“Hey, how’s your daughter?” he asked, suddenly needing to know about the baby’s welfare.
Beyond Cade’s update when he returned to work Tuesday morning, Jameson hadn’t inquired. Proving Chloe was right. He really was an asshole.
For her, he’d work on that.
“Aw, man, she’s great,” he said, with clear devotion. “All dotted up in pink calamine lotion, those pox spots are starting to calm down. She looks like a little baby leopard, pink spots covering her tiny body.”
“Good,” he said, unsure what else to add. “Glad she’s on the mend.”
“Hey, thanks for asking. She gets one scratch, and I can’t take it. Tears me up inside. Might have to buy some of our bubble wrap once she starts walking. Spin it around her just to give me peace of mind.”
“Take as much as you want. On the house.” Because Jameson understood that protectiveness. “Did my dad ever mention a guy named John? John Hennessey? Anyone by that name ever come into the store?”
“Hmm. Well, there’s been a whole lotta guys named John, but Hennessey doesn’t ring a bell. Never heard Jonah mention that name. Why’re you asking?”
“No reason in particular,” he said, eyeing the blue file. “Just sorting through random paperwork and noticed it. I’m sure it’s insignificant.”
If you called tens of thousands of dollars sitting in a bank—this unknown man now the sole account holder—insignificant.
“Lock up early. Go home to your family.”
Cade hesitated. “Uh, but we have customers. A steady stream all day.”
“Flip the sign to closed, and once the last customer leaves, head out. It’ll all be there in the morning.”
But his baby was only a baby once.
“Okee-doke,” Cade said, and just before hanging up, added, “Hope you find out who John is. If he was important to Jonah, he’s probably important to you.”
Disconnecting, he leaned back in the chair, stretching his neck muscles, then his tight back. Chloe needed to face facts on the life expectancy of her beloved mattress because it was a chiropractor’s wet dream. The limited amount of sleep he’d gotten this week was mostly due to Chloe and her smokin’ hot body, but partly that cavernous dip.
The other curious item he found in the same drawer as the blue file now sat on the desk, and Jameson stared at it.
A clear glass bottle, tall and narrow, filled with sand.
Two distinct layers, the bottom half beige in color, the top half sugar white. A few crystals mingled, but he could tell it had been handled with care, the cork wedged tightly so none spilled.
If he was important to Jonah, he’s probably important to you.
Forgetting the sand, he perused the file again, searching for something that was most likely staring him in the face.
The truth was, he didn’t want or need the money in that fund. That’s why he sent it to his father in the first place. But this was a mystery that needed solving before he went back to Florida.
Or maybe that was only another excuse.
Because the sound of tires on the gravel driveway kick-started his heart, and without moving an achy muscle to look, he already knew who it was. Smiled to an empty room, in an empty house.
The real reason he wanted to stay.
And she was home.
One slow, sexy smile from Jameson Maine was all it took.
Ten years ago, while she stood at his door holding a gift of cupcakes for a neighbor boy she’d only seen from afar, and she fell in fast, hard love with him.
From that moment on, they were inseparable.
And one hot summer night not long after, having known him mere weeks, they went stargazing in Jonah’s thirty-foot Bowrider. Jameson expertly navigated the boat, a full moon reflecting off the mirrored surface of the Atlantic to light their way, they dropped anchor a few miles off shore. Dropped their clothes a few minutes later. It was her first time. Not his.
Jameson showed her just how good it could be, how amazing it could feel, and for that glorious summer, she found herself hopelessly addicted to him. His body, his mind, his soul. His hopes and dreams became hers, and in return, hers were his. There was never any doubt that he was all-in.
They were lovers in every sense of the word.
A very grown-up word—lovers. And then a bigger word entered their life, with larger than ever ramifications.
That summer ended far differently than either anticipated.
Lovers . . . to haters.
But today, as she walked through the front door of Maine Lane and saw that same slow, sexy smile again, she could admit it without feeling foolish. Without fear of her undoing, history repeating itself.
She was still in fast, hard love with Jameson Maine.
No hate remained.
Stopping in the foyer, her first time inside since the night of the muffin-baking molestation, she took in the lack of boxes. Plenty were still stacked in the rooms she could see, but he’d made his way through many. And her optimism took a ding.
Once the boxes were gone, he would be gone.
They’d made love, yes, but no plans beyond that.
According to the online listing, Montauk Dive Shop was still actively for sale. And since negotiations could be underway without public visibility, Chloe had called a former bride—who just happened to be a realtor with inside sources. She promised to look into it and advise Chloe on any offers. Jameson himself was staying tight-lipped, not mentioning the dive shop since their visit.
She found him now, in the study.
“You look good in here,” she remarked, stopping to lean against the door jamb. “Like you belong.”
He sat there, in Jonah’s chair, his big, rangy body laid back and his boots up on the desk. A blue, legal-sized file lay open over his flat belly.
“I do?” He patted his thigh. “You belong here.”
She laughed. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”
He shrugged, as if uncaring about the time of day, up for anything, anytime. But then he sat forward, closing the file and slipping it inside a desk drawer.
“You’re home early?” It was a question.
“So are you.” Convenient for her.
They generally arrived home from work at the same time, but she didn’t want to read too much into their similar schedules.
“Cade’s got it handled. Not sure why I need to be there. I just get in his way.”
His biceps flexed when he stretched his arms over his head as if he’d been sitting in the chair too long. In his usual uniform—a T-shirt and worn jeans—all his edgy ink was on display, and her tummy somersaulted.
“Afternoon sex,” she finally hedged, admitting the truth.
“You left work early to come home and have sex with me?”
“Afternoon sex,” she pointed out proudly because they now had a running joke on types of sex. Then she tilted her head. “Home. I like that.”
If he did too, he didn’t say.
“And I have a standing appointment every Thursday afternoon,” she added, “so I usually leave the office around two o’clock anyway.”
It was Thursday.
Which meant a clandestine, yet cherished, trip to Riverhead.
Pushing away from the door, she stepped inside the study and noticed the glass bottle on the desk.