Page 10 of The Treasure House

Plus, Mr. Abernathy was waiting for us. So I turned us around and headed back down to the hardware store.

The Oxeye Hardware Store (and Lobster Shack) was one of those oddities that only exist in very small towns—it seemed to be a combined hardware store, souvenir outlet, camping supply shop, and food to go, judging by the various signs and cluttered window displays. There was a service window opening to a bunch of picnic tables that overlooked the cliffs, and a sign advertising lobster rolls and cans of Moxie. Along the side of the building were stacks of dented and well-used lobster traps.

When we pulled up, I couldn’t help but notice the very hot, very half-naked man bussing the picnic tables. He was the picture of a coastal summer honey in cut-off jean shorts and not much else; he was stubbly and muscled, his hair a salty tousle. I felt a slow pulse at the sight of him, a slow pulse I’d not felt in a very long time. He was the kind of man who invited fantasies of summer flings, languid violet evenings, slow time wasting.

The kind of fantasies that didn’t seem impossible, here in the sun-spangled sea-light of Oxeye.

Four

“Can I stay in the car?” Flo asked, propping her feet up on the dashboard and opening her book.

“Sure.” Fine by me. Surreptitiously, I pulled at the hem of my tank top and ran a hand through my messy hair. I’d spilled mustard all down my own shirt at lunch and had resorted to borrowing Flo’s spare, cursing myself for packing light. Unfortunately, Flo’s was a Wicked tank top with sparkling green and pink lettering, which was very short and very tight on me. Paired with my shorts, there was a lot more skin on display than usual. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. The hot guy clearing the picnic tables looked up as I slammed the car door, and the sun flashed off the lenses of his cheap plastic sunglasses. He had very expressive frowny eyebrows. And the most impressive shoulders…

My slow pulse became a throb.

But the coastal honey didn’t seem pleased to see me. Those frowny eyebrows were just about touching over the bridge of his nose. “Lobster hour is over,” he said shortly. “You missed it.” He had a rumbling down-east accent—lobsta owah is ovah. Empty red plastic baskets teetered in his hands. There was no one at the picnic tables anymore, but judging by the number of serving baskets, lobster hour had been busy.

“That’s okay,” I said hastily. “I’m actually here to meet Jake Abernathy. He’s expecting me.” I gave him a bright smile, wondering if I even remembered how to flirt.

The hot guy looked even less pleased, if such a thing was possible. Maybe he was afraid Mr. Abernathy would make him serve us lobsta. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on the tank top. “I doubt it.”

“I beg your pardon?” My smile faltered.

“I doubt it,” he repeated irritably, dismissing me.

“Is he inside?” I wasn’t about to be dismissed after coming all this way.

“No.”

Wow. I mean, I’d heard Mainers could be taciturn, but this was just rude. Shame, because I didn’t imagine a town this small had many men, let alone good-looking ones in my age range.

“He is expecting me,” I said tightly, pulling my phone out and searching for Mr. Abernathy’s texts.

“He’s really not,” he snorted. And then he headed for the store.

“Tell him Zoe Copeland is here,” I snapped, following him, “and see what he says.”

He stopped dead, and I almost broke my nose on his wall of a back. He was stupidly muscular. Too muscular, I decided, settling into disliking him. Clearly vain. Why were hot guys such dicks?

“Watch it,” he growled, sidestepping me.

“You’re the one who stopped short.”

He gave me a very close inspection. “You can’t be Zoe Copeland,” he told me irritably when he was finished.

I flushed at his close attention and his refusal to believe me. “Yes.” I felt the need to reinforce it. “I am.”

“No, you’re not.” He shook his head definitively.

I frowned. This guy was impossible. “I think I know who I am.”

“No. Zoe Copeland is a middle-aged mom. You’re not a middle-aged mom.”

“She is,” Flo disagreed loudly through the open window of the car. The hot guy startled, noticing her for the first time. She’d put her book down and was leaning out the window. “And can I have a lobster roll? I’ve never had one before.”

“I’m not middle-aged. And he said lobster hour is over,” I snapped, heading her off. “Besides, you wouldn’t like it.” I turned back to the half-naked grump. “So, you do know who I am.”

“I know Zoe Copeland is coming to pick up a key. And that she’s a middle-aged mom.” He was scowling in earnest now. “Not… you. I wouldn’t let you order a beer without seeing some identification first.”