Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove) Read Online Free Page A

do, but in complete honesty, she didn’t care what kind of shape the place was in, or what shape the McCraes were in for that matter. The job came with a guaranteed roof over her head for the duration, and, at the very least, would put grocery money in her pocket. She was going to take it.
    She’d really only headed out to the Point first as a means of putting off the inevitable—having to open herself up to a new set of people. She wasn’t sure what anyone knew about her, or the job she’d been hired to do, but with small towns, she’d discovered everyone knew everything. So she had to brace herself for that inevitability. And she didn’t have much left with which to brace.
    There was also that other part. The part she hadn’t admitted, even to herself. At least, not until the moment her tire had gone out on the ramp, giving her some extended viewing time of the lighthouse and no way to avoid thinking about it. The part where she was hoping, praying, maybe even begging her soul a little, that just seeing the lighthouse would open something back up inside her. Or prove, once and for all, that it was truly dead forever.
    To be more brutally honest . . . she wasn’t sure which one she’d been hoping would happen.
    So, she’d skipped stopping in at the Rusty Puffin. What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Weren’t puffins cute, cuddly little penguin-looking birds? If it had to be a rusty bird, why not the Rusty Pelican? The brown, ungainly creatures were the state bird, after all—so a sign in one of the endless small towns she’d driven through had told her, anyway. Except she was pretty sure it was the state bird of Louisiana. What had that sign said? It was all a blur now.
    Now that she had made the stupid decision to bypass both meeting up with Fergus McCrae and grabbing a much-needed bite to eat, she had a grumbling stomach to quell along with the red eyes, swollen nose, tear-and-mascara-streaked tragic clown face that looked back at her from the rearview mirror as she tried to do some basic repair before her good Samaritan made an appearance.
    A light rap on the driver’s side window of her truck got a choked squeal of surprise—stealthy Samaritan he was—causing her to spin toward the window a little too quickly. Her forehead connected with the glass.
    Oh, yes, this was so how she wanted her first meeting in Blueberry Cove—her home for possibly the next year or so—to go.
    Her Samaritan was tall, so much so she couldn’t see his face, just his torso, and hips, and . . . thighs. All of which looked quite sturdy and muscular and . . . um, well-packaged. Wow, she really shouldn’t have skipped lunch. Or breakfast for that matter. When had she eaten last, anyway?
    A hand appeared, making a rolling sign with the forefinger.
    He’d yet to speak. Weren’t officers supposed to announce themselves when they approached? Of course, he hadn’t pulled her over, exactly. Wouldn’t it be her luck to be stopped by some rural coastal psycho who dressed up like a cop, then preyed on women along a distant, lonely stretch of road nobody traveled? Maybe she should have looked up local news reports.
    The tap came again on the window, and she blinked away her bizarre, rambling thoughts and blinked again at the little twinkly lights flickering in her peripheral vision. She really should have eaten. She grappled with the window handle . . . only to have it fall off in her hand. A fresh wave of tears stupidly threatened all over again. She held up the handle in shaky fingers for him to see, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug, but not daring to look up at his face. Mostly because she didn’t want him to see hers.
    If she’d been hoping for some kind of sign about what her next step in life should be, she was pretty sure she’d been given several of them already. All bad.
    “Can you unlock the door so I can open it from the outside?”
    Wow . Deep voice. Very baritone. The kind that vibrated along the skin. And sexy.