Noah set his tackle box on the shelf of the inn’s garage and scrubbed his eyes with his palm. He blinked twice, but the image of Elisa Bergeron rushing through the twilight across the front lawn of the Blue Pirogue, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and red plaid pajama pants, didn’t diminish.
He turned to fully face her—or perhaps her apparition—but she didn’t seem to notice him as she pushed up the sleeves of that giant hoodie. She angled away from the garage, dodging a paint can Peter left out in the grass, and hopped over a discarded stepladder.
In the distance, headlights flashed then vanished as the slow rumble of an engine faded.
What in the world?
This day couldn’t get much weirder. He’d thought the call from the claims adjustor he’d just received dropping the bomb that his insurance payout for hurricane-related claims was maxed had been the final nail—but he might have assumed too quickly.
He edged out of the garage, keeping to the shadows as Elisa continued her dogged mission down the walkway bordered by overgrown bushes—he kept meaning to trim them back—to the front door of the inn. There she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, raised her hand to knock…and froze. Fist lifted, back straight, unmoving.
She’d chickened out.
He smirked and leaned one hip against the corner of the inn, crossing his arms over his flannel shirt as he waited.
Her arm lowered to her side, and she shook back her hair, the blond bright against the deepening dusk. She raised her fist again, inches from the door, then exhaled loud enough to disturb all the fish they hadn’t caught in the bay.
Oh for crying out loud.
He straightened. “Christmas called. It wants its pants back.”
Elisa shrieked, jumping backward like a cat and stumbling over the concrete step. She planted one hand against her heart and bent over, chest heaving as she glared. “Bless it, you scared me.”
“You’re the one creeping around in the dark.” Noah stopped a few feet away on the walk. “In your pajamas.” He gestured toward her buffalo plaid sweatpants.
She closed some of the distance between them. Crickets protested the interruption from the unattended flowerbeds alongside the porch, and the evening wind that rustled her hair sent a welcome rush over his slightly sunburned neck.
Elisa’s cheeks were pink, but he’d bet money it wasn’t from a sunburn.
“Sweatpants aren’t seasonal.” She peered up at him, her crossed arms making her look tiny beneath the sweatshirt’s bulk. “I have a pair with ice cream cones that I wear in the winter.”
“Noted. Was there anything else you came here to say?” He glanced at the driveway, which was empty save for his own vehicle and one of the work trucks the crew left behind. “Walked here, apparently, to say?”
“I didn’t walk.” She stabbed her hands through her hair, pulling it away from her cheekbones as she released her breath. “And yes, I’ll say it as soon as my heart rate returns to normal.”
Elisa standing a few feet away from him in her pajamas was causing his own arrhythmia. Good grief, did the woman sweat vanilla? How did she always smell that good?
He focused on the small patch of pale skin between her eyes, refusing to let his gaze drift the length of her. It wasn’t fair how time had only added to Elisa’s charm. Nope, he’d memorize every dip of that little furrow in her brow before he allowed himself to remember what it felt like to press his hand against her lower back and tug her close?—
“We have to do the treasure hunt.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
She lifted her chin, squaring off with him as if her next suggestion might be a duel. “We don’t have a choice.”
After getting the bad news from the adjustor, he agreed—but he couldn’t give in that easily, not after his dramatic exit from August’s office earlier that day. “Why’s that?”
“Because I need the money. And after talking with my dad this evening, it sounds like you need it, too.” She jerked her head toward the inn.
Great. A flare of bitterness sparked in his gut. “Isaac told you about the failed inspection?”
“I asked him why you two were meeting at the diner.” She shrugged. “It’s not a secret.”
“Not for the inspector’s daughter, I guess.” He slapped an errant mosquito on his arm.
“Sugar, I couldn’t care less about black mold. It’s not shameful.”
He clenched his jaw. “I’m not yoursugar.” Hadn’t been for a long time, and he sure wasn’t interested in re-upping for the role.
