Chapter 6
In his jeans and flannel shirt, Mitchell Colton looked a whole lot more like he belonged at St. James Boats. And in her world.
Dove didn’t kid herself into thinking that he was there to stay. But she was thankful for the time he was giving her. He had no obligation to give up his Sunday to sit with her while she waited for her father to show himself.
And yet he seemed to sense that she couldn’t talk boat business until she knew that Whaler was accounted for.
Hoping her dad would join in their business meeting might be too much for her to ask, but Dove was planning to do so.
Holding onto hope was how she lived, no matter how illogical she seemed sometimes, nor how unrealistic and foolish.
No matter what Mitchell Colton thought of her.
She’d never let others’ opinions of her matter.
A gift instilled in her by her mother who’d taught Dove from birth to live authentically.
Raising her with an awareness that she’d be far happier listening to her heart—trusting herself—rather than worrying about society’s whims, or letting those around her influence what she wore, ate or thought.
She refused to allow her sudden awareness of Mitchell Colton to change that. The feelings she’d had in the studio…and they were still lingering in the aftermath…had been nothing more than a way to ward off negative feelings while cleaning up the results of vandalism.
“Why mooing?” Mitchell’s words fell easily between them, pulling her gaze from the doorway back to him. The lawyer seemed to have left the room. A man who was curious sat in his place.
“Mooing?” she asked, frowning.
“Your text notification.”
Right. The text with the lowball offer. “Like the devil looking for a soul to steal, the line from the song that’s his ringtone, the text notification is set just for Brad Fletcher’s number,” she clarified.
And then told him, “The song reminds me instantly I’m talking to the devil, you know, since it’s real time direct contact.
Text lingers. Sits there with you. So, in ancient mythology, the divine mother is represented by the cow.
She is the giver of life. And it’s there to remind me that anytime that man tries to contact me the spirits are there with me, to provide what sustenance I need, while I deal with the devil.
Takes away his ability to overpower me.”
She didn’t expect Mitchell to understand. But she had to assert herself fully into the air between them. She couldn’t afford to lose any part of herself to him. Not even for business purposes. If she didn’t stay true to herself, she had nothing to offer anyone.
And the attraction she felt for the lawyer…it had to be kept in its place. An anomaly. Nothing more. Unless she could find a man who respected and admired all of her, she was better off alone. Which was why she hadn’t had a date in longer than she wanted to contemplate.
“I don’t know much about ancient mythology, but setting a ringtone to trigger a mindset is kind of impressive.
” Mitchell’s tone drew her gaze back to him another time.
Her initial thought, that he was mocking her, had already dissipated before her eyes pointed straight toward his.
She warmed inside all over again. It wasn’t sexual, though that awareness was there every time she looked at him now, but more spirit to spirit.
“Did it help?” he asked.
She nodded slowly, holding his gaze in an attempt to understand more about what was going on between them. Until he looked away and pulled out his phone.
Various ringtones sounded within seconds, and she continued to watch him. Not sure what to think. Experience told her he was playing with her.
Her heart told her he was being sincere.
Could she trust her emotions in the moment?
With the vandalism, Fletcher’s menacing pressure, her father missing and that odd attack of sexual awareness, she most definitely needed an aura cleanse.
And she definitely should not make any potentially momentous decisions until she’d had time to detoxify.
While she sat with her impressions regarding Mitchell Colton, he was engrossed with causing his phone to emit a myriad of sounds. Some soothing, some decidedly not.
She sat in the moment, letting the present happen around her. Until he said, “Preventing disaster before it strikes is half my job. I’m thinking I need separate tones for each of my brothers. For my cousins. And some of my problematic clients, as well.”
Soft chills spread through her. Followed by a mellow warmth. And she smiled a little as she asked, “You consider your siblings and cousins problematic?” Since she’d never had either, and he had a plethora with whom he was reputed to be close, she was truly curious.
Without looking up from his phone, or ceasing the sound bombing, he shook his head. “They just expect me to see potential issues and prevent them if I can, though I don’t know if any of them are consciously aware of doing so.”
“Then, wouldn’t just one tone do it for all of them?”
The next shake of his head snared her attention.
She couldn’t explain the sudden pull from him to her except that somehow the conversation had become personal.
Almost intimate. “Why not?” she asked, sitting forward as she focused entirely on him, needing to hear his answer.
He was giving her a private piece of himself. And that mattered.
“Because they’re all different. I’m aware of their individual pitfalls, and I think it might be productive to have rings that remind me of them prior to our communications.”
Leaning back against the wall again, Dove stared at him. Mitchell Colton was truly taking her seriously.
Learning from her?
She wasn’t sure anyone had ever done that outside her studio. And at Namaste, all anyone came to her for was cleansing and calm. Things they could do on their own if they’d trust themselves enough to try. And had the discipline to make it happen.
An intrusive beep sounded, interrupting her happy mojo, and she looked over at the phone and then raised her gaze to the man’s face in time to see his frown.
Fear speared through her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Deep breath.
He shook his head, then, tapping his phone screen a couple of times, held the cell up to his ear. “I set an alarm for nine. Clint Schumer is a client of mine. I trust him not to mention our conversation to anyone.”
Clint Schumer. Owner of the bar that had become her father’s second home. “You’re calling him about my dad?”
Just like he’d phoned Eli, not once, but twice, without first cluing her in.
Dove needed to have a word with him about that. After she got over being grateful for his help. His initiative. And the contacts he had who took him far more seriously than they’d take her.
Mitchell was nodding, then, tapping his phone screen a couple of times, held the cell up to his ear and said, “Clint? Mitchell Colton here.” Dove stood up and walked over to her dad’s desk.
Stood there. Saw him lower his phone to tap the Speaker icon and set the device on the desk and then say, “I’m calling to make a discreet inquiry,” he said.
Dove heard the bar owner reply with, “Of course. Who do you need to know about?”
As though it wasn’t the first time Mitchell had made such a call.
Some of those preventative measures he’d just been talking about? The wondering helped distract Dove from the sound of the lawyer’s voice mentioning her father’s name. Asking when he was last in the bar.
“I haven’t seen him since Friday night,” the man said. And Dove’s good vibes dropped to her toes. Slithering away even as Clint continued with, “Someone said he was in yesterday afternoon but didn’t stay long.”
“Any word as to who he might have been with? Did he leave with anyone?”
“No, but I can ask around,” Clint offered. Asking no questions at all. And Dove understood why Mitchell had called the bartender first.
“I’d appreciate that,” Mitchell said. “Call me on my cell if you hear any more.”
“Will do,” the deeper voice said, and the call ended.
Leaving Dove staring at the man who’d just the day before agreed to take her father on as a client. Would he change his mind?
The question lurked but wasn’t the one screaming so loudly in Dove’s mind, forcing her to ask, “Where in the hell is my father?”
Just before she burst into tears.
Mitchell wasn’t good with the crying. Its unpredictability made him uncomfortable. And its lack of problem-solving capabilities interrupted his ability to process concisely.
Dove’s tears seemed to multiply the effect on him tenfold.
Disliking the situation in which he found himself, Mitchell stood. “We need to focus,” he said aloud. Realizing, even as he spoke, that the words weren’t his best effort. “Where else would your father go? Who might he be with? Or have seen or heard from him?”
Blinking a couple of times, Dove sniffled.
Wiped her face and said, “Any of his crew. They were still here when I left yesterday. The police had the vandalism report ready for me and had questions to ask as well, so as soon as the contract was signed, I left with Detective Welding…” She paused.
Seemed to go inside herself, and he suspected he was losing her again until she said, “Oh! And Oscar Earnhardt. They meet for beers every Saturday afternoon. Always have for as long as I can remember.”
Frowning, he stared down at her. “Oscar Earnhardt who he fired for driving a boat while drunk and then crashing it?” He’d gleaned the further information about the incident when going through Whaler’s jotted notes in his friend’s file.
And he and Dove were getting further and further apart from each other with each contribution to the current conversation.