Chapter 3 #2
Dale grunted. It was the kind of grunt that contained an entire paragraph—something along the lines of, What kind of idiot takes a boat out in those conditions? But he was too stingy with words to say all that.
"What kind of boat?" Dale asked.
"Small one. Old. She didn't make it," Jack said.
"Hmm." Another grunt, this one slightly different in pitch. Possibly sympathetic. Possibly judgmental. Hard to tell with Dale. "Happens."
And that was apparently all Dale had to offer, because he returned his attention to the cleat, dismissing them with the continued silence of a man who'd said everything he intended to say.
"Was that a conversation?" Jack asked as they walked away.
"By Dale's standards, that was practically a TED Talk. He likes you."
"How can you tell?"
"He asked a follow-up question."
They were almost to Maeve's when a voice rang out from across the street.
"Clara! Oh my God, CLARA!"
Sarah Kwan was half-jogging toward them, hair escaping its clip in three different directions, canvas tote bag bouncing against her hip. The tote read "I TEACH. WHAT'S YOUR SUPERPOWER?" in block letters.
"Hey, Sarah—"
"Is this the boat guy?" Sarah's eyes went wide, bouncing between Clara and Jack like she was watching a tennis match. "Mrs. Conley just texted the group chat. She said you rescued a—and I quote—'tall, handsome stranger with lovely manners.' Are you tall? You're tall. Hi, I'm Sarah."
"Jack." He shook her hand, looking amused. "Group chat?"
Clara closed her eyes. "There's a group chat."
"Oh, there's absolutely a group chat," Sarah confirmed without a shred of shame. She stage-whispered to Jack, "Clara pretends she doesn't know about it but she's been screenshotted into evidence multiple times."
"We need to go," Clara said firmly. "Inn. Room. That's the mission."
"Right, yes, go, absolutely." Sarah was already reaching for her phone. "I'll just—I'm not going to text anyone. I'm just checking the weather."
"Sarah."
"The weather, Clara! God!" Sarah grinned, backing away with her phone already in hand. "Nice to meet you, Jack! Welcome to Beacon's End! You're going to love it here!"
Jack watched her retreat. "She's going to text someone immediately, isn't she?"
"She was texting before she finished the sentence."
The Rusty Anchor occupied prime corner real estate, windows overlooking the water. Everyone just called it Maeve's. Clara pushed through the door, Jack close behind.
The interior was warm and dim, smelling of coffee and old wood. Maeve O'Connell stood behind the bar, polishing glasses like each one personally offended her. She was sixty if she was a day, with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing.
Maeve was the unspoken matriarch of the town and she didn't apologize for that power.
Those eyes locked onto Clara and Jack. Maeve set down her glass. Her expression didn't change—she wasn't the type to perform surprise—but something sharpened behind her gaze.
"Clara Hawkins. In town. On a non-supply day." Her attention shifted to Jack. Stayed there. "And she's brought a man. Well."
That single "well" carried the weight of an entire interrogation.
"Don't start," Clara warned. "Mrs. Conley has already accosted us and I'd bet my last dollar that my mother is currently receiving a detailed briefing via text, so I really don't need the commentary."
Maeve's mouth twitched. "Wouldn't dream of it." She turned to Jack. "Maeve O'Connell. I run this place and, on occasion, this town."
"Jack Callahan, ma'am." He extended his hand. "Pleasure."
Maeve took it, studying him the way she studied everyone—like she could read the last five years of his life in his handshake. "You're the capsized boat."
"That's me."
"Mm." She released his hand. "You look like you survived it. That's something."
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack agreed with a grin.
"Speaking of parents, they still in Florida?" Maeve asked, turning back to Clara.
"Yes, for another two weeks. Mom's dragging Dad to every available condo for sale in St. Petersburg."
"I'd never live in a place where alligators have free roaming privileges," Maeve said, shaking her head, "but I don't blame your mom for wanting something warmer during the winter."
"I've spent time in Florida, love the weather," Jack supplied, happy to be part of the conversation, but Clara wished he'd stayed quiet because it just returned Maeve's attention to him.
"So, Jack. What brings you to Beacon's End? Besides poor seamanship."
“Just a broken boat and an overinflated sense of skill," Jack admitted with a grin that was cocky and cute at the same time. Damn him.
"Takes accountability." Maeve's eyes flicked to Clara. Assessing. "I like that. Already better than Sam in that regard.”
Clara nearly swallowed her tongue. She glared at Maeve. There will be no talk of Sam allowed. Maeve caught the hint by Clara’s wintry stare and wisely shut up about that topic. “Jack needs a place to stay."
“Why can’t he—”
"Maeve." Clara gave her a look that could strip paint. "I will walk out of this pub."
Maeve held up her hands, a rare gesture of retreat that fooled absolutely no one. "Fine, fine. But you're not getting any younger—"
"And you're not getting any more tactful, yet here we both are."
Jack was clearly enjoying this. Clara filed that under Reasons to Not Like Him and moved on.
"His boat capsized. I fished him out. He needs a room at the inn. We're not dating. Not even friends. I just happened to see him before he drowned. That's the whole story."
"Where's your destination?" Maeve asked, ignoring Clara’s pointed glower.
"Wherever the next job is."
Maeve's eyebrows rose. "A wanderer. Always searching for a place to hang your hat.”
Jack entertained her assessment with a shrug, “Something like that,” but he didn’t elaborate.
Clara tried not grit her teeth but she couldn’t be more on edge. "Can you call Roger? Tell him we're coming?"
"I could." Maeve's expression shifted, sympathy creeping in. "But it won't help. Roger's dealing with a burst pipe. Flooded half the rooms. He's closed until repairs are done."
Clara's stomach pitched in alarm. "What?"
"Happened during that freak storm. Crew's working on it, but it'll be at least a week before he can take guests." Maeve glanced at Jack. "Sorry, love. Beacon's End isn't exactly chock full of inns to choose from."
"There has to be somewhere," Clara said, almost desperately.
"Well." Maeve's tone was carefully innocent. "There's the lighthouse. Seems like Mr. Callahan's already familiar with it."
"No."
"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 her feel 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?"
"A friend. Runs a restaurant on the waterfront. His solution to every situation—good, bad, or indifferent—is food. You'll gain ten pounds just from being adjacent to him."
"Sounds like my kind of guy."
"That's because you and he share the same pathological need to feed people."
"Speaking of people…who was this Sam? Old boyfriend? High school sweetheart?"
"Old boyfriend, yes. And no sweetheart," Clara answered, hating how just the mention of Sam's name reactivated her shame for allowing him to break her so completely. "But I don't want to talk about my personal stuff, okay?"
"Say no more. I got you." He pretended to lock his lips and throw away the key.
She refused to be even a little charmed by his easy acquiescence but it was hard not to budge.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so prickly but everyone at Beacon's End has no life, so they stick their noses in mine.
I'm a private person by nature so all this attention makes me want to jump off the harbor. "
"Seems kind of sweet, actually. They care about you."
"They do." Clara kept to herself that Beacon's End had been the softest place to land when her heart shattered into a million pieces.
"It's just a lot sometimes…even if they mean well.
" She needed to change the subject. "If you're going to be my temporary roommate, I have rules—and they're non-negotiable. "
"Noted." Jack's mouth curved. "For what it's worth, your prickly is kind of cute."
Despite herself, Clara's lips twitched. "I seem to remember you calling me bossy."
"And I stand by it," he said without apology. "But I like you, Clara Hawkins."
"Don't worry, it'll pass," she retorted around a wry smile.
He laughed—low and genuine—and the sound did something strange to her chest. Made it feel lighter and tighter all at once.
Stop that. You know how this ends.
Maeve arrived with plates piled high—eggs, bacon, toast, home fries. The smell made Clara's stomach growl.
"Clean plates," Maeve commanded. "Or there'll be words."
"This looks incredible," Jack said, eyeing the plate with appreciation.
"Mmhmm." Maeve lingered a beat too long, her gaze moving between them. Clara recognized that look. It was the look Maeve got when she was plotting something. "You two need anything else, you holler."
They ate in companionable silence. Outside, Beacon's End continued its morning routine, oblivious to Clara's internal crisis.
A week. Maybe more. Jack Callahan in her lighthouse, in her space, disrupting her carefully constructed world.
She should be panicking.
But she wasn't.
If anything, she was eaten up by curiosity. Where he came from. Why he thought buying a boat with minimal sailing skills was a solid plan. Why he never stayed in one place.
Jack looked up, catching her stare. He smiled—small and crooked—and Clara felt something tremble inside her chest.
She swallowed, jerking her gaze away to focus on literally anything else.
This is how it'd started with Sam. The curiosity. The flutter. The stupid, treacherous wonder if she'd just met The One.
Looking back, she cringed at the memory.
And Jack Callahan, with his easy smile and nomadic lifestyle and irritating competence? Was he basically Sam 2.0?
Even though he seemed nothing truly like Sam, was that just the Universe testing her to see if she'd learned her lesson?
Well, joke's on you, Universe. I learned it real well.
Possibly too well.
Which was why there was no way in hell anything about Jack was going to sway her romantically.
Not even that surprise dimple.
Or those warm hazel eyes.
Nope, that shop was closed up tight.
For the foreseeable future.
Possibly forever.