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Like all women, he thought. He’d never figure them out. He knew from her “probably” that there was a chance she might not return to help him now that her little venture in this project was done. Probably for the best. I don’t need the drama.
But when he thought of her bright green eyes, he realized he missed them already. He missed having her company, her petite frame working so diligently next to him, eager and always prodding him to do better. And he’d offended her, like he did nearly all the women in his life, and now she’d left. Same as all the others.
Even worse, for the last hour, some upbeat dance music blared from the balcony of her condo. It abruptly stopped, and a few minutes later, he heard her footsteps on the metal stairs. He glanced up and from his vantage point on the boat, he could see through a break in the condo buildings to the parking lot. Laura was dressed up in wedge sandals, a short sundress showing off her newly tanned legs, a red flower in her dark bobbed hair and red lipstick. Definitely stark red lipstick.
He felt his groin tighten in appreciation. The woman was gorgeous, her short cotton dress clinging perfectly to her seductive curves.
She climbed into a waiting cab, one he recognized as belonging to Reggie, the cab driver who’d been the first person he’d ever met on St. Anthony’s. Reggie had a wife and three kids, whom he supported by taking tourists around the island. Mark wondered where Laura was off to wearing red lipstick and what she would do when she got there.
The sky turned a deep crimson with the setting sun and he knew the tourist bars would still be in full swing. He knew when Laura got there, she’d have to fight off the men. They’d be on her like bears on honey. He tried not to let that bother him as he finished the last swipe of wood stain. Not my problem. Then why did it feel like his problem?
What if she met someone? Went back to his hotel room or took him to hers? Worse, what if she got into trouble? Women looking that pretty nearly always got into trouble, especially when there were drunk tourists around.
He climbed down the ladder from the boat and wiped his hands on a damp rag, mind working. He could shower and call up Reggie. With a little prodding, he figured, Reggie would tell him where she’d gone. And even if he didn’t, there was only one main tourist strip in Smuggler’s Cove with just three bars.
He could find her easily. And find her he would.
CHAPTER NINE
LAURA SKIPPED OVER the two glaring bars with neon signs and college kids crowding the open patios until she landed at the one bar in Smuggler’s Cove with the least amount of neon lights. It was called the Rusted Anchor, which Laura thought ironic and perfect.
The Rusted Anchor felt like a bar for the serious sailor or the serious drinker. She saw both in the place. What she didn’t see were umbrellas in drinks or neon party shirts or college spring-breakers. The well-worn bar was bustling, though. A wooden ship’s wheel hung above it, draped in fishing netting and buoys, but that’s where the kitsch ended. The rest of the place was crowded with worn wooden booths and a few round tables, with an entire wall of windows facing the marina. Rows of perfect sailboats bobbed in their moorings, lined up and ready to set sail.
Laura glanced at them and felt a little pang. She might never see Mark’s boat sail now. She might never even help him finish it. Would he give up? Would he continue on without her? Either option seemed painful. She realized she’d hung on to this thought of him taking her sailing, of feeling the deck she’d sanded move beneath her feet as it cut through the waves.
Not that Mark had ever promised her that. She’d been filling in the blanks again with her expectations, without any real evidence to support them. It was just like what she’d done with Dean. He’d told her he loved her and she ran with it, filling her mind with dreams of her future with him and their baby.
She walked past a casual Seat Yourself Anywhere sign near the front and chose an open bar stool. A bartender wearing a simple T-shirt with an anchor on it was drying a glass.
“What can I get you?” he asked her, his face friendly and open and probably at least ten years younger than she was. Still, he was cute, with his blond hair and ice-blue eyes.
“Gin and tonic? You have Hendricks?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and she cringed a little. Ma’am. That’s what she was becoming. More and more.
Feeling alone, she pulled out her phone. No new messages.
Would she be able to work on the boat tomorrow? She didn’t know. The boat had been the perfect distraction, to help put her mind on a problem that had a solution: board, meet nail. Brush meet paint. Easy. Simple. Doable. With no such distractions now, all her old thoughts rushed back, and they were all of Dean.
