Читать книгу The Mighty Quinns: Ronan - Kate Hoffmann - Страница 9

THE SUN ROSE as the bus rolled across the state line from New Hampshire into Maine. After four days on the road, crossing the country accompanied by complete strangers, eating at roadside diners and truck stops and sleeping in fits and starts, Ronan was ready to reach his destination.

The sunrise had become an important event for him, something he looked forward to when there was little else to mark the passing time. But now that they’d reached the Atlantic coast, he saw a completely different sunrise, a blaze of color over the blue ocean.

Like Seattle, the passing landscape was dominated by the sea and Ronan felt a hint of familiarity in such a strange, new place. The villages along the route were populated with white clapboard buildings and red brick churches, towering hardwood trees and tidy town squares, and harbors filled with bobbing sailboats.

“Thanks, Grandda,” he murmured to himself. He couldn’t imagine that his brothers’ destinations in New Mexico, Kentucky and Wisconsin came close to the natural beauty he was seeing here.

The bus ride really hadn’t been that bad. As a kid, he’d spent a lot of time alone, riding his bike around the neighborhood or mastering tricks on his skateboard. As he grew older, he’d hiked and climbed and camped, he’d taught himself to ski and snowboard, but always alone, finding comfort in the quiet of a silent mountaintop or a lush forest.

His fondness for solitude had made him a bit of a black sheep in a family of brothers who were impossibly close. Ronan had just never found a proper place for himself. His oldest brother, Cameron, was the responsible one, charged with holding their fractured family together. Dermot was the charmer and Kieran the quiet one. Ronan was the outsider.

It didn’t help that Ronan was the only one of the four Quinn boys who harbored an unshakable fear of the water. It had been difficult when every Quinn family activity revolved around boats and sailing. Cam, Dermot and Kieran spent their free time on the water, while Ronan had been forced to find solitary activities on land.

Ronan knew his fear of water had everything to do with what had happened to his parents. He didn’t remember many details about that time when the world went black and everyone was sad. Yet, to this day, he remembered the nightmares of cold water and high waves, endless depths and interminable storms, and a deep and utter feeling of loss.

The mother who had comforted him, the father he’d adored, were suddenly gone, and no one had ever really explained to him how that could have happened. He was the one who held hope the longest, certain that one day, his parents would walk in the door and life would get back to normal.

Ronan didn’t mind that he was labeled the odd little brother. It was his place in the family hierarchy and it was comfortable amidst brothers who seemed to thrive on competition. He didn’t mind that making friends didn’t come easily to him. Or that he was twenty-six and drifted between women the same way he drifted between jobs at the yachtworks.

He didn’t want to make plans, he avoided commitment. No one could know what the future held so he didn’t think about the future. He lived his days, and his nights, one at a time.

But last week, his grandfather had asked them all to imagine a different life, to put aside the responsibilities they’d taken on as kids and to follow their dreams. To his surprise, the further he got from Seattle and his life there, the more his past began to fade in his mind.

The only dream he’d ever had as a child was more of a fantasy, one where his parents magically reappeared in their lives. Maybe it was time to start making a plan for himself, to focus on a goal and make it come true. Without his family around, he was no longer the black sheep. He was simply Ronan Quinn, a clean slate, a fresh start.

When the bus driver finally called “Sibleyville,” Ronan jumped to his feet. He was about to walk into a different life for the next six weeks. A month and a half was what his grandfather had required for this challenge and starting now, Ronan would have to find a job and a place to sleep.

The bus pulled up in front of a drug store and the driver opened the door. “Sibleyville. Anyone for Sibleyville?”

Ronan walked down the aisle, his duffel slung over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said to the driver as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

If there was a picture next to the definition of quaint in the dictionary, this was it, Ronan thought to himself. A neon Rexall Drug sign hung over his head and a variety of merchandise was displayed behind the gleaming plate glass windows on either side of the entrance. The bus pulled away behind him and Ronan turned and watched it disappear down the street.

He drew a deep breath and the salt-tinged sea air filled Ronan’s lungs. It was a different smell from home, he mused. Familiar, but different. Small town life was bound to be a change for him. He enjoyed having all the conveniences that a big city provided. But then, people were supposed to be friendlier in places like this. And for a guy who usually depended on himself, Ronan might need the kindness of a few strangers right now.

He walked inside the drug store and immediately noticed the lunch counter along one wall. He still had a little cash left in his pocket so he decided to take a seat and have something to drink while he got his bearings.

An elderly man stepped behind the counter. “What can I get for you?”

“Chocolate malt,” he said.

“Made with vanilla ice cream or chocolate?”

The man’s New England accent was thick, the words flattened out until Ronan could barely understand. “Vanilla,” Ronan said.

He grabbed a menu from the rack in front of him and perused the prices. They served soda fountain treats and sandwiches for lunch, but he’d have to find another spot for breakfast and dinner. “I’m looking for a place to stay,” Ronan said. “Something cheap. Can you suggest anything?”

“Well, it’s still high season around here, but there are a few boarding houses in town that you could try. Mrs. Morey has a place over on Second Street and Miss Harrington has a few rooms in her house on Whitney. They’re pretty fussy about who they rent to. No funny business, if you get my drift.”

“Do you know how much they charge?” Ronan asked.

The old man considered the question for a long moment as he prepared the malt. “Can’t say that I do.”

“I’m also looking for a job,” Ronan said.

“There’s a board over at the visitors center,” he said. “There’s always someone looking for help. They’ll help you find a room, too, if you ask Maxine. She’s usually behind the desk.”

He placed the malt in front of Ronan. The old fountain glass was filled to the brim, then topped with whipped cream and a cherry. “That’ll be three-ninety-five,” he said.

Ronan pulled out his wallet and laid a five on the counter. “Keep the change,” he said.

Ronan lingered over the malt, watching as customers came and went, getting a feel for the locals. Everyone in town seemed pretty friendly. There was a certain civility in their manner that he’d never seen in big city residents. Maybe it was because they all knew each other that they went out of their way to greet each other with a friendly hello or a short conversation.

When he finished his malt, Ronan grabbed his duffel and headed out to the visitor’s center. The converted railroad station was home to the local merchant’s association as well as the tourist office. He went to the job board and scanned the opportunities. There were jobs in restaurants and motels, a job at the local library and one at the marina.

A job at a local oyster farm caught his eye. He glanced around, then pulled the card from the board and tucked it in his pocket. He loved oysters and farming meant that he’d be spending his time outdoors. He couldn’t think of a better combination.

Ronan walked over to the hospitality counter and gave the elderly woman sitting behind it a quick smile. “Are you Maxine?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“I’m looking for a room. I’m going to be in town for six weeks. It needs to be cheap. I don’t have a lot of money.”

“We have a couple of boarding houses in town,” she said. “And Isiah Crawford rents out a few of his motel rooms on a monthly basis. Let me try Mrs. Morey first.”

The woman dialed a number. “Hello, Elvira. It’s Maxine down at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man down here looking for a room. Do you have anything available?” She paused. “Wonderful. How much?” She scribbled something on her pad, then glanced up at Ronan. “What’s your name?”

“Ronan Quinn?”

Maxine’s eyes went wide for a moment, then she cleared her throat. “Yes, Elvira, you heard that right. Well, I’m sure he’ll understand. If you forgot, you forgot.”

Maxine hung up the phone and smiled apologetically. “It seems that she doesn’t have a room after all. Some big group coming in.”

“Could you try the other boarding house?” he asked.

“I—I don’t think Tillie has anything available either. I just saw her at church this morning and she—she would have mentioned it. Maybe you could try across the river in Newcastle?”

Ronan had the distinct impression that he was getting the runaround. Why were these people suddenly unwilling to rent to him? “Maybe you could try the motel?”

With a reluctant smile, she dialed the phone. “Hi there, Josiah. It’s Maxine over at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man here named Ronan Quinn and he’s looking for a—yes, that’s what I said. He’s looking for a room. Well, that’s a shame. All right. You, too, Josiah.”

She hung up the phone again and shrugged. “He doesn’t have any vacancies either. Newcastle really is your best option. It’s just over the bridge.”

“I need to stay here, in Sibleyville,” he said. Ronan picked up his duffel bag. “Never mind, I’ll find a place on my own.”

Maxine forced a smile. “Can I offer you a bit of advice? Don’t give them your name. In fact, use a different name entirely. But don’t dare tell anyone I gave you this advice. Run along now.”

With a soft curse, Ronan walked outside, keeping his temper in check. What the hell was going on here? Did the town have something against the Irish? Or was it just because he was a single guy? From what he could tell, the town thrived on tourism so it didn’t make sense they’d turn anyone away. If he’d thought Sibleyville looked like a friendly place at first glance, he’d been sadly mistaken.

He looked down at the card he held. Mistry Bay Oyster Farm. Contact Charlie Sibley. Would a potential employer feel the same? Especially one named after this very village? For now, he’d keep his name to himself until he knew for sure.

“Maybe living a different life is going to be more difficult than I thought it would be,” he muttered.

“YOU NEED TO scrape harder than that,” Charlotte Sibley said, running her hand over the rough hull of the skiff. “All this old paint has to come off. If you paint on top of it, it won’t stick.”

Her fourteen-year-old brother, Garrett, looked up from the task she’d given him and rolled his eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Of course you do. You’re just not doing a very good job of it. You’ve been bugging Dad to let you work the boats on your own but you’re not willing to put in the effort that comes with it.” She ruffled his hair. “Come on, princess, put some muscle into it. We’re going to need that skiff this season.”

“Who made you the boss of me? You’re not the boss of me, Charlie. Dad is.”

“And if you haven’t noticed, Einstein, Dad is laid up with a bad back. His doctor says he can’t work for at least a month or two. He made me the boss of things, so that makes me the boss of you, too.”

Garrett muttered something beneath his breath and went back to work. Charlotte smiled to herself. Now that she’d been put in charge of the Mistry Bay oyster farm, it had been a bit of a rocky ascension from worker to boss. Charlie knew the business from top to bottom, after working it for years with her family. And six years away hadn’t been long enough to forget the ropes. But being in charge meant that she’d had to rein in the members of the Sibley clan who preferred malingering to hard work.

A knock sounded on the door of the boathouse and Charlotte strode over to the door. She’d been expecting a visit from an up and coming chef from Boston who was visiting the area. Chef Joel Bellingham had already made a name for himself in Boston with one highly rated restaurant and would soon be opening a second—a seafood place that might feature Mistry Bay oysters.

She yanked the door open, but her greeting died in her throat as she came face-to-face with an impossibly handsome man, not much older than she was. He watched her with pale blue eyes, as she tried to regain her breath, his gaze holding hers. Charlie swallowed hard, then cleared her throat. “Hello! Come on in. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.” She’d met Bellingham over the phone earlier that morning and had somehow gotten the impression he was much older. This guy could be thirty, tops.

“There was a sign above the door,” he said, glancing around.

They stood there for an uncomfortable moment before Charlie could shake herself into action. “How was your trip?” she asked. “The traffic on Highway 1 can be really bad on the weekends.”

“It was fine.”

He was a man of few words. Charlie felt a stab of disappointment. He obviously wasn’t interested in chatting with her. And usually she was so good with customers. But this guy, though stunningly handsome, didn’t have much of a personality. “Let me show you around.”

The waterfront building served multiple purposes for the family business. Charlie pointed out the shop area where they repaired equipment and boat engines. Housed in the other half of the lower floor was the shipping area, where workers cleaned and sorted oysters before they were boxed to be sent all over the east coast and beyond. As Charlie rattled off her talking points, she realized she wasn’t even listening to herself. He stood beside her, nodding politely.

The second floor housed the business offices and a small apartment Charlotte sometimes used when she needed to get away from the craziness at her parents’ house. It also included a finely appointed tasting room, modeled after a gourmet kitchen, where they often entertained visitors interested in featuring Mistry Bay oysters at their restaurants or seafood counters. The room overlooked the river and was the perfect setting to talk oysters.

“Mistry Bay is a family business,” she said as they walked up the stairs. “We’ve had the oyster farm for nearly twenty years and we think we have some of the best oysters on the east coast. But I’m a bit prejudiced.” She drew a ragged breath. “Why don’t we taste some oysters.”

He walked beside her into the tasting room and she couldn’t help but notice how tall and well built he was, dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, but the stubble made him look slightly dangerous. He was like the kind of guy who wore his sex appeal with a casual indifference, as if he didn’t care if women noticed him.

Since she’d left Danny in New York over a year ago, Charlotte hadn’t found herself attracted to any man. In truth, she’d written off men completely. As long as she was living in Sibleyville, romance was an exercise in futility anyway. But she wasn’t averse to indulging in a little fantasy every now and then and Chef Joel Bellingham provided plenty of raw material.

She pointed to a stool at the granite-topped counter then moved to the other side of it to retrieve a bowl of freshly harvested oysters from the refrigerator. As she stood across from him, she laid a folded towel on the counter and grabbed an oyster. Charlotte felt him watching her. She was almost worried to look up, afraid that he’d be able to read her thoughts.

She held the oyster with another towel and popped the shell open at the hinge. After carefully slicing the meat from the shell, she placed the fresh oyster on a Mistry Bay oyster plate, preserving the liquid in the shell. “Lemon?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I like them plain.”

“Can I offer you a pairing? We have champagne, muscadet and ice-cold vodka. All three really enhance the taste of our oysters. Not all together, of course. Each one separately.”

“It’s eleven in the morning,” he said.

“Right.”

He regarded her warily. “Champagne would be good. If you’re going to join me.”

She found a split of bubbly in the fridge, popped it open and poured it into two flutes. Drawing a deep breath, she went into her business pitch as she continued to open oysters. “We ship from September through June and use overnight delivery. That means you can have fresh oysters Tuesday through Saturday mornings. We harvest early in the morning and ship that afternoon.”

Charlotte continued to shuck oysters and place them on the plate, describing the attributes of the Mistry Bay oyster in sensual terms. They were plump and juicy, briny and sweet. Usually a half dozen on the half-shell satisfied most customers, but Chef Joel seemed to be particularly hungry.

When she wasn’t talking, she was nervously sipping champagne, trying to keep herself from spinning right out of the room. He finally held up his hand at a dozen, then drew a deep breath. “They were really good. Thanks.”

Really good? Usually her oysters received more than a “good.” Exquisite, delicate, satisfying, better than sex. Really good wasn’t that good at all. “Do you have any questions?” she asked.

“Just one. Does this mean I have the job?”

She sent him a quizzical look. “Job? I—I don’t understand.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an index card, then held it out to her. “I found this over at the visitor’s center. It said you were looking for help?”

A gasp slipped from her throat. “Wait a second. You’re not Chef Joel from Boston?”

“Nope. I’m Ronan. Ronan Smith from Seattle. I don’t mind working hard. I’ll be here early and stay late. You tell me to do something and it’ll be done.” He gazed at her silently.

Charlie felt a shiver skitter down her spine and she had to force herself to look away. She cleared her throat. “You ate a dozen oysters,” she said. “Did you think that was part of the interview?”

“I just thought you were showing me the product. And I was hungry.”

She really couldn’t blame him for the mix-up. She’d been caught off guard from the moment she set eyes on him. The fluttery feeling in her stomach and the buzzing in her head had made it impossible to think clearly. Maybe if she’d had her wits about her, she might have seen his confusion sooner.

“So, do I have the job?” he asked again.

“Come with me,” Charlotte said. She had just posted the job yesterday. Considering the other employment opportunities available, she hadn’t expected such a quick response. Nor such an interesting prospect. But here was guy who set her heart racing and she had a perfectly good reason to keep him around a little longer.

“The job is hard, with long hours. The pay isn’t great, but with the hours you work, you should make a decent living. Are you going to have a problem with that?”

“Nope,” he said as he followed her downstairs.

She led him over to the inverted skiff. “This is my brother, Garrett. Garrett, this is Ronan Smith. He’s interviewing for the job. Give him your scraper.”

“No problem,” Garrett said, handing Ronan the paint scraper. “I’m going home, Charlie.”

Charlotte didn’t argue this time. She was glad to be rid of her little brother. She certainly didn’t need him watching her fall all over herself around the gorgeous new employee. “Cut the lawn when you get home. You know Dad can’t do it and Mom is too busy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Garrett said.

“Teenagers,” she murmured as they watched Garrett walk out the door. When she turned back to Ronan, she caught him staring, his blue eyes direct and intense.

“You’re Charlie?” he asked. “You’re the boss?”

“Yes. Charlotte. Charlie. Sibley.”

“I was expecting a man.”

“And I was expecting a chef,” she countered.

“What do you want me to call you?”

She caught a look in his eyes that appeared to be amusement. Was he just toying with her? Or had she completely lost control of this interview. “You don’t have the job yet.” She picked up the paint scraper and safety glasses and handed them to him. “If you want the job, show me what you can do with this scraper first.”

He nodded. And for the first time since they met, he smiled. To Charlie, it was as if the morning mist had suddenly parted and the sunshine shone down. He was even more attractive, if that was possible.

Men who looked like Ronan Smith usually learned to wield their charm early on. By the time they reached their teens, they knew the effect they had on the opposite sex and used it to their advantage. But Ronan seemed reluctant to use his God-given advantages.

He set to work on the skiff, a shower of paint chips flying off with each stroke. Charlie watched him for a moment, her gaze falling on the finely cut muscles in his arms. A shiver skittered down her spine and she turned and hurried back upstairs to clean up the tasting room. A bit of privacy gave her a chance to take a deep breath and focus her runaway thoughts—on Ronan Smith. It was an odd name, Ronan.

She grabbed the bottle and guzzled the remainder of the champagne, then opened another split. He’d mentioned he was from Seattle. She really ought to ask for references. Or a resume. For all she knew, he could be a criminal or a con artist—or a competitor, out to get an inside look at their operation.

Sliding onto one of the stools, she opened up another oyster and slurped it down. Ronan was a complete enigma. But then, when it came to men, she really didn’t know what she was doing. She’d only had one romantic relationship in her life and that had lasted six years.

She and Danny had started dating when they were juniors in high school, playing opposite each other in the school musical. When they graduated, they were both determined to chase their dreams on Broadway.

But New York was a rude awakening. Danny was easily discouraged and took a full time job selling cell phones. After some minor parts in a criminal drama, a series of commercials for generic laundry detergent, and an appearance in an off-off-Broadway play, Charlie was beginning to break through.

But as she got more work, Danny became more and more distant—and jealous. Their relationship began to fracture and Charlie realized that New York wasn’t where she wanted to be. So, she moved out and came home to Sibleyville, older and a little wiser.

She glanced up at the chef’s mirror above the granite counter. A groan slipped from her throat. Her chestnut hair looked liked a tangle of seaweed. Charlie grabbed a clean oyster brush from the drawer next to the fridge and ran it though the shoulder-length strands, then pinched her cheeks to give herself some color.

She rarely wore make-up when she was working and usually didn’t care to dress in anything that showed off her figure. Yet she couldn’t help but regret that it wasn’t the New York City actress Charlotte Sibley that opened the door to Ronan Smith rather than the oyster farmer Charlie Sibley.

She looked at herself in the mirror once more. Though she could pretend to be a myriad of interesting and exotic characters, Charlie knew that the woman she was would have to be enough.

Shaking her head, she walked to the door, but found herself off balance from the champagne she’d guzzled. If she was going to hire Ronan, than she’d have to keep her feelings to herself and her wits about her. A man like Ronan probably had women drooling over him everyday. And Charlie had never aspired to be one of the crowd.

RONAN SMOOTHED HIS hand over the hull of the twenty-foot skiff. The boat was old, maybe sixty or seventy years old from the clues he’d found in the construction. Nowadays, most commercial outfits chose fiberglass boats for their easy upkeep and long life.

“How’s it going?”

He glanced up to see Charlie watching him. Jaysus, she was pretty. Her wavy dark hair framed a beautiful face, each of her features a perfect complement to the others. She had the kind of beauty that made him want to sit her down in front of him so he might study her in greater detail, like a fine painting or a famous sculpture.

“Good. This is a beautiful boat,” he said. “I love the lines.”

“It’s old,” she said.

“They don’t make them like this anymore. I think the best boats are made of wood.”

“My dad would totally agree with you.” Charlie came closer to examine his work. “You’re very thorough,” she murmured.

The compliment pleased him, more so because it came from her. “This scraper is kind of dull. If you’ve got a way for me to sharpen it, I’d get more done. And you might want to use a better grade of marine paint next time,” he said. “If you apply it properly and maintain it, you shouldn’t have to repaint as often.” He stopped himself. Now he was sounding like the boss.

“You know something about boats?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Ronan said. “Just a little.”

“You said you were from Seattle. What are you doing in Maine?”

“Just traveling,” Ronan said. “Seeing America.”

“Well, if you’re willing to work hard, I’ll pay you a fair wage,” she said. “We have the office and shop here in town. And our nursery and hatchery is out at Kepley Pond. Then we grow out the oysters at Mistry Bay.”

Kepley Pond. Mistry Bay. That sounded like a lot of water. Since he’d been eight years old, Ronan made a point to stay off the water, at least the ocean. But he wanted this job and he’d need to put his fears aside. Maybe it was time to face the past. Besides, no one ever got lost at pond or at bay like they got lost at sea.

“You’ve done good work on the boat,” she said. “The job is yours, if you’d like it.”

“There is one thing,” he said. “I need to find somewhere to stay. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“We’ve got a small apartment upstairs next to the office. I could rent that to you,” she said. “As long as you’re quiet and tidy, I don’t see any problems.”

“Great,” he said. Ronan knew he ought to tell her his real name. She didn’t seem like the type to discriminate, although he still hadn’t figured out what the problem was with the rest of the town. “I tried to find a place in town, but no one wanted to rent to me.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. As soon as I told them my name, they suddenly didn’t have a room to rent.”

“Ronan?” she asked. “Or Smith?”

“Quinn,” he said. “My name is Ronan Quinn, not Smith.” He paused and watched as surprise came over her pretty features. “See. That’s the look right there. So it is the name.”

She laughed softly and then a sudden hiccup stopped her. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she sent him an apologetic smile. “Yeah. People around here have a pretty big grudge against anyone named Quinn.”

“How could they have a grudge against me? They don’t even know me.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Well, I don’t really believe in all the silliness. Spells and curses and witches. I’m willing to give you a job, Ronan Quinn. And a place to stay, if you want.”

“What did this Quinn do to make everyone mad?”

“It’s a complicated story,” Charlie said, waving him off.

“Don’t you think I ought to hear it, so I know what I’m up against?”

She shook her head. “If I tell you the story, you’ll think we’re all so crazy that you’ll want to leave town. And I need an oysterman.” She pointed to his duffel. “Grab your bag and I’ll show you the apartment.”

Ronan breathed a silent sigh of relief. “I didn’t mean to lie about my name. I was just trying to figure things out.”

“No matter,” she said, walking him back upstairs.

When they got to the second floor, a doorway opened into a lobby for a spacious office opposite the tasting room. “Things usually get busy in here in the afternoon when we’re preparing packing lists and labels for our shipments but all that starts next week.”

She showed him a comfortable one-bedroom apartment with a galley kitchen and a comfortable bed. A bay window overlooked the water and he could hear the metallic clank of the boat riggings through the glass. “This is nice,” he said.

“If you need an advance to buy groceries, I can help you out there.”

“I could use that,” he said. “And I can finish the skiff today. I’ll work on it all night if I have to.”

“Great,” she murmured. Charlie stood in front of him, her gaze flitting nervously around the room. Though Ronan had tried to hide his attraction to his new boss, he hadn’t really considered that she might be attracted to him. As she shifted nervously, her fingers twisted together, he decided to test a theory.

He leaned a bit closer, just a few inches, waiting for her response. Would she lean in as well, and close her eyes, expecting a kiss?

“Bathroom,” she said, turning away.

He followed her into the tiny bathroom. It looked like the room had once been a small closet and they had to struggle to move around. When they finally maneuvered themselves into a comfortable position, they were so close Ronan could feel the heat from her body.

“You—you have to jiggle the handle on the toilet to get it to stop running. And the—the tub drains real slow,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “So it’s probably best to use the shower stall instead. Unless you’re a bath guy.” She paused. “Most guys aren’t.”

He leaned a bit closer and when she turned back to him, she sucked in a sharp breath, startled by the move. Charlie retreated a step, but didn’t realize how close she was to the edge of the tub. She began to lose her balance, flailing her arms.

Ronan had to think quick and decided to save her the pain and humiliation of falling into the bathtub. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against his body. But this didn’t have the intended effect at all. She shifted to evade slamming up against his chest and ran face first into the edge of the door.

“Ow!” she cried, covering her eye with her palm.

“Are you all right?” Ronan asked.

Charlie pulled her hand away and shook her head. “I think I’m bleeding.” She struggled to get to the medicine chest above the sink and Ronan wrapped his hands around her waist.

“Out. I’ll get them.” Ronan found a box of band-aids and then grabbed a washcloth from the towel rack and soaked it with cold water. He found Charlie leaning against the kitchen counter, her fingers doing little to staunch the flow of blood.

“Let me look,” Ronan said.

Wincing, she pulled her hand away. “It’s bleeding a lot. Does it look like it needs stitches?”

Ronan dabbed at the small cut. “No. It’s tiny. There’s a lot of blood. Here, hold this.”

She pressed the cold cloth to her head as he fumbled to open the bandage. “Sorry,” she murmured.

“What are you apologizing for? It’s not your fault.” Ronan wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, to see if it was as soft as it looked. His gaze drifted down to her mouth. If they were going to spend time together, it was going to be hard to resist kissing her.

Though Ronan didn’t work hard at romance, he had enjoyed the regular company of a number of beautiful women. But he usually liked to spend his free time in solitary pursuits, which left little for long-term, serious relationships. Still, he was curious about this particular woman. What was it about Charlie Sibley that he found so intriguing?

“Hello! Anyone home?”

She forced a smile. “That would be the real Joel Bellingham,” Charlie murmured.

Ronan drew her wash cloth away and then neatly covered the cut with a small band-aid. “There. All better.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem.”

She stared at him for a long moment and Ronan’s gaze fell to her lips, so lush and slightly parted. He wanted to lean forward and take just a quick taste, but she seemed to sense what was on his mind and quickly stepped back.

He watched as she hurried out of the apartment, her footsteps fading on the stairs. They’d have plenty of time to figure this all out, Ronan mused. A lot could happen in six weeks.