Mac
Leading Cocoa through Sweet Cherry Cove the next day is like seeing the town through brand new eyes. Have the painted shop signs always been so sun-faded? Does the diner always set out tables with those red and white checked tablecloths? Have there always been so many damn gulls?
They gather in white, feathery mobs, cackling like teenagers, fighting over stolen fries. I pull Cocoa away by the hand.
She’s bigger than them. They’re birds, and no threat. I get that.
But I’m feeling… overprotective.
“Mac.” Her hand is so tiny in mine. So delicate. Can’t believe she’s letting me hold it. “Are you sure you don’t need to work today?”
Leading her past the florist, I shake my head. The two of us are reflected in the shop window, and I try not to stare at where our hands join. “No. I got cover.”
It’s the first time in about a decade that I’ve taken time off, period. Being harbor master of Sweet Cherry Cove is more a lifestyle than a job. I do a few hours down at the marina every day, and other than that, I’m around. People know where to find me.
That changes now. I have a new top priority, and she’s stumbling after me across the town square. The cheap flip flops I found earlier in a beach store slap against the cobblestones. Need to get my girl better shoes and more clothes, ASAP.
Today, Cocoa’s dressed in a gray pair of my sweatpants, bottoms rolled up, and she’s knotted one of my old red t-shirts at her navel. The midday sunshine casts faint shadows around her toned abs.
Fuck.
Never occurred to me to crave an athletic woman before, but now that I’ve met Cocoa…
Want those thick thighs wrapped around me like a scarf. Want her to do squats right over my lap.
Jackass.
I slap those thoughts down as soon as they come. Cocoa is vulnerable, and she’s relying on me. Only a monster would take advantage of this girl.
Watching a movie together last night just about killed me, especially when she lay down and rested her head in my lap. Her fingertips traced the seam of my jeans, and her cheek looked so soft in the light from the TV screen.
But I did it. I kept my hands to myself, and I won’t break that record now.
“Does anything here look familiar?” I ask.
Behind me, Cocoa slows, and I match her pace. She peers around, frowning with concentration, the sunshine glinting off the golden strands in her chocolate hair.
Since she hacked it off in a panic, it’s kinda messy. Lopsided and blunt.
Still looks cuter than a fucking button though, and now I’m wrestling with a constant urge to ruffle her hair. My free hand balls into a fist, shoving into my jeans pocket.
“No.” She visibly braces herself. Sets her shoulders back, and squints at the bakery, the town library, the bar. “No, I don’t…” When she reaches the town statue of that old mayor, complete with his seaweed wig crisping in the sun, Cocoa does a double take. “Oh. Is that…?”
The statue is on a pale stone plinth, and a man leans against its base. He strums a guitar, picking idly at the strings, a take out coffee cup by his hip.
“You know him?”
My mouth tastes sour. This musician must be a decade younger than me—still too old for Cocoa, but less likely to raise eyebrows. And he looks like a blond goddamn model in that white t-shirt and sunglasses. His fingers race over the strings, and when he finishes one tune, a family eating sandwiches on the library steps all break into applause.
I hate this guy.
Cocoa snorts, elbowing my side. “Everyone knows him. Are you serious right now, Mac? You don’t know Dalton Meadows?”
I’m waspish. “Should I?”
Cocoa laughs, nodding at the GQ centerfold leaning next to the statue. “He’s, like, one of the top rock stars in the world. Even I know that, and I don’t know my own address. God, I can’t believe he’s here. Do you think he’s undercover? Is there a rehab or something in Sweet Cherry Cove? Ooh, maybe he’s here to make a music video!”
Seriously? She remembers him? Of all things?
Listen to me: I could not care about that motherfucker less. In fact, with this jealousy curdling my gut, I’d happily shove him in the marina.
But if there’s a chance these two have met, there’s no other choice. I tow Cocoa toward the handsome stranger, acid lapping against my insides.
He’s younger. Talented. Good looking.
Every instinct in me screams to drag Cocoa in the opposite direction.
“Hey.” We stop right in front of him, and the musician sighs before he looks up. He studies us from behind his sunglasses, mouth turned down. “Have you met this girl before?”
Say no.
Say no.
Please, lord, let him say no.
The man tilts his head, frowning harder. “Never heard that one before. Real original.”
Uh. What?
“It’s a simple question,” I grit out, even as Cocoa yanks on my hand. Nope. She needs answers, and I’m not moving until she gets them. “Answer it.”
The man stops playing. Sets his guitar gently in the open case near his feet.
When he straightens, a tendon is taut in his neck.
“No,” he says, enunciating each word. “I’ve never met your goddamn daughter.”
Daughter?
Well, fuck.
“Mac, come on.” Cocoa pulls harder at my hand, like she’s trying to steer a cart horse. Around the town square, seagulls hop over the cobblestones, feathers ruffled by the breeze. “He’s right, I don’t remember him. Not personally.”
“You don’t need to be rude to her.” Is this the longest conversation I’ve had with a stranger? Probably—and here’s why. “A simple ‘no’ would’ve done it.”
“No.” The man’s smile is bitter, his teeth so straight and white. “Third time lucky? Okay, man: no.”
My face is hot with anger as Cocoa finally drags me across the town square. See, this is why I don’t do people. Half the time, they make me want to slam my head against the nearest wall.
We stop in a patch of shade outside the bakery, the bad taste in my mouth clashing against the delicious scent of fresh bread. “Prick,” I mutter.
Cocoa presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. “He probably thought we were crazy fans.”
Fans? Try the opposite. “I’d sooner walk into the ocean than listen to his music.”
Small hands brush over my shoulders, soothing the knotted muscle. She’s fighting a grin. “I know.”
“He called you my daughter.”
Her smile fades. “Yeah. He did.”
She’s still smoothing my collar, but now Cocoa looks troubled. Thoughtful. Because she’s realizing how much older I am? How much better she could do than me?
What if she regrets the time we’ve spent together? What if she’s already counting down the minutes until her memory comes back and she can leave?
What if I embarrass her?
Cocoa gusts out a long breath. “You’re tenser than a rock, Mr McLaggen. Want to get cupcakes and drop crumbs all over ourselves?”
Always. The bakery door jingles, and I nudge Cocoa inside. Away from the rock star’s eye line, away from the gulls’ racket, away from everything. My stomach growls, already twisted with hunger.
Maybe the baker will recognize her.
And maybe I can force myself to want that.
* * *
Cocoa + cupcake = torture. It’s been years since my last math class, but I’m sure of this equation.
We’re side by side on the beach wall, elbows brushing, clothes flapping in the breeze. The waves are closer now, lunging up the sand, and the air tastes like salt.
And Cocoa is… Fuck. Cocoa.
“Mmm.” She scoops pink icing onto her fingertip, then sucks her whole finger into her mouth. Cheeks hollow, eyelids fluttering. When she draws her finger away with a pop, the skin is slick. Is she torturing me on purpose? “This is so freaking good.”
My own cupcake is forgotten in my hand. My gut churns with hunger, but for once, a cake won’t help.
Want to nudge her to her knees, right here in the sand. Want to slick pink frosting over my cock, then guide the head between her lips. Want her to lick me clean, her pleased hums vibrating down to my bones.
Daughter?
I hate that guy.
My feelings for this young woman are not paternal.
“Don’t you like yours?” A pointy elbow digs between my ribs. “We can swap if you like.”
“It’s good. I’m good.”
Yeah, I am not good. I’m so hard the metal zipper of my jeans will leave bite marks on my shaft.
But is that how Cocoa sees me? As a father figure? Is that why she chose me as her safe harbor?
“You’re still grouchy.” Soft fingertips scratch my chin, playing through my short beard, and I melt a little onto the sea wall. When I risk a glance, Cocoa watches me, hazel eyes warm with concern.
Am I leading her on somehow? Should I be clearer about how I see her? But how can I do that without making her feel like I expect something? Making her feel pressured? As far as I’m concerned, Cocoa owes me nothing. She can stay with me for the rest of her life and never lay a finger on me.
But I can’t act like her father. I won’t.
Christ, it was so much easier to be alone. At least I know where I stand in my own company.
“I know what you need,” Cocoa declares. She swings up a leg, straddling my lap without warning, and she must feel the rock-solid bulge in my jeans, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, my mystery girl grins at me, eyes sparkling, and holds up her cupcake. “A sugar rush.”
I squeeze her waist. When did I grip her there? My own cupcake lays abandoned in the sand, and already three seagulls sidle closer, acting casual.
The sun is hot, licking over our skin. She’s so soft and warm in my lap, the heat between her legs burning through my jeans.
I like feeling her in my clothes. Like smelling my soap on her skin.
“We shouldn’t—”
I’ve never been shut up with a cupcake before. I like it. The cake is spongy, the icing buttery and sweet, and Cocoa places what’s left on the wall, then picks a crumb from my beard as I chew. She wipes a smear of icing off my lip, then licks her thumb.
God.
My hips twitch up. Can’t help it.
And Cocoa’s grin is pure triumph. She grinds down against my lap, arms looping around my neck, and when she leans in to whisper, her breath is hot on my ear.
“Let’s blow off the memory tour. We can come back tomorrow after you’re done with work.”
Can we?
Should we?
Shit, I don’t know. I take my time to swallow, because I can’t think straight with her squirming on me like this. My thoughts jangle in my skull like wind chimes.
“No funny business,” I scrape out, and if Cocoa is disappointed, she hides it well. Her nod is brisk, and she leans back in my arms, drawing a cross over her heart.
“No funny business. I promise.”
Because this attraction is clear—undeniable, really—but she’s still relying on me. One of us needs to keep a cool head.
So we’ll hang out if she wants, but I’ll keep my hands to myself.
Just as soon as we finish this cupcake.