"Clara—"
"Absolutely not."
Jack cleared his throat. "I could sleep in the boat. Or maybe there's a shed?—"
"Don't be ridiculous." Maeve fixed Clara with a look that probably cowed lesser people. "You're not making the man sleep in a shed. He's injured, stranded, and you have a perfectly good lighthouse with more than enough room. I know for a fact that lighthouse's got a spare bedroom."
"Currently serving as storage," Clara said. "I'm not running a bed-and-breakfast. I have routines. Schedules. I don't need them stomped on."
"Your routine will survive a houseguest." Maeve's voice gentled. "I know you like your solitude. But sometimes we have to be flexible."
Clara looked at Jack. He met her gaze steadily, and she saw something unexpected—understanding. He didn't want this either. Didn't want to impose or disrupt or overstay.
That should have made herfeel better.
It didn't.
Because part of her—a small, treacherous part she immediately tried to smother—didn't mind the idea of him staying.
Which was ridiculous. She'd known him two days. He was a stranger. An adorable drifter with good hands and a wicked smile. The last kind of person she needed in her life.
"Fine," she heard herself say. "A few days. Until the inn opens or you find other transport."
"I'll pay rent," Jack said immediately.
"I don't want your money."
"Then I'll work. More projects. I'm happy to work for room and board."
Maeve gave a single nod, like this had been the outcome she'd expected all along. "Can't fault a man with a good work ethic."
Clara chewed her bottom lip. The shutters on the east side stuck. The gallery railing was loose. There were a dozen other small problems she'd been meaning to address.
Problems that would keep him busy. Keep him occupied. Keep him from disrupting her routine too much.
And it wasn't as if her parents were rolling in extra dough—despite her mom's insistence on spending their retirement income on a beachfront condo in Florida.
The lighthouse needed repairs—and those repairs were pricey.
"Fine," she said again. "Short-term."
Maeve looked like she wanted to say something triumphant. She thought better of it. Instead she pointed at a table by the window. "Sit. Both of you. I'll bring food."
"We don't need?—"
"Did I ask?" Maeve was already moving toward the kitchen. "Two breakfasts.”
Clara sat because arguing with Maeve was an exercise in futility that no one had yet mastered. Jack settled across from her, careful of his ribs. Through the window, she could see people passing on the street, several glancing in with obvious interest.
"This place is great," he said, grinning. "Everyone's so... invested."
"That's one word for it. Invasive is another."
Jack chuckled. "Got it. I'll gird my loins."
"You might want to. By noon, the entire town is going to think we're dating," she grumbled. "Mrs.Conley is probably already on the phone with my mother, and Sarah definitely texted Lena, who texted Tim, who's probably already making us a congratulatory casserole."
"Who's Tim?"
