Chapter 2
Suit or cargo pants? Mitchell faced the question Saturday morning as he finished a workout in his home weight room and headed for the shower. Not looking forward to the seven thirty appointment at St. James Boats.
Wearing his lawyer hat, suit every time. But if he wanted to make the most use of his time, he’d take a quick look around St. James Boats, fulfilling his obligation to Dove, and then help Whaler’s business by renting a fishing boat and heading out toward the sound. Which meant cargo pants.
Wouldn’t be the overnight hiking adventure he’d planned for his weekend, but a way to salvage the day just the same.
Definitely cargo pants… Cargo pants if he was okay with being a self-centered ass. Whether he was wasting his time, professionally speaking, or not, he’d agreed to give the woman a few moments of his expertise. He wasn’t going to disrespect her by showing up ready to fish.
Which was why, half an hour later, Mitchell was the only person at St. James Boats in dress clothes, tie, and leather dress shoes—expensive ones—that had already been splashed on twice. They most definitely didn’t have the sole necessary to efficiently traverse the dock he was touring.
The area was overrun with the end-of-summer tourist rush. Not the best time for him to be there, but Dove had requested he visit then due to the six-passenger glacier charter Whaler was captaining that morning. Meaning Whaler wouldn’t be privy to Dove’s request for Mitchell’s help.
Dove was thorough. He’d give her that. She might be as flighty as her name implied—as evidenced by the elastic-waisted purple and pink balloon pants she had on with a crop top and tennis shoes—but when it came to her father’s livelihood, she’d educated herself impressively.
To the point that, after the tour of the docks—including a listing of every boat’s use, power, sleeping capacity, and value—and brief introductions to the two full-time staff members who were busy with customers, he had a sincere interest in following her into the office and getting a look at the inner workings of Whaler’s business.
“Unfortunately, it all goes downhill from here,” Dove said as she led him into her father’s office.
“I’ve tried to make sense of what I could, but when I saw that even if I sorted out the various receipts, reservations, charges—basically I need an accountant for that—the problem is bigger than paperwork and bank accounts.
” She threw up a hand, and his glance caught on the plethora of rings spanning every one of her fingers.
Most, he was guessing, remnants of her mother’s homemade jewelry business. Having spent so much of her childhood exclusively with her Mom, Dove couldn’t help being like the woman.
She’d stopped talking and was watching him stand there.
Clearly, she was waiting for him to figure out what to do, to start looking at ways a lawyer might be able to help, rather than thinking about rings and…her slender, soft-looking hands.
Straightening the knot on his tie, reminding himself why he was there, he said, “I’ve actually got a couple of ideas.”
That was the truth and not one he’d planned to share.
With twofold reasoning. He’d need Whaler’s cooperation, which meant anything he might think to suggest was a moot point until Dove talked to her father.
And he didn’t want to give the false impression that he could help when he wasn’t yet sure that he could.
His gut clenched with tension when Dove’s eyes widened and a very definite new light came into them.
“You do?” she asked. Her hands clasped together in front of her breasts as she said, “I had such a strong impression that I had to see you, and yet I was still so worried. I should have had more faith.”
“I didn’t say I could help, Dove,” Mitchell was compelled to point out. “Just that I have some thoughts to pursue that will determine if I can. Or can’t.”
She smiled. Nodded. “I understand,” she said but didn’t look as though she did at all. “You take your look. Do what you need to do. And then let me know our plan.”
What the hell?
“We don’t have…” he started then stopped when she shook her head, waving both of her hands in front of her face.
“I know,” she said, her tone still light and breezy. “But I’ve been given all the signs I need. You’ll find what you need to know how to help. And I’ll be right here, ready to take on any task you have for me. As soon as you have it.”
With that, she moved to a small wall space that wasn’t cluttered with boxes and papers, boat parts, file cabinets or the desk and chair that took up most of the room. Sliding down the wall, she sat on the floor, legs crossed, hands on her knees, palms up, and closed her eyes.
He could be gone before she knew it. Just quietly head out. Get in a day hike. Far away from any and all doves in the world.
It was the sensible thing to do. Full of logic and good business sense, too.
He took a quiet step toward the door. Stopping, he pictured her opening her eyes to find him gone.
And dropped his dress pants–clad butt in her father’s greasy old chair.
Breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Deep breaths. Relax. One muscle at a time. Toes first. No, better make that neck. Breathe. Cleansing breaths.
Until she could get to her crystals and have a private session of hot yoga.
Losing focus once again, Dove refused to open her eyes. To give up. In spite of the bad karma emanating from the man seated behind her father’s desk.
Seriously. The man was filling her aura with his negative energy. She could only imagine what it was doing to his. She should offer him a session.
Imagining the tight layers they’d have to get through to even find his spirit, she figured the long process would be a fair trade for his help at St. James Boats.
Deep breath. Eyes closed. You don’t need to look at him. He’s there. His tension is suffocating you. No reason to open your eyes. Even if you saw what drawer he was reaching into, you wouldn’t know the significance. Breathe. Do. Not. Open. Your. Eyes.
When Dove realized that she was expending far too much precious energy on keeping her eyes closed, she opened them.
Energy was the one thing she absolutely did not have to waste. Without it, she had nothing to offer her clients. And without them, she couldn’t afford to live.
Negativity! Negativity! Negativity!
Deep breaths!
Slower ones.
You hyperventilate and he’s really going to think you’re a flake. Not worth his time.
Stop.
Blinking, Dove put an end to the destructive self-talk. Reaching into the big pocket on the right leg of her pants, she pulled out her cell phone and the vial of lavender oil she’d also stashed in there with it that morning.
Uncapping the bottle like she’d seen her father do to a bottle of whiskey—with shaky hands and obvious urgency—she didn’t even try to hide the small glass bottle held up to her nostril as she inhaled. All the way to her core. And then again.
Recognizing the familiar scent, her body instantly settled. Started to relax. Delivering a shot of zen. Her stomach relaxed.
And her gaze wandered over to Mitchell Colton. A wave of euphoria hit then. A sense that all would be well.
The man really was too gorgeous for the small town of Shelby to handle. At least, unattached as he was. His physical form, features that depicted ruggedness and a sense of dependable astuteness at the same time, was overpowering.
Add to it the deep timbre of a voice that seemed to assure you that it spoke the truth and eyes that held a surprising depth, and a woman could hardly be blamed for having a swoon or two.
He gathered a slew of papers together. Straightened them into one pile.
Was he done?
She didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to interrupt.
And desperately needed to know their plan before her father returned. She might only get the one shot to convince Whaler that engaging Mitchell Colton’s services was not only a good idea but paramount if his business was to survive.
Someone was bound to tell Bob St. James that the town’s only corporate attorney had been taking a tour of his docks. Maybe even ask him if he was thinking about selling the place.
Which meant Dove had to get to him first.
With a positive plan.
It only worked with that plan pre-established and first steps ready to implement…
“I’m missing a couple of boat invoices.” The deep timbre broke into her thoughts.
Panic hit her. She knew nothing about her father’s bookkeeping other than the drastically bad state she’d found it in.
“Ladybird and Wicked Winnings. You have any idea where they might be?”
Euphoria hit again. Just a small wave. Reminded her that it was there.
That she just had to access it. Trust. Refuse to let fear have any portion of her brain.
“Wicked Winnings was actually a win,” she said, half smiling at the memory.
“Dad bought a couple hundred raffle tickets because proceeds went to support the leukemia foundation.” Leukemia.
The earthborn darkness that had taken her mother back home far too soon for Dove’s liking.
“A boat maker in Anchorage had put the small trawler up as a prize. A buck for a chance to win a boat? It seemed like everyone in the state bought into that one. The guy ended up buying enough tickets himself to pay for twice what the boat had cost to begin with. He got the write-off for his business. And he gave my dad the boat. He knew about my mom.”
She was surprised Mitchell didn’t know the story.
He’d turned to face her, his gaze alight with what felt like real interest. “When was this?”
She shrugged, not always that great with earthly time passage. “Ten years, maybe?”
He nodded. “I was in law school.”
Right. He’d won a full scholarship to Harvard. She’d still been in high school, and every teacher, the principal, pretty much anyone who was vested in getting students to study and get good grades, had held up the possibility of a Harvard scholarship as potential reward.