Chapter Two
The sign-up sheet to volunteer for spring cleanup is on the bulletin board in the town hall.
We’ll be cleaning up winter debris in the parks and around town, getting Wayward Harbor ready for the upcoming summer season.
Please bring gloves and rakes, and the town will be providing trash bags, as well as lunch for the volunteers.
Come for community pride and stay for the free pizza!
—Wayward Harbor Online Community Group
In a continuation of the theme of not recognizing her own life, Lucy sat silently in the passenger seat of a pickup driven by a man she didn’t know.
She’d taken closer to twenty minutes than ten, even with simply gathering her wet hair into a bun, but she’d been smart and taken her keys with her into the bathroom.
He couldn’t leave without her if he couldn’t get his truck out.
And even if he had, she could drive herself into town and buy her own breakfast.
But even though she didn’t know him, it beat going by herself. Walking into a restaurant alone and finding a place to sit felt too daunting in her current mindset, and she might have just continued living on coffee and whatever road snacks were left in her car.
Because she had no clue what to say and Nick didn’t seem inclined to initiate a conversation, she stared out her window at the choppy gray water crashing against the rocky shore.
Her memories of Wayward Harbor were full of blue skies and sparkling water.
Humid air and digging for sea glass. The tangy smell of sunscreen and the taste of ice cream dipped in chocolate jimmies.
Apparently, those memories hadn’t been made in April.
If there had been anything to eat in the cottage, she would have turned down the invitation to breakfast. Not that it was much of an invitation—he simply told her she was going.
She wanted to talk to Gran, and she really didn’t want an audience for that, so it would have been a good time to call.
But she wouldn’t be able to do that until she’d rummaged through all the stuff in her car to find the notebook she’d scribbled her passwords in so she could sign into Facebook and ask Gran for her cell number.
Just thinking about putting any social media apps back onto her phone made her stomach hurt, and she sighed so deeply, Nick glanced in her direction.
He was still frowning, of course. Sure, she’d barged into his life with no warning, but he’d chosen to invite her to breakfast. If he was that annoyed, he could have left her to rummage between her car seats for snacks.
Or, because she was a grown woman—even if she was currently in crisis—she could have driven her own damn car into town and bought her own damn breakfast. If he didn’t want her company, he shouldn’t have told her to come with him.
She was about to tell him that when he rounded a corner and Wayward Harbor came into view.
The town followed the curve of the shore, the buildings a historical mix of white siding, faded gray shingles and brick. Piers jutted out, smaller ones for the tourists and, off in the distance, the larger commercial piers. Boats bobbed in the water, masts swaying against the sky.
Lucy had forgotten how ruggedly gorgeous the coastline was here.
After they’d passed the park with the statue of Cricket—a poodle who saved a toddler from a strong current in the fifties, according to legend—Nick took a left and navigated through the much narrower streets of the small downtown.
There were a couple of places, with cars parked on both sides, that she wasn’t sure his truck and the vehicles coming the other way would both fit, but they did.
“This is the closest spot we’ll get,” he said, parallel parking the extended cab truck so smoothly she wanted to ask him to do it again, but more slowly, so she could figure out how he did it.
Her car was half the length of his truck and it would have taken her at least two tries.
In Las Vegas, she often walked or called an Uber because it was easier than finding and paying for parking, so her parking skills were a little rusty.
After he turned off the engine, Lucy pulled the hood up over her hair and slid her sunglasses on. He stopped to frown at her. “What?”
“Are you on the run? From the law, I mean?”
“Am I a fugitive from justice?” She laughed. Maybe she was on the run, but it wasn’t from law enforcement. “No. I’m just cold, thank you very much.”
That didn’t exactly explain the sunglasses, but she guessed he didn’t care all that much because he didn’t ask any more questions. When he opened his door and got out, she did the same, and he met her on the sidewalk.
For a moment, she had to hustle to keep up, but then he noticed and slowed his pace so she could match it. She didn’t see any signs advertising food, and when he turned down an alley between two buildings, she started to wonder if just blindly following this guy was a good idea.
On the backside of the building was a door next to a large window that had Pete’s Place written across it in uneven window paint. The white clapboards needed repainting, and she couldn’t help wondering when they’d last taken a squeegee to the glass in the door and window.
“This looks like the kind of place you go to plan bank robberies,” she told him. “Or to pick up prescriptions that have somebody else’s name on the labels.”
“At least you’re dressed for it,” he said.
She rolled her eyes, then realized he wouldn’t be able to see her reaction through the sunglasses. “You’re a funny guy.”
“Pete likes the look of the place. He says it keeps the tourists away.”
“Isn’t the point to attract tourist dollars?”
He shrugged. “That’s probably true for most of the businesses, but Pete’s said more than once that he’d flip burgers on a hibachi on the sidewalk for pocket change before he’ll cater to people who think the entire world wants to see pictures of their scrambled eggs.”
“Ah. So he’s grumpy, like you.”
Nick, who’d been about to pull open the door, frowned at her. “I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re scowling at me right now.”
“Because you called me grumpy.”
She sighed. “You haven’t smiled a single time since I met you.”
“You met me maybe a whole twelve hours ago, when a strange woman who doesn’t like bologna and tomato sandwiches had broken in and woken me up.”
He’d clearly taken her rejection of his sandwich choice personally. “I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked.”
“Lesson learned,” he said mostly under his breath before yanking the door open and waving for her to enter.
Pete’s Place was small, but it was a lot nicer than the exterior had led her to expect. The pale blue walls and light wood tables and booths were welcoming, and a coffee counter ran almost the length of the dining room. There were several men sitting there, as well as a few in booths.
They all turned to look when the door opened. The man behind the counter, who might or might not have been Pete, nodded. “Morning, Nick.”
“Morning, Pete.”
Pete, along with several other guys, looked curiously at Lucy, but Nick didn’t introduce her.
She didn’t mind at all and followed him silently to an empty booth.
He chose the one all the way in the back, farthest from any other diners.
Breathing a sigh of relief when he chose to sit facing the front, she slid into the booth with her back to the room.
With her hood up, nobody could see her, and she took off the sunglasses.
Pete walked over and set two mugs of coffee on the end of the table. “You want coffee, or do you want something else?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Menu’s behind the condiments. I’ll give you a minute.”
She pulled one out and studied the offerings, suddenly famished. “What’s good here?”
“Everything. Best breakfast in Maine.”
“How many different places have you had breakfast in Maine?”
He shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Lucy assumed that was a grumpy man’s way of admitting he was working with a small sample set and returned her attention to the menu.
Nick cleared his throat. “Is there an angry ex or almost ex who’s going to show up on the doorstep looking for you?”
“No,” Lucy said, but she lowered her gaze to the spoon she was fiddling with as she wondered if she should warn him no angry exes were going to knock on the door, but paparazzi might. Or a sobbing mob of Faith Lincoln fans. Or maybe angry football fans.
Telling him was probably the right thing to do, but that confession came with the risk he’d toss her out the same way her roommate and then her mother’s boyfriend had. She was out of places to go.
“You can tell me,” he said, and she startled before realizing he was still talking about angry exes. “You should tell me, actually, because if there’s a possibility I’ll have to defend you in the middle of the night, I’ll wear sleep pants with a stronger drawstring.”
Was that humor? His expression hadn’t changed, but she laughed and shook her head. “No exes. No almost exes. No need for combat sleep pants.”
An image of him last night, wearing the sweats with the weak drawstring so low on his hips, flashed through her mind, and she had to set down the menu so she wouldn’t use it to fan her face.
Pete appeared about thirty seconds after she dropped the menu. “What are you having?”
“I think I’ll have whatever Nick is ordering,” she said rather than admitting she couldn’t make a decision.
“Usual?” he asked, and Nick nodded.
“Be right up.”
Lucy shook her head, putting the menu back in the stand behind the condiments. “Are we getting something good?”
“Guess you’ll see,” he said, and though he didn’t smile, she could hear the amusement in his voice.
If it was a sign he was in a good mood—on the inside, at least—now might be a good time to hit him up for Gran’s number. “If you’re staying in the cottage and doing work, you must have a way to contact Helen. Stuff always comes up during renovations.”
“Yup.”