Half-Hitched. Isabel SharpeЧитать онлайн книгу.
blueberry bushes to the back door of the house, a rambling two-story Victorian with weathered gray shingles and dark green trim and shutters. Pitched in nearby clearings were several colorful tents, obviously for overflow guests, though the house had six or seven bedrooms from what he remembered.
“Hey! Hurry up. Ellen needs the cheese you bought for nachos.” Sarah jumped down from the house’s back deck and strode to meet them, followed by a tall, dark-haired guy in jeans and a Green Day T-shirt. “Hi, Derek.”
“Hey, Sarah.” He smiled, relieved when she managed a chilly grin back. Apparently she’d be on good behavior for her brother’s wedding. “It’s good to see you. You look great.”
He wasn’t lying. She’d dropped the few extra pounds she’d carried, had shortened and shaped her curly blond hair, and moved with more mature grace, though she still evoked a tall firecracker about to go off.
“Thanks. You look…” She scowled at him. “Like you haven’t slept in years.”
“Not sure I have. Hi, I’m Derek.” He offered his hand to the guy hovering behind her, noting the wary look in his eyes. Was this Joe? Looked like Sarah had shared her I’m-the-victim version of their story with him.
“This is Joe.” Sarah pointed.
“Good to meet you.” Joe shook Derek’s hand then picked up a grocery bag under each arm. “I’ll take these up to Ellen.”
“Come on in. We’re having drinks, getting organized to take a picnic supper down to the beach.” Sarah turned and charged back up the stairs to the house, throwing Derek an inscrutable look over her shoulder that made him a little nervous. He’d had to put her off gently on that same beach five years ago, and he really didn’t want to go through that drama again.
The pine and faint wood smoke smell inside the house was instantly familiar. Paul’s parents were on the mainland, so instead of Mrs. Bosson at the stove, there was a blonde, attractive woman Derek identified as Ellen by the adoring look she sent Paul, and whom he instantly liked by the bright smile she sent him. The aroma in the kitchen was fantastic.
“Welcome, Derek.” She gave him a sincere hug, Southern accent warming her words. Paul had met her through a mutual friend in Boston two years earlier and his fate was sealed pretty quickly. “It’s good to meet the man who saved Paul’s life.”
“I don’t think it was quite that dramatic.”
“I know it was. He’s still grateful and so am I.” A timer went off; she grabbed lobster oven mitts and peered into the oven.
Derek looked around the large, airy eat-in kitchen, amused and pleased so much of it was exactly the same as the last time he was here. The loon sculpture, the blobby painting of a seal Sarah had done as a girl, sand dollars and sea glass, a tide clock hanging next to an iron candle holder forged by a local blacksmith. He’d only been here a week, but would never forget the strong sense of love surrounding the Bosson family, and their joy at being together. He hadn’t had much of that in his life, still didn’t, and he’d unapologetically eaten it up. Paul had invited him back a few times, but their schedules never seemed to mesh.
“Can I help, Ellen?”
“No, no.” She set a pan of fragrant rolls onto a cooling rack. “I just got rid of my army of helpers and am finishing in here. Grab a beer and go on outside, I’ll join you in a minute.”
“Here you go.” Paul pulled bottles of beer and lemonade from the old gas refrigerator and tossed the beer to Derek, who was afraid drinking would send him into a coma of exhaustion, but hell, it was a celebration. He’d risk it.
He followed Paul outside, where Paul was immediately pounced on and dragged into conversation. Derek paused on the front stoop, newly entranced by the Bossons’ view. The house sat high on a hill. The land in front—you couldn’t really call it a yard—was covered by juniper bushes and sloped to a steep cliff with a breathtaking panorama of ocean and islands. More tents were pitched to the west of the house, and a tiny cabin, built for the twins to overnight in, perched to the east. At this hour the sun’s full strength had started to wane and colors were deepening—the blue of water, the dark green of firs, graybrown shades of the rocky coastline, and the puffy white of clouds. One of his favorite places on earth. And given that he’d been all over the world and was working out of Hawaii these days, he had plenty of Edens to choose from.
Taking a deep breath of the cool, salty air, he shifted his focus to the other guests, in groups on the front porch and down on the grounds. Fifteen to twenty people. At thirtyfive, he probably had five to ten years on most of them. It had been a long time since he’d been in this type of social situation. On his boat, he was the authority, keeping just enough distance from guests and employees, making the ship’s safety and smooth operation his first priority, the comfort of his passengers a close second. Onshore, he was a temporary or occasional friend to whomever he knew or met wherever he was.
He took a bigger slug of beer than he needed. Paul caught his eye and raised a finger, indicating he’d be right back. Derek waved him off and took another drink. He was a grown man; he could introduce himself to—
“Hi.” The woman was right under his nose, smiling at him, about to come up the steps as he’d been about to go down.
“I’m Addie.” She pointed to her chest, as if he might not know for sure she was talking about herself.
So this was Addie. To put it mildly, she was not what he expected.
The way Paul had described her beauty, wealth, breeding and untouchability in his besotted way had Derek imagining a chilly, elegant brunette dripping sophistication and disdain. The kind who’d show up at a casual island wedding like this one in stiletto heels, linen and pearls. The kind Derek had taken around the world in his boat, the kind with rich older husbands they were always looking to cheat on.
This woman was wearing soft-looking midthigh black shorts, a casual rose-colored scoop-necked top half covered by a gray hoodie, and flat natural color sandals on slim feet. She had deep coffee eyes and striking dark brows, curling short dark hair—a sexy-schoolgirl fantasy come to life. She reminded him of a down-to-earth version of the French actress Audrey Tautou.
He had major hots for Audrey Tautou.
“You’re Addie Sewell.”
“Yes.” The expressive brows lowered in amused confusion. “How did you know?”
“You’re world famous.”
“Ha!” Her wide mouth broke into a smile that took away a good deal of his weariness. “You must be a friend of Paul’s.”
“Derek Bates.”
“Oh.” Her smile faltered, her eyes clouded over, the temperature around them dropped forty degrees. Brrrrr. “Sarah’s told me a lot about you.”
“That’s funny.” He forced himself to chuckle, visualizing a roll of duct tape over Sarah’s mouth. “Sarah doesn’t know a lot about me.”
He expected an insult, an argument, a stinging defense of her friend, and was surprised to find her considering him thoughtfully. “I just know what she told me.”
Derek sighed. He’d leave bad enough alone. It was his word versus Sarah’s and this was her territory and these were her people. “I’m pretty sure I’m sorry to hear that. When did you arrive, Addie?”
“Three days ago. Sunday evening.”
“From…?”
“LaGuardia.” She glanced around, apparently not sure she should be talking to him.
“Into Portland?”
“Bangor.”
“Okay.” He nodded too many times, at a loss what to say next, how to act around a lovely woman who’d undoubtedly been told by her best friend that he was something you should avoid stepping in.
“Weather