Page 11 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

“Hi!” he said, lame as Forrest on his best day, walking up to her, quickly adding, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to start hanging around, or anything. I was out for my morning run,” (Can anyone say Forrest Gump?) “and thought I’d drop by and give you the check.” He patted the pocket of his shorts.

“Oh.” Her face heated with color and her hands dropped to her sides.

And he felt like even more of a horse’s ass. Shiiit! The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her over the money, or to make her be nice to him only because she needed to.

“I thought you’d be hungover this morning,” she said.

“My head clears when I run. Comes from years of five-mile runs in the morning and in the evening with the teams.” He flinched at his running mouth, then conceded with a rueful shrug. “But, yeah, there’s a mother of all sledgehammers pounding inside my head right now.”

She smiled.

I’m in! Sensing the tiniest break in her armor, he did a mental fist pump in the air and returned the smile.

“Would you like a cup of coffee? Or a cold drink?”

Definitely in! Two fist pumps now. Really, Delilah had this wall around herself where he was concerned. He pictured it as some super-strong translucent material that only a certain person or weapon could penetrate. Hell, there wasn’t a weapon in the world he didn’t know inside out and backward. Besides, if he could break down a steel-reinforced door in an Al-Qaeda hideout with just the kick of his boot, he could handle this, even if it meant chipping away one sliver at a time. Piece of cake! “I would love a cup of coffee, Delilah,” he said with the innocent flutter of his eyelashes he’d perfected over the years.

“You can call me Lilah. Everyone does,” she conceded then.

“Um. I think I prefer De-li-lah, if you don’t mind. It’s different. Plus, it sort of rolls off the tongue, nice and smooth.” Like a hot, slick French kiss on a first date.

She eyed him suspiciously, then motioned for him to follow her. Which was no chore at all. Her back view was almost as good as her front one. And she wasn’t even dressed in anything sexy. Just a pair of cutoff denims, a black tank top, and white sneakers. Her blonde hair, more silvery than gold toned, was piled on top of her head with one of those claw combs. Her waist was small, her hips flared out, and she had a rounded ass that would just about fit in his big hands. Not to mention she was above average in height for a woman, five-eight or five-nine, which meant long, supple legs that gave a guy ideas.

Face it, I have way too many ideas.

They went through an old-fashioned—and decrepit—wooden screen door at the back of the motel office into a large room that served as a combination living room and kitchen. Off to one side was a small, separate bedroom and a tiny bathroom with a shower stall, no tub. Very basic. In fact, shabby. And not shabby chic, either. But it was clean, and livable, he supposed. Plus, there was a delicious, sweet smell in the air. She must have been baking.

God forbid that he should mention his thoughts because her chin was raised defensively, as if just waiting for his criticism of her humble abode. But then she went over to the small bar dividing the kitchenette from the rest of the room and poured coffee into two mugs from an old-fashioned electric percolator, the metal type his grandmother used to have, and raised her brows at him. “Sugar? Milk?”

“Neither,” he said, walking up and placing the envelope on the counter. Best to get this out of the way, up front. “The check is drawn on a local bank, made out to you. If you need cash right away, you can cash it, or get a cashier’s check. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” she said, not bothering to open the envelope. Clearly, she was embarrassed. And proud. “When do I start work?”

He took a sip of coffee, and then another. It was good. “Can you be at a meeting tomorrow afternoon at our office? Two p.m.? It’ll be the first meet-and-greet for the group I’ve put together.”

She hesitated before nodding.

“Is that a problem?”

“No. I just need to plan my time so I can work on the diner during the off hours. No biggie.”

It was a damn big biggie, in his opinion. He thought about suggesting that she hire someone to help, but then realized she wouldn’t be asking him for a loan—rather an advance—if she had any extra cash. “Some of your work, especially in the beginning, can be done here or at our office. You’ll need to plan menus, order food supplies, assess what cooking supplies are on board currently, that kind of thing. But you’ll be a housekeeper, as well, or rather a boat keeper, meaning cleaning, laundering towels and bed linens.”

“Oh, shit! I mean, oh, boy! I didn’t think about the fucking sleeping arrangement. Oops, I mean freakin’ . . .” She shrugged at another of her failed attempts to clean up her language.

He grinned. “No fucking there. Too close proximity unless you go for that sort of thing. No, Sweet Bells sleeps up to fifteen people in a pinch, ten comfortably, in four closet-sized bedrooms and two pullout cots in the salon or break room. But don’t be picturing anything fancy. It’s a sixty-five-foot former tramp steamer refitted into a diving boat.”

“In other words, not a yacht.”

“Hardly. Anyhow, aside from cooking and cleaning, I figure you’ll be a Jack of All Trades . . . or Jill of All Trades, filling in wherever you’re needed. Any problem with that?”

“No problem. I’m a hard worker, and I really am a good cook.” She smiled tentatively at him. “Sweet Bells? Is that the name of your boat?”

“Yep. It used to be Sweet Jinx. Named after the Jinkowsky family that founded the original treasure hunting company, Jinx, Inc. Sweet Bells seemed like a good change, in light of our headquarters being here in Bell Cove and us sharing space and a wharf with Bell Forge.”

She probably didn’t understand what he’d just said, but she didn’t ask for clarification. Instead, she wanted to know, “How many people will I be cooking for?”

“Just eight, including you. Some will only be part-time, or as needed.”