She laughed, then socked him in the stomach. He grunted, but the move hurt her hand more than him.
And she had a general idea of what he did as a SEAL.
Jonah had relayed the declassified missions to her, and while heroic, they were so frightening Chloe had nightmares for weeks. The classified missions were unimaginable.
“Got a card?” he asked Roger, and that simple, three-word commitment had her heart racing as if she’d just run a marathon.
“You saw the listing, right? You know this is a package deal?”
Jameson nodded, but Chloe held up a hand. “Wait. A package deal?”
“There’s another commercial space that comes included. That’s why the price is the price. I bought it years ago but could never keep a business afloat in it. It’s an empty building in East Hampton. It’s not downtown, but it’s adjacent. It’s not in good shape by any stretch, either, but it has potential. Long as you pay the property taxes, the city won’t condemn it.”
This entire conversation made no sense whatsoever.
How could he operate a business in a state where he no longer lived?
“I’ll think on it and give you a call.”
“You show me your loan approval letter, and I’ll let you see the books. I got nothing to hide. This is a good little business. Best dive shop out east, all the city folks say. Locals will tell you the same thing.”
“No banks. I’m a cash buyer.” Shaking Roger’s hand, Jameson nodded his thanks and walked out of the shop as if he’d not just disclosed that he could pay cash for a business listed in the mid-six figures.
“Um. What just happened?” Chloe asked once they were a few miles down the road, heading back to East Hampton.
It’d taken her that long to find her voice.
“That stoplight was green. I had the right of way,” Jameson said, intentionally misunderstanding.
“No, back in Montauk.”
He shrugged. “Got a tip about a dive shop for sale.”
“Are you in the market for a dive shop?”
“Not really.”
“So why did we just go there and have a conversation about buying a dive shop?”
Another shrug. “Why not?”
“The better question is why?” she stressed, trying to pin him down.
“For kicks.” He tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? Where should we eat?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m gonna need tequila if you don’t stop talking in circles.”
“Mexican, it is.”
“Jameson, seriously.” She turned in her seat, needing to see his face. “Are you gonna buy that place?”
He knew what she was really asking. And it had nothing to do with a dive shop.
Are you going to stay?
“Don’t know.” With that, he gave her a long look that told her those two words were the best answer she’d get out of him.
And so she stared out the windshield as the miles quickly passed by, wondering why she was so angry about the possibility. Except, that answer was easy, and one she’d readily admit.
He was considering staying in East Hampton for a hobby to kill time, as he explained it.
When he’d not stayed in East Hampton for her.
For him.
Them.
Not even one extra day. The day they eagerly planned for weeks. The day they’d leave for California—together, forever—despite Genevieve’s iron fist.
“Well, I think it’s a ridiculous amount of money,” she finally said, and he chuckled at her inability to let it go. “No way are the earnings high enough to justify that price.”
He tilted his dark head, apparently disagreeing.
“An asinine price, my father would say. You should make a lowball offer and tell him it’s your best and final.” She held up a finger. “There’ve been shark attacks on his watch, mark my words.”
Turning into a small lot right off the highway, Jameson parked in front of a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant serving the best burritos for fifty miles around.
He reached for her hand, the gesture now a habit she could get used to.
“It’s a financial commitment I have no problem making,” he said, his voice annoyingly calm. “And I don’t give a shit what your dad says, although after talking with him today, that dude thinks I can do no wrong.”
A commitment I have no problem making.
That hurt.
If all it took to make Jameson Maine stay in East Hampton was a rundown dive shop, then Chloe bought the wrong property.
Maine Lane didn’t hold the same value.
Neither did she.
But what hurt the most? Was neither did he.
Signs.
He wasn’t a big believer in such things.
Unless they involved rapid hand gestures and silent shoulder taps during a covert black op, under the cover of darkness and the noses of known terrorists, Jameson never cared for them.
But today, the universe was conspiring against him. Forcing him to pay attention.
Either that or he was having the worst day ever.
And considering Chloe sat next to him, cozy inside his dark truck as they headed back to Maine Lane after their road trip to Montauk, this was not the worst day ever.
Just might be the best.
And he didn’t want it to end.
How the day started, though? Those pesky signs? They were why he wasn’t a few hundred miles closer to Florida right now.
First, Cade’s daughter caught chickenpox and he stayed home from work to help his wife care for their sick child. Which put him a full day behind on completing his inventory—a mandatory report the broker required for the listing.
Second, the broker was rear-ended on her drive up from the city, so the delay in inventory didn’t matter. No injuries, she assured him, but would he mind terribly rescheduling the transfer of power of attorney for the hardware store to later this week?
Yeah. He did mind. Terribly.
Any additional time spent inside East Hampton exponentially increased his odds of being inside Chloe Morgan again.
He made it the weekend, a full forty-eight hours of masterful restraint on his part, but then, another sign.
This one in the form of Graham Morgan.
He was heading into Doug’s office, needing paperwork notarized prior to handing over the keys and the official market listing for Maine Hardware, when he heard his name in a masculine, commanding voice.
“Jameson, hello. I heard you were back in town.” Graham.
They exchanged niceties, though awkward given the sordid history he shared with the man’s daughter, and that the entire conversation happened on the sidewalk, in full view of said daughter’s prying eyes.
It lasted maybe five minutes before they parted ways, but it wasn’t long enough for Graham. She was his daughter after all, and a minor at the time, so Jameson was due a beatdown.
He took his shot, but it was a verbal recommendation rather than a right hook.
“Hey, before I go,” Graham said, feigning curiosity. “There’s something that always bothered me about that situation. I’m a details guy. It’s how I’ve made my living, and with you being successful yourself, I’m sure you are, too.”
Jameson hid a smile.
He knew the psychological slant Graham was taking. Lower your opponent’s defenses via ego-stroking, then drop the hammer.