Dinner was at seven. Even with gas stops, potty stops, and traffic delays, we should get there in plenty of time for me to change in the hotel bathroom. What could go wrong? “Nine o’clock,” I echoed.
16
Joe
George Bartok leaned companionably againstthe ferry railing. “How’s business, Joe?”
Joe watched Anne’s bright head as she made her way along the waterfront against the flow of disembarking tourists. “Can’t complain.”
She was dragging a suitcase with one hand and balancing a cardboard cup carrier in the other—striding ahead regardless of risk, a disaster waiting to happen. Typical Anne. A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
George settled in beside him, ignoring the passengers straggling aboard. “Got a load for us today?”
“When I get back,” Joe said absently. “Sunday. Picking up some lumber in Chicago.”
He’d arranged the job at the last minute, after he’d heard Anne might need a ride. Which George didn’t need to know. Or Anne, either.
She bumped up the gangplank, her red hair and wide smile attracting all the sunshine. “Hi, Mr.Bartok. Joe.” She handed him a coffee from her tray.
George’s eyebrows climbed as Joe took the cup. That was the thing about living on an island with a year-round populationunder six hundred. Everybody knew your business. And what they didn’t know, they made up.
The back of his neck heated. “Thanks.”
George looked from Anne’s sunny face to Joe’s red one and grinned. “Pickup, huh?” He shifted his bulk from the railing. “Enjoy your trip, you two.”
He moved away to pluck a kid off a locker full of life vests.
“What was that about?” Anne asked.
“Nothing.” Joe cleared his throat. “Hailey show up this morning?”
“Aw, are you worried about her? That’s so sweet.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to leave your mom shorthanded.” He took a sip of coffee. Black, one sugar. The possibility that she remembered how he took his morning coffee warmed him from the inside. Which was fucking pathetic. Zoe had probably poured it, anyway.
He glanced at Anne’s drink, which was topped with whipped cream and a drizzle of something brown. “I see you brought breakfast.”
“Muffins. For both of us.” She raised a paper bag stamped with Maddie’s logo. “Peanut butter chocolate fudge or blueberry?”
He’d cooked up some eggs before leaving the house. But she was so obviously trying to please, he said, “Blueberry sounds great.” He nodded toward the ship’s cabin. “You want to eat inside?”
She huffed in dismissal. “Inside is for wusses. It’s a beautiful day.”
They sat outside like a couple of tourists as the ferry chugged away from the dock, moving into the wind. The breeze fluttered the napkins and snatched at the bag, blowingAnne’s hair around. A strand caught by the corner of her mouth, stuck on that drizzle of sweetness. She pulled it free. He wanted to kiss her, right there, on her soft, pink lips.
He looked away. Too late. She was already burned into his retinas, her face blazing against the water and sky like a hundred tiny suns.
Knock it off, he ordered himself. He was not starting something with Anne Gallagher. She was a distraction, an interruption in his solid, uneventful life. She wasn’t going tostay. Hell, she was headed to Chicago right this fucking minute to work things out with her doctor boyfriend.
He was simply helping her out, the way Rob would have wanted. A short-term fix, a favor to a friend.
He held firmly to that thought for the rest of the crossing, grateful the rush of the wind and the noise of the engine drowned out the possibility of conversation. Anne looked around eagerly, her face shining, as they passed the bridge and churned into the dock.
Joe kept his mind on the job. Grab the bags, walk to the lot, check the tires, oil, gas. No problem.
Until they got into his truck. Until she slipped off her shoes, the leopard-print ones, and rolled down her window with a sigh.
He headed east on State Street, the lake on the left, bungalows on the right, trying not to notice her bare feet, her long legs in tight jeans.
