sunk into a long, hot bath.
But no distraction took her mind off Deuce Monroe. Her brain, normally chock-full of facts, figures and ideas, reeled with unanswered questions.
How could she get through six weeks of this? Where would she get the fortitude to keep up the cavalier, devil-may-care, I-don’t-give-a-hoot acting job she was digging out of her depths? What could she do to make him go away? What if he discovered the truth about what happened nine years ago?
There were no answers, only more questions. The last one she asked out loud as she opened Diana’s door for a third time to gather up Newman. “Why does that man still get to me after all these years?” The dog looked up, surprised.
“I’m lonely, Newman,” she admitted. “Let’s take another walk.”
Newman never said no. He trotted over to the hook where Diana hung his leash.
Sighing, Kendra closed the slider and wrapped the strap around her wrist letting Newman scamper ahead while her gaze traveled over the wide beach. In the moonlight, the white froth sparkled against the sand, each rhythmic crest rising over the next in an unending tempo.
It had been a night much like this one, on a beach not three miles away, that Kendra Locke had given her love, loyalty and virginity to a boy she’d adored since first grade. And now, so many years later, that boy was at her café, driving away her customers, changing her plans and upsetting her peaceful existence.
“And he probably doesn’t have a clue how to close the place,” she told Newman, who barked in hearty agreement. “What if he screws up?” she asked, picking up her pace across the stone walkway to her beach house. “He doesn’t know how to cash out or power down the computers.”
Newman barked twice.
“I agree,” she whispered, tugging his leash toward her beach house. “We better do what we can to save the place.”
In ten minutes, she’d stripped off her sweats and slipped into khaki pants, an old T-shirt, sandals and, oh heck, just a dash of makeup. She rushed through the process, not wanting to change her mind, but definitely not wanting to arrive too late and find the café abandoned, the back door open, the computers still humming.
Kendra navigated the streets of Rockingham, mindful of the ever-growing population of tourists and locals. Something huge must be going on because even the tiny parking lot behind Monroe’s was full. She finally nailed a parallel parking space a block away, and it was already ten-fifteen when she and Newman hustled down High Castle Boulevard toward Monroe’s. He’d probably bailed by the time the Gibbons brothers left, around eight-thirty.
She expected the front door to be locked when she tugged at the brass handle. But the door whipped open from the other side, propelled by a laughing couple who almost mowed her down in their enthusiasm to get to their car. Kendra stood in the doorway, stunned as they brushed by her and mumbled excuses.
One step into Monroe’s and she froze again. From speakers she didn’t know she still had, Bruce Springsteen wailed. A stock-car race flashed on one TV monitor, a baseball game on another. Glasses and mugs clanged and loud voices of fifty or sixty people echoed with toasts and laughter, and somewhere, in the distance, she smelled…barbecued chicken.
Kendra ventured a few steps through the door. Had she fallen asleep in the bathtub and got stuck in a really vivid dream?
A total stranger tended the bar. A woman she’d never seen waltzed through a cluster of tables and chairs carrying an old brown drink tray laden with glasses. And, as though her eyes weren’t playing enough tricks on her, Jerry and Larry Gibbons were over in the corner, flirting with some girls, sipping ice-cold brews from the brand-new tap.
Kendra tried to breathe, tried to think. How had he done this? How had he—
“Well look what the…” Deuce’s chocolate gaze traveled over her, pausing at the floor. “…dog dragged in.”
Newman skittered across the hardwood toward him, but Kendra tugged his leash. She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a sound, Deuce was next to her, sliding one solid, strong arm around her waist. His face dipped close enough for his lips to touch her hair.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, the musky scent of him mixed with beer and barbecue filling her head. “You were worried I couldn’t handle the nine o’clock rush?”
The only rush she felt was a bolt of electricity charging from her head, down her body and leaving a thousand goose bumps in its wake. “I was worried you had no clue how to close up.”
“We’re not closing for hours, Ken-doll. And I hope you’ll stay for the duration.”
She looked up at him, her razor-sharp brain taking an unexpected vacation. Words, praise, criticism—anything intelligent—eluded her. Everything except the heart-stopping desire to kiss him. And that was not intelligent.
“How did you do this?” she managed to ask.
“Word spreads. It seems Rockingham is still a very small town,” he said, his eyes glinting in a tease.
She glanced at the patrons, two deep at the bar. “And, apparently, a thirsty one.”
She was enough of a professional to appreciate the revenue flow. And enough of a competitor to be more than a little bit jealous.
She sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Profits,” he whispered, that mighty arm squeezing her waist even tighter. “You smell revenue on the rise.”
“I smell barbecue chicken.”
“Oh that,” he laughed, guiding her closer to the bar. “You know JC Myers owns The Wingman now?”
She assumed the ownership of Rockingham’s favorite barbecue joint was a rhetorical question and didn’t answer.
“He agreed to provide some emergency assistance.”
“What emergency?”
“A munchie emergency. You can’t serve gallons of alcohol and no food.” He waved a hand toward the crowd. “We’ve got to keep these people happy.”
“There’s food in the back,” she said defensively.
He rolled his eyes. “Granola bars and cupcakes.”
“Muffins,” she corrected.
“Not exactly sports-bar food.”
Newman pattered around her and she scooped him up protectively, before she wandered farther into the fray. She saw some familiar faces from around town, and plenty of new ones. Who were all these people and why had they suddenly shown up?
“Who’s tending bar?” she asked.
“You don’t remember Dec Clifford? My old first baseman?”
As if she’d ever noticed anyone on any team he played on besides…the pitcher. “Vaguely. I didn’t realize he was still in Rockingham.”
“He’s a lawyer in Boston now,” Deuce told her, his hand firmly planted on the small of her back, making sure those goose bumps had no chance of disappearing. “And over there is Eric Fleming, outfielder. But now he’s in commercial real estate in New Hampshire. That’s Ginger Alouette serving drinks. She was a track star in high school, if you don’t remember. She lives in Provincetown. Most of these people still live on Cape Cod—I just had to dig them up.”
A lawyer from Boston, a developer from New Hampshire and Ginger from P-town. They’d all come to see him—to work for him.
“I’ll get real staff soon,” he promised. “I just wanted to get open as soon as possible and so I had a little help from my friends.”
He was still the draw, not Monroe’s Bar & Grill & Wannabe Cyber Café. Deuce was the main attraction and, suddenly, with sickening clarity, she faced