Page 10 of Hearts on the Line

I swallow the stab of disappointment. I thought I found what I needed, but what do I know anymore? “Apparently not.”

“Can you run out and grab a bucket? I keep a stack behind the wooden screen.”

I toss down my knife, more than ready for some fresh air. Wally bounds up to me, tail wagging hard enough to knock over a chair, and I plant a hand on his chest to keep him from bowling me over. I grab the end of the wooden door, swing it open, and freeze.

Ethan.

Completely naked.

Water from the outdoor showerhead sluices down every inch of him. Broad shoulders, cut muscles across his abdomen, tanned skin etched with a collection of tattoos. My gaze drifts down his chest, and I swear my lungs forget their one job.

His hazel eyes, stormy like the mid-winter Atlantic, pin me in place. I should turn. Step back. Do anything but stand here, caught. But Ethan has always been an undertow, and I never learned how to fight him. He’s still the most devastating man I’ve ever seen, and when his gaze locks on mine, every unspoken thing between us crashes back to life.

Chapter 4

Ethan

Sloane is in a sundress, sun-kissed. My personal fantasy for the past twelve years, in the flesh.

And she’s mortified.

“What is it?” I growl. I continue scrubbing soap over my body, furious that last night she made a comment about me smelling like fish. I scrub extra hard just to prove her wrong, but Irish Spring can only do so much.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “So. Shit! Sorry.”

I’m not a complete asshole. I turn away, even if I like the way her eyes rake over me before the door slams shut, and I hear her stomp over the pea-gravel path back into the restaurant.

There was a time when I would have done anything for her to look at me like just now. I still don’t know how to feel that she slept on my couch last night, or that I picked her up like she was just another lobster trap to toss her into my truck without thinking of the consequences. But here we are, and she just saw my dick.

I quickly scrub up and dry off, throwing on some fresh clothes to start the second part of my day. It’s been like this for years, and I’m almost certain I have a hold on things now.

It’s going to be fine.

Wally waits for me as I run my hand through my hair, making a mental note that I need a haircut. I swear I’ve been telling myself this for a few months now, but time is short and it’s my busy season. I’m lucky to grab a few hours of sleep each night.

“Oh, look, the prodigal son has returned,” Annie hollers from beside the fryer.

I miraculously hold back the growl in my throat at the subtle dig. I’m a lot of things, but the perfect son isn’t one of them.

“Did it break again?”

“This is where you greet me, brother. Ask about my day. I’m fine, by the way.”

“Did the fryer fucking break again?” Okay, yes, I’m an asshole. I take back what I said earlier.

“It did, but I have it under control. No problem for lunch service, besides Kelsey calling out again.”

Tension ratchets up in my body, and my jaw tics. It’s like this every single day. One fire to put out after another, and I’m not the firefighter in the family.

“Don’t worry.” She jumps up and claps her hands together. “Fixed it. Also, I have someone else helping, so we should be set for lunch service.”

“And dinner?”

“I don’t have anything else to do,” Sloane says from behind me. “I can help tonight too.”

I swear the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Like I said, I’m a lot of things. A fucking pushover for Sloane might be one of them. Always have been. But it was the right girl, wrong time with us. And judging by the wedding dress last night, it’s still the same story.

“Nope, don’t need your help.” I step forward and examine the fryer, amazed honestly that Annie did figure it out without blowing up the kitchen or suffering third-degree burns.