On the dock, she didn’t release his hand immediately. She stood there a moment, looking up at him, her face framed by the loose tendrils curled by the salt spray. “Nice work, Captain,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling. “No sandbars or other disasters.”
“The night is young,” Seb replied, his voice a bit huskier than he’d intended. “We haven’t met the locals yet.”
“Don’t worry.” Holly tucked her arm through his as they headed toward the screened porch of the restaurant. “I’ll make sure your mysterious recluse reputation stays intact. Mostly. We just need you to be, um, about fifteen percent more approachable.”
“If you say so.”
Seb paused, taking in the colorful, bustling interior of Parker’s. Fishing tack and gear were now decor on the walls and ceiling. The rugged coastal color palette of muted blues, clear greens, and graying wood. A glossy bar anchored the far wall and several families crowded around long tables. Everything combined delivered a punch of sensory overload. He’d stepped into a community in full swing and for the first time in ages, he didn’t feel like retreating.
“Fifteen percent?” He glanced down at her, noticing how right it felt to have her pressed to his side. “What does that mean?”
A grin brightened Holly’s face, dialing up that ever-present buzz of attraction. “I might have to reveal that you’re actually in love with your dog. That smooths over a wealth of eccentricities.”
“Digby is my sister’s dog.”
She waved that off. “Trust me to tell the story.”
“I think I can manage that.” And he meant it, much to his surprise.
As they followed the hostess to a table, the warmth of the restaurant and the smell of hushpuppies wrapped around them. Seb marveled at the way Holly greeted everyone and that zip of attraction returned, stronger than ever. Being the local guide was a role Holly clearly took very seriously. And for the first time in a decade, he found himself perfectly happy to follow someone’s lead.
CHAPTER 5
The scent of yeast and cinnamon apples was the unofficial morning perfume of Central Avenue and Holly breathed it in, grateful the windows were down for Digby. The little guy sat on Seb’s lap, as regal as a king. So far, she’d managed not to comment or chuckle at the two of them.
Parking her truck in the lot at the end of the street, the engine let out a familiar rattle before settling into silence. Digby cocked his head, then peered up at Seb.
“No front door service?” Seb stroked the dog’s ears.
She shook her head. “I like to save the parking spaces for tourists.” She pushed open her door. “Plus, in my head it negates the calories I’m about to consume.” His lips parted and she held up a hand. “Do not destroy my delusion with facts. Please.”
“Noted,” Seb replied with a smile. He climbed out of the truck and, with Digby secure in a stylish harness, he fell into step beside her while the dog snuffled the sidewalk in front of them.
Just like last night, Seb looked as if he was bracing for a tactical extraction rather than a pastry run.
She didn’t understand it. Everything had gone smoothly at Parker’s. Almost too smoothly. He’d handled all theintroductions like a natural extrovert and when they were alone, their conversation had been so familiar and easy, she’d nearly lost track of her role as a guide.
Her mind had drifted away from the agreement and interview toward enticing what-if scenarios of a much more personal nature.
Not. The. Goal.
Today, he continued to prove he knew how to dress the part of new, easy-going professional in town. Instead of last night’s golf shirt, this morning he wore fashionably faded jeans and a bright white tee under an open navy button-down, with the sleeves rolled back to his elbows.
Had she always been so attracted to muscular forearms? That was a question better left for later.
“Wow. I can’t believe the line isn’t as long as the street,” he murmured. “That’s heavenly.”
“Right?” Holly agreed. “And around the holidays, the line is that long.” She paused at the entrance and Digby stopped too, plopping at Seb’s heel. “Deep breath,” Holly teased, reaching for the leash. “It’s strudel and small talk, that’s it. No one will grill you for your name, rank, or social security number.”
“In my experience, small talk is just a precursor to a pitch,” Seb muttered, tucking his hands into his pockets.
“And in this case, the pitch is melt-in-your-mouth baked goods. Easy as strudel.”
“All right.” But he didn’t move. “You know there were three coupons for the best ‘charter boat experience’ in my mailbox this morning?”
“Word travels fast.” She hitched her tote higher on her shoulder. “Brookwell Island thrives on tourism. We’re all entrepreneurs at heart. I’ll wait here with Digby.”
“All right,” he repeated. “You want a scone.”
