lips on the delicate column of her throat and kissing the soft curve where it meets her collarbone. Goddammit, I want to taste her. Seriously, though, what is it about her that remind me I haven’t been with a woman in a long time?

  Mumbling under her breath, she says, “Lobster for currency and knees that forecast storms. I’m beginning to believe I’m in the Twilight Zone.”

  Working to keep my breathing even, I say, “Lunenburg Nova Scotia, Twilight Zone. Interchangeable. But you should listen and get a coat on.”

  She nods. “I have one in the trunk. At least I think I brought one.” She gets in her car and drives off. Ten minutes later, I’m back at the plant, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, I wake my computer. Charts and graphs appear, ones I’d been studying before I left the office on Friday. I stare at them, and my mind drifts. I usually have laser focus, but my thoughts aren’t on work this afternoon. No, they’re on Kira. Cute Kira, who smells like cupcakes and is making me dinner tonight.

  Will I get a goodnight kiss?

  Shit, I shouldn’t be fantasizing about that, and the more I think about sharing a meal, t
he more I think it’s a bad idea. After two run-ins, she’s already distracting me from my work. I can’t let that happen.

  I’ve learned that women love power and wealth and want me for one of two reasons. What I have in my bank, and what I have in my pants. Dad was divorced three times, and my three older brothers are fast following in his footsteps.

  The Lancaster boys have no staying power. Not that I go by the last name Lancaster. Not anymore, anyway. My mom insisted I had her last name, too. When Nate Montgomery Lancaster became a pain to write on so many documents, I dropped the Lancaster.

  I manage to focus, and for the next two hours, I lose myself in work. Then when the phone rings, I absently reach for it.

  “Nate here,” I say.

  “Nate,” Oliver, the principal lawyer working on buying up all the cottages says on the other end. “Good news.”

  I lean back in my chair, hope surging through me. “I could use some.”

  “We’ve all but one property left to buy. Paperwork for the others will be done in the next couple of weeks.”

  “Excellent. What’s happening with the last property?”

  Papers rustle in the background. “Someone named Delroy Becker owns it. We’ve sent letters, but they’ve all gone unanswered, and the property looks abandoned. For all we know the guy is dead and buried. I’m trying to figure out what our next steps are.”

  “Okay, keep me posted,” I say, and end the call. I stretch out and check the time. Dinner is at seven, so I should probably head home and get ready. Back in my truck, I pass by Frank’s garage and drive a few more blocks until I come to the quaint little place I’ve been staying while repairs to my house continue. When I bought it, the inspector was pushing ninety and missed all kinds of things. It was only when the construction company started repairing the roof and ceiling that they noticed all the plumbing had to be updated. Once the walls were torn open, it turned out the entire place needed rewiring. The job has taken longer than estimated, and while I like my privacy, the place I’m staying isn’t so bad.