He wanted her to understand about Granddad. But what the hell. It didn’t matter if she understood. What he wanted was impossible. The dream of a family compound had died with his grandfather. His cousins were scattered around the country these days, and besides, who would want to bring their kids to visit a man whose face made babies cry?
No, he was alone, and likely to be that way for the rest of his life. So what he needed was a place to hide. But saying it out loud wasn’t easy.
He tore his gaze away from Jessica and focused on the compass heading. Not that he needed the direction. He could see Lookout Island off the port bow, the old lighthouse rising up, seemingly from out of the bay itself.
“Maybe I should just restore the lighthouse,” he muttered, feeling the need to say something.
“Well, that’s an option. But are you ready for tiny-house living? A lighthouse usually doesn’t have much square footage.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of everything I want?” he asked in a disgruntled tone. He turned back toward her, irritated that she seemed so carelessly calm, with one leg tucked up under the other.
She shook her head. “No. I’m just doing my job. You haven’t given me much to work with.”
“No. I told you what I wanted and—”
“Not really. You told me what your grandfather wanted, and then you told me what you were willing to settle for. What is it you want, Topher?”
I want my old life back. That was what he wanted, but she was powerless to give him that. So instead, he asked, “What would be involved in turning the lighthouse into a residence?”
She leaned forward, pulling her cap down on her head against the breeze. “Well, I’ve never done a lighthouse restoration, so I’ll need to do some research. But from what I’ve seen in photographs, it will be vertical living. You know, a room on each level. So lots of stairs to get from one place to another.”
She pushed her sunglasses up her nose and looked in his direction. Damnation. He wanted to see her eyes when she said stuff like that. Did she have enough courage to look him in the eye and point out his obvious disability?
“I think maybe I want a little more room,” he said.
“Is there a lightkeeper’s cottage on the island?”
“There was once, but I don’t remember it. Hurricane Hugo blew it down in 1989.”
“Too bad. We could have restored it.”
“I guess. I don’t think it was very big.”
“So you want something big, then?”
He shrugged.
“Are you planning to live there year-round?”
“Of course.”
“Oh. Okay, that’s important to know. We have to worry about winter storms in addition to the occasional tropical disturbance. I don’t think we’ll be able to build a sea wall, but we can—”
“I like the idea of walls,” he said because he didn’t know what else to say. “You know, to keep the storms at bay.” And to keep people out. Then he added, “The lighthouse is made of brick, so maybe we should think about some stone to complement it.” God, he sounded like an idiot. He knew nothing about architecture.
“Hmmm,” she said on a long breath. “So basically you’re telling me you want a castle with a tower.”
“What? I didn’t say—”
“Okay, I know that’s not what you said, but a stone building with a wall and a lighthouse tower says castle to me.”
A flash of anger hit him like a rogue wave. “Are you laughing at me?” he snarled.
“Not at all. I’m trying to understand what you want.”
“Well, clearly I want something substantial, maybe built of stone, with a wall to protect it. And it needs to withstand the most ferocious storm, with a big enough freezer to lay in food for months at a time. I don’t plan to make a lot of trips back and forth to the grocery store.”
* * *
Finally. She had something to work with, and it wasn’t far from what Aunt Donna had talked about last Saturday. He wanted a hideaway.
It made sense, seeing the way he would turn away from her, exposing only his unscarred side. It almost irked her that she could feel empathy for him. It was probably hard for him. People probably stared at him.
So she got the picture. He wanted a place to haunt like some brooding, injured hero in a Gothic novel. She’d never designed anything like that, and she’d hate living in a place like that. But it wasn’t her vision or her house.
That was the point. And she took pride in the fact that she was good at her job because she could translate her clients’ visions into reality.
So she gave him a businesslike smile. “I can design something like that,” she said, standing up to make herself taller and maybe a bit more serious-looking. But the swaying motion of the boat almost knocked her sideways. She had to grab the back of the bench to keep from falling over. How humiliating.
She found him watching her out of his cobalt-blue eye, studying her as if he could see right through to her insecurities. She needed a moment to regroup.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to use the head.”
“Sure. It’s down the ship’s ladder and to the left.”
She headed forward and took the ladder down into the yacht’s main salon, which had been decorated in a style that fit the boat’s name.
And really, who names their boat Bachelor’s Delight? But then, she already knew that Topher Martin had an ego the size of Alaska. Clearly, the whole #MeToo thing had completely escaped his attention.
As she snooped around his yacht, she got a real good sense of his design style, which could be summed up as early–American Playboy Mansion. She wanted to barf all over the gold trim in the yacht’s head. The whole thing was beyond tacky.
When she returned above deck, desperately in need of fresh air, Delight was nearing the iconic lighthouse. It stood on its lonely island at the mouth of the inlet, its red and white stripes faded to brown and gray. A cast-iron gallery and catwalk topped the tower and had left rust streaks down the faded paint of the brickwork.
The tower was solid and utterly isolated. A perfect place for an off-the-grid hideaway for a brooding bachelor.
Topher guided the yacht alongside a floating aluminum dock that appeared to be brand-new. She hopped out and secured the mooring lines as Topher cut the engines.
She had expected him to take care of the aft lines, but when he stood up from the captain’s chair, she realized the truth. Aunt Donna had said something about his injured leg, and now she realized that it was, by far, the most significant of his challenges.
A few misgivings settled uncomfortably into her mind. Maybe it was cruel to do this—to make it possible for him to retire from the world.
She stomped on the thought. Who was she to tell him what he should and shouldn’t do? The man was willing to pay her well. So she wasn’t going to get all softhearted or worried. The man had money, he wanted a house, and she was an architect.
She headed down the dock and caught the mooring line when he tossed it to her. When she’d secured it to the cleat, she stood and turned, gazing up at the lighthouse.
“Tell me about the light?” she asked.
“It was built in 1870,” he said as they made their way up a flagstone walk. Topher had produced one of those folding aluminum canes with a rubber tip, which he leaned heavily on as they climbed the hill where the light stood looking over the inlet.