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“So. Want to watch a movie?”
He asks it shyly. Like I’d ever say no.
“Sure.” Mac’s eyes flutter when I scratch his beard. “I’ve got no place to be.”
Four
Mac
Leading Cocoa through Sweet Cherry Cove the next day is like seeing the town through brand new eyes. Have the painted shop signs always been so sun-faded? Does the diner always set out tables with those red and white checked tablecloths? Have there always been so many damn gulls?
They gather in white, feathery mobs, cackling like teenagers, fighting over stolen fries. I pull Cocoa away by the hand.
She’s bigger than them. They’re birds, and no threat. I get that.
But I’m feeling… overprotective.
“Mac.” Her hand is so tiny in mine. So delicate. Can’t believe she’s letting me hold it. “Are you sure you don’t need to work today?”
Leading her past the florist, I shake my head. The two of us are reflected in the shop window, and I try not to stare at where our hands join. “No. I got cover.”
It’s the first time in about a decade that I’ve taken time off, period. Being harbor master of Sweet Cherry Cove is more a lifestyle than a job. I do a few hours down at the marina every day, and other than that, I’m around. People know where to find me.
That changes now. I have a new top priority, and she’s stumbling after me across the town square. The cheap flip flops I found earlier in a beach store slap against the cobblestones. Need to get my girl better shoes and more clothes, ASAP.
Today, Cocoa’s dressed in a gray pair of my sweatpants, bottoms rolled up, and she’s knotted one of my old red t-shirts at her navel. The midday sunshine casts faint shadows around her toned abs.
Fuck.
Never occurred to me to crave an athletic woman before, but now that I’ve met Cocoa…
Want those thick thighs wrapped around me like a scarf. Want her to do squats right over my lap.
Jackass.
I slap those thoughts down as soon as they come. Cocoa is vulnerable, and she’s relying on me. Only a monster would take advantage of this girl.
Watching a movie together last night just about killed me, especially when she lay down and rested her head in my lap. Her fingertips traced the seam of my jeans, and her cheek looked so soft in the light from the TV screen.
But I did it. I kept my hands to myself, and I won’t break that record now.
“Does anything here look familiar?” I ask.
Behind me, Cocoa slows, and I match her pace. She peers around, frowning with concentration, the sunshine glinting off the golden strands in her chocolate hair.
Since she hacked it off in a panic, it’s kinda messy. Lopsided and blunt.
Still looks cuter than a fucking button though, and now I’m wrestling with a constant urge to ruffle her hair. My free hand balls into a fist, shoving into my jeans pocket.
“No.” She visibly braces herself. Sets her shoulders back, and squints at the bakery, the town library, the bar. “No, I don’t…” When she reaches the town statue of that old mayor, complete with his seaweed wig crisping in the sun, Cocoa does a double take. “Oh. Is that…?”
The statue is on a pale stone plinth, and a man leans against its base. He strums a guitar, picking idly at the strings, a take out coffee cup by his hip.
“You know him?”
My mouth tastes sour. This musician must be a decade younger than me—still too old for Cocoa, but less likely to raise eyebrows. And he looks like a blond goddamn model in that white t-shirt and sunglasses. His fingers race over the strings, and when he finishes one tune, a family eating sandwiches on the library steps all break into applause.
I hate this guy.
