Monday morning came with the feeling of a new beginning and a surge of purpose. Kind of like the Cape lighthouse. It went from a money pit to a lucrative investment. The month had opened up, allowing Jay to rent it until he figured out what part of town he wanted to call home.

He shoved his wallet into the pocket of his jeans, rehearsing the points about the donor program he’d prepared for Mayor Sebastian Marth. He needed to confirm a few city requirements before he finalized his plan.

Marth was the youngest mayor the town had seen, and in Jay’s favor, one of his buddies from school. That was the nice thing about growing up in a small town. Chances held that you were friends with the mayor.

He navigated down the old steps of the lighthouse one by one, just as he did the unfortunate events of the day before at the Cape house with Blayne. And on top of it all, his dad decided he wanted to expedite Jay’s takeover of the company—something about the second honeymoon his parents had been meaning to have. Jay shuddered. He wanted no part of that conversation. He was glad his folks were happily married, but he didn’t need to know anything about how they achieved that level of happy.

Only that reaching a level of success that enabled him to take over the family business finally allowed him to consider that he was finally worthy of fighting for Blayne.

Pushing through the side door to the cape grounds, he sucked in a deep breath of the crisp, salty air blowing in off the choppy waves. He loved the rhythmic crashing against the rocks and the scent of sea spray. He’d missed a lot being away. There was nothing quite so spectacular as the coast of Maine in spring.

He looked about with a satisfied nod.

It was time to step into his father’s position in the Astor company and let the man retire so his parents could go on as many honeymoons as they wanted. And it was about time his mom didn’t have to live so much of her life alone. There was no telling how many anniversaries and birthdays were missed due to business. Duty was the root word of every Astor name.

But more than anything, it was time for Blayne. He had to man up and fix the shit of a mess he’d made years ago. He didn’t deserve her, he knew it then and he knew it now, but she did deserve to be happy. If she ever gave him the chance, he’d work every day for the rest of his life to make sure it happened.

For a woman who at one point jumped blindly into love, he’d been shocked and relieved to find out she was still single and doing nothing to change that fact—especially when they used to dream of a house full of kids together.

He wasn’t quite as surprised to find out she’d managed her career with the kind of badass success he’d come to know and love from that woman.

He rubbed his chest. She was an enigma.

Seeing the memories reflected as heartache on her face filled him with a need to protect her, to fix his wrongs, and make her see what a future together could look like.

However, she’d made it all too clear what his chances were.

Fuck. He’d just have to show her.

As he stepped through the gate toward town, he glanced down the length of the cape. The lighthouse was off, but later in the evening the lamp would boldly cast a glow as far as the eye could see.

Ryker had brought it back to life when he and Larkin had met. Pretty telling for a guy bent on selling the place.

Jay laughed out loud, watching his cold breath float away from his face in a puff as he walked toward town. Apparently, he’d missed quite the show when Ryker and Larkin had met. From the tell of it, Larkin seemed quiet and unassuming until someone got in her way. Then nothing would stop her.

Blayne was like that.

He didn’t try to resist her image floating along the perimeters of his brain. It was always more than simply memories. He could hear her voice and lose himself in her intoxicating scent as if she stood in front of him, and his body immediately tightened with awareness. It had been a constant phenomenon since he’d caught a glimpse of her at the pub the night they’d met.

Having her close now was like shoving a man out of a sensory deprivation tank right into the middle of a Metallica concert.

Jay stopped at the thought and let his head fall back. The Celtic inspired iron sign of Eclectic Finds mirrored her tattoo and swayed gently on its hinge with a gust of wind. The sign croaked as it moved back and forth, and he couldn’t tell if it was a warning to run or challenging him to go inside.

He’d heard about her store, but he hadn’t seen it yet. Possibly because he’d been busy but mostly because he wanted to keep his nuts. Lately, she seemed bent on destroying them—literally and by wearing her damn cheek-framing derby skirt, teasing him with glimpses of the tattoo she knew drove him wild.

His hands itched to slide underneath, stripping her panties off and tormenting her as she’d been tormenting him. Her sharp tongue was as much an aphrodisiac to him as the cape’s bee balm plants were to honeybees.

How the hell was he going to be able to win her back if every time they were together he couldn’t stop wanting to either rip her clothes off or shake her senseless?

He had to find a way for them to work together. Step one might need to be keeping his hands to himself. Once she remembered how well they worked as a team, maybe she’d be open to at least talking about them as a couple.

With a death wish, he pushed through the door. The first thing that hit him was her scent. It was light and fresh and reminded him of the ocean. He breathed in deeply once more, letting memories of her wash over him.

Everything from housewares to culinary specialties lined the shelves with the promise of one of a kind and never boring behind every item. As he walked along, one particular set of salt and pepper shakers caught his attention, and he laughed, loving her spunk. Only Blayne would promise that table accessories wouldn’t be boring. He turned a generous pair of breasts over in his hand, then set them carefully on the shelf.

He rounded the end of the aisle just as the woman in question stepped through a door labeled Eclectic Staff Only. Her head was down, and she worried her berry-colored lower lip with her teeth. He’d never get used to it—the sight of her was a swift punch to the gut. He remembered how those lips felt, how they tasted…

“I’m sorry, we’re closed.” She stopped dead in her tracks, her crystal green eyes going wide. “Jamie.” Her tone was breathless with surprise.

He’d never tire of hearing the Irish lilt in her voice when she called him by the nickname. He looked around with a nod. “I found myself outside and had to come take a look. You have something special here.”

“Yeah, I do.” She hesitated, studying him closely. “I worked hard for it, too.”

“Larkin told me you put yourself through school. That couldn’t have been easy.”

Pressing her lips together, she pulled in a breath, her nose flaring in that adorable way he’d always loved. She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder and said, “Look, I have to get back to work. My stock doesn’t unload itself.” She nodded toward the front of the store. “You can let yourself out.”

He had two choices. The smart choice would be to do as she said and leave, but when it came to Blayne, his intelligence was in serious question and usually found just above his balls. Following her through the small hallway flanked by a small office on one side and a break room on the other, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the way her ass swayed beneath her fitted skirt.

Her style drove him wild, and her current attire was no exception. He perused the line of her long, shapely legs down to her impossibly sexy high heels. “How the hell are you unloading boxes with six-inch heels holding you up?”

She spun around with a startled look on her face. “I said let yourself out, not in. What are you doing?”

“I’m helping.” He looked around at the stacked boxes and table full of merchandise. “I’ll unload and unpack, you inventory.”

“I don’t need your help, Jamie.”

“No, you don’t. But you’re going to get it.” He stepped beside her, noting how she stiffened with his nearness.

He stiffened too, but in a completely different way. And to the point that he shifted from one foot to the other, hoping his unwieldy erection would settle in a more comfortable position.

He hauled a box off a stack then carried it to the table. Grabbing a box cutter, he flicked up the blade with a swipe of his thumb against the small, textured lever. “Look, Blayne. I’m here. You might as well make use of me.” He heard it as soon as he said it.

And realized he meant it.

She ran her eyes from the tips of his shoes to his crotch—please, God, he cleared his throat—then on up to his chest, and finally his face.

“What’s the American saying? Been there, done that?”

His bark of laughter echoed off the walls, and her painted lips quirked up at the corners.

With a sigh, she rolled her eyes. “Fine. Unpack each box, carefully handing me one item at a time. This job is about accuracy and care, not speed. Got it?” One perfectly arched dark brow raised with her question.

Something settled in his chest. It meant something for her to give in, to let him stay. “Got it, boss.”

She scoffed. “Take that to the center and I’ll let you help me here any day.”

He sliced through the tape of one box. “In your dreams. We’re partners at the center, but I will give in to your demands here.”

“Give in to my demands?” Her question sounded anything but innocent. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Anything?” Her eyes dilated.

Fuck. Me.

“Completely.” Adrenalin rushed through his body. The heat of her made him want to reach out and yank her in until her breasts flattened against him. It was as though his breathing stopped with his heart as she leaned toward him.

So close, her silky hair, her porcelain skin. Those damn lips that left his dick begging to feel her warm, wet heat wrapped tightly around him.

Then just as quickly, she stepped away, her fingers gripping a silver paperweight in the shape of an inchworm. She slapped it into the palm of her other hand, and he winced. “Perfect.”

He narrowed his eyes at the victorious gleam in her own.

Two could play at that game.

With a clap of his hands, he scanned the stacked boxes, taking a small measure of satisfaction when she jumped at the noise. “Well, Blayne MacCaffrey, let’s get to work.”

Shrugging off his jacket, he kept his gaze on the table, purposefully avoiding her eyes. He grabbed the back of his black, sweater and pulled it over his head.

“What are you doing?” A hint of panic raised the pitch of her voice.

With the self-control of a monk, he resisted the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth and grabbed the first box. “Getting to work. I imagine you don’t want to be here all day, Bean.”

Bean.

One syllable and the world reversed to a time the future held promises that were kept and declarations of love that were believed.

Blayne turned her thigh from side to side, showing off her newly acquired tattoo, the yellow petals of the two roses were bright against the black shaded Celtic knot. “What do you think? The Celtic knot means we’re all connected. No matter where we are. In life and in death. The roses were my ma’s favorite. One for her and one for my da.” She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. “Or one for you and one for me.”

He pulled her into his arms, his scent wrapping her in a haze of lust and undying love. “Bean loach.”

She shook her head, bewildered by the random words.

“You. You’re my bean loach, my warrior woman. My bean.”

Blayne busted out laughing at the absurdity of the nickname. “I’m not a vegetable or anything that should even remotely remind you of a disgusting insect. And there is nothing warrior-like about the nickname bean. It’s pronounced more like ban leekh…bean laoch.”

Running his finger gently along the side of the Celtic design on her thigh, he grinned. A decidedly delicious, wicked, and lustful grin. “That’s fine, but I’m sticking with bean.”

With that look in his eye, she didn’t care if he called her lint. She’d answer to it.

She blinked away the memory. “Don’t call me that.” Her voice was clear and her words succinct.

The emotion in her voice emboldened him. She hadn’t forgotten. Acting as if he hadn’t heard her, he continued. “I don’t want to get my shirt sweaty before having a chance to meet with Mayor Marth.” He shook his head. “It’s so weird to think of quiet, timid Sebastian as the Mayor.”

She waved with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “First, get your shirt on. Second, call me Bean again and I’ll cut you.”

Ouch.

“Third, I’ve seen Sebastian Marth…there is nothing timid about that man.”

Her light green eyes stared off into space for a brief second, causing a swift, unreasonable knot of jealousy to twist in his gut.

“The last time I saw him, he had a fifty-pound salt bag hoisted on each shoulder.” She followed up with a low whistle.

And the knot twisted tighter. It shouldn’t. He didn’t have the right to feel one way or another. He’d lost any claim to her the night he walked away. His head knew it, but damned if his heart did.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed another box, moving it over to the table, followed by two more.

She picked up a large serving bowl made of glass and silver, studying it from every angle, seemingly unaware of the change in atmosphere. “Yep…not timid at all.” Placing the bowl to the side, she reached up on tiptoe to rearrange items on the top shelf labeled serving ware. “Like…at all.”

That was it.

If anyone asked, he’d say the devil made him do it. And he’d do it again, too.

Without a sound, he stepped behind her, so close his chest brushed her back.

She sucked in a breath but couldn’t move because she had two porcelain dishes perched on the edge of the shelf.

“Careful now. I’m just trying to help, Bean.” His voice was even, but his blood raced through his veins at her nearness. Her scent wafted around his head, her heat warmed his skin, and the silky slide of her hair tickled his biceps as he reached around her to assist with the bowls.

“Jamie.” She stiffened. And he’d have sworn on his position at the conservation center she quit breathing.

“You’re about to lose two bowls that were balanced against the ones in your hands. Take it easy and let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” She shoved away slightly with her ass to force him to move but all she accomplished was pushing those luscious round globes tight against his dick. And his vision went white.

Now he was the one who couldn’t breathe. God damn, she felt so good.

As quickly as she pushed back, she jerked forward.

He wanted to grab her hips and yank her to him, so he could grind against her softness, and his poor, pathetic heart wanted to propel her back to a time when she loved him. He blinked and swallowed hard then, adjusting the bowls, helped slide the other two on to safe ground.

As if his body hadn’t been on the verge of exploding, he stepped away and returned to his table.

She didn’t move from the shelf for a full minute. He counted, thankful for the time to get his raging erection in check and his mind straight. Those kinds of games were dangerous, but fuck him if it didn’t feel good to play.

Finally, she quietly cleared her throat and reached for her clipboard, busying herself with her list of incoming stock.

He opened another box, slipped the box cutter blade safely beneath the protective edge, then set it on the table.

With a quick, easy grace, she grabbed the box cutter and unsheathed the blade.

“What the hell?” He looked from the blade to her eyes, which glittered ominously. He let out a soft chuckle. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She raised the blade a little higher from its sheath.

“I was only trying to help.”

“Bullshit. You were trying to manipulate me. You were trying to muddy my head with your rock-hard abs and your damn bulging biceps.”

His dick jumped.

“Come on. I was doing nothing of the sort.”

The hell he wasn’t.

And she knew it.

He raised his hands in front of him. “Seriously.”

“Get out.”

“Blayne, come on.”

She grabbed his shirt and threw it at his face. “Get. Out.”

There were times to advance and there were times to retreat.

And there were times to run like hell from a mad woman with a blade.

* * *

“I need to meet someone tonight, Claire,” Blayne announced as they walked past a row of brilliantly carved blocks of ice. A light breeze blew in across the South Cove waters, the light, salty air carrying the savory aroma of seafood entrees from the Lobster House. Her stomach growled.

“Meet someone?” Claire asked, distracted by a very well-built sculpture of Poseidon, King of the Sea.

Blayne put some heat behind her words. “I mean meet someone.”

Her friend stopped abruptly, the blunt edge of her sleek new haircut swinging past her face. “At the ice festival?” Claire asked with a clear tone of you’ve gone batshit crazy. “Let me make sure I am getting this. You want to have sex with someone you meet here…at the ice festival.”

“Well, I don’t want to have sex at the festival, but I want to take someone home. Yes.”

Hearing it out loud did make the idea sound much more preposterous than it had a few hours ago when she’d kicked Jamie out of her store, but she needed to do something to erase the memory of his skin on hers, the glide of his big, warm hand, the touch of his lips.

Shit.

“Yes.” She declared with a bit more determination. There were a few things in life she didn’t trust. Jamie, love, and her heart concerning Jamie and love.

Claire dragged her toward the Dine on the Vine concession stand. “Clearly, we need to drink. I’d have never thought it, but this time, I think you need to sip on a glass…a whole glass before moving forward with this asinine plan.”

She scoffed. “Sounds good to me. But I’m not changing my mind.”

Claire handed her a Cabernet then downed a large sip from her own glass. “Larkin is supposed to meet us at six. Maybe she can talk some sense into you.”

Blayne looked over the grounds for possible prospects. A few men were sprinkled in the growing crowd. Eyeing a group heading their way, she rubbed her hands together. The first one had nice, broad shoulders, but he only came up to her nose. His buddy was tall but had a very weak chin. The third bloke was a bit more filled out than she preferred, but his jaw was strong, and he did have nice hands. Hands that coaxed a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboros.

Blech.

Taking a long, appreciative swallow, she let the heavy grape slide down her throat and soothe her from her insides out. She and Jamie had loved hanging out at the town wine tasting. They’d hop from vendor to vendor then stumble home to their apartment and make love on the ivy-edged balcony with the sounds of the bustling town as their love song and the warm sun their spotlight.

She clenched her teeth together and nudged Claire. “Help me find someone. Now.”

Claire shook her head but stood on tiptoe and looked around.

“Woman, the point is to go up and down the boardwalk to see each piece.” Maxine shook her head as she and her North Cove Mavens walked up. “I swear, you kids get lazier every year.”

Blayne shot Claire a warning look, but her friend ignored her and then some. “Oh, I’m looking for a piece alright, but not of ice. Blayne seems to think a good tossing will cure her of wanting her ex.”

She choked on her wine, spraying an ice bust of Michelle Obama with her drink. “I am not—”

“Lying isn’t attractive, young lady. I expect more from your Irish blood. What the hell are you, a South Cove Madam?”

“They don’t lie, Maxine.”

Lifting her nose with a sniff, Maxine smoothed her silver strands with jewel-ladened fingers and cocked her head to the side.

Blayne opened her mouth to argue further but hiccupped instead. “Shit.”

“What’s this?” Janice Brennan, one of the North Cove Mavens and Maxine’s best friend, joined them, her red curls bobbing about her face. “Those hiccups only mean one thing. Spill it.”

Blayne tossed back the rest of her wine, then handed Claire the glass. “Thanks a lot.” Ignoring the ladies, she stomped away, heading down the boardwalk.

But nothing short of a tsunami was getting them off her back, and they followed close behind.

“Apparently, miss thing here is looking to get laid in order to stay off young James Astor,” Maxine shared.

Blayne spun around. “Are you kidding me?!”

The older woman raised her well-groomed, salt-and-pepper brows slowly, then pursed her red-painted lips. “What? Did I miss a detail?”

Janice looked her up and down with an approving nod. “Well, you’ll find a prime specimen for sure in those heels. And I love the cape you’re wearing. It’s so Maleficent-esque. Perfect to hunt down your prey for the night.”

She stopped in her tracks, smoothing her cobalt blue cape. She loved the look of it with her pencil skirt and heels, but now she just felt ridiculous.

Claire grabbed her arm. “What about that guy?” Four pairs of eyes followed Claire’s pointing finger to a tall man with blond hair, a wide chest, and a tight ass.

Maxine whistled.

Janice clapped. “I approve, then I can start planning the wedding.”

Blayne laughed. “Wedding?”

All four women watched as the young man turned and walked their way.

“Aw, hell,” Claire grumbled with a light blush to her skin.

Blayne watched her, curious at the reaction. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“What? Oh God, no. That man drives me insane. I can’t understand how anyone can take him seriously.”

Janice waved her son, Mitch Brennan, toward them. “I do have to say, Claire. You have spectacular taste.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Kill me now.”

Mitch kissed his mother and Maxine on the cheeks and smiled with a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes. “Who has spectacular taste?” he asked.

Maxine shrugged. “Claire was just pointing out a sweet piece of meat for Blayne to take home.”

Claire looked like she was going to be sick. “Maxine!”

“What? Between you and Blayne, I swear you two think I don’t know my own name. Quit shouting it at me.”

Mitch looked at the two women with a brow raised. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

Just then, Jamie joined the group, and Blayne swore the universe was playing a practical joke, and she was the butt of it. The sight of his black sweater stretched across the chest she now had no need to imagine made her skirt feel too tight and her cape, suffocating.

“Someone’s getting lucky?” Jay asked.

Maxine opened her mouth to speak, but Claire piped up. “Blayne’s got a date.”

Shoving her elbow into her friend’s side, she hissed, “What the hell?”

Claire returned. “It’s better than anything Maxine might have said.”

The smile on Jamie’s chiseled jaw fell. “A date?” His voice a low rumble.

She desperately looked around for a way out of this mess. Just the mere sight of him standing there, looking so impossibly handsome, messed with her resolve to hook up with someone to get Jamie out of her head.

Where the hell was Larkin when she needed her? Claire was not the best in the wing-woman territory. She searched the crowd. Farther down the boardwalk, she spotted Dr. Stanton’s son, Max. Max Stanton was a tall, dark and handsome sculpture artist. A dreamer with amazing hands and a killer smile.

Oh yeah. Now there was a man who could potentially help her get her mind off Jamie.

She stepped away from the nosy crew with a clear mission, but before she could proceed, a familiar touch on her arm slowed her, his heat and scent clouding her head immediately.

She stopped dead in her tracks and glared up at him. “What the hell are you doing here?” She hated that her question ended higher and way more whingey than she’d intended. All she had to do was stamp her foot and she’d win the contest for being the biggest baby in Cape Van Buren.

“Do you really have a date,” he demanded.

“I’m about to if you all would leave me alone.” She continued down the boardwalk.

Jamie searched ahead then coughed with a slap to his chest. “The doctor’s son? Really? Max was a tool in high school.”

She slid him her best you’re-fucking-one-to-talk look and kept on walking.

“You can’t seriously be—”

She whirled to face him. “Can’t what?” She was baiting him. Challenging him. He had no right to say a damn word about her love life. He had no right to pop back into town, on her project, in her head and her dreams, making her want and need and…

With a slow inhale, she forced herself to calm down, hoping the tension along her neck would release its death grip.

Jay glanced at his feet then back with determination in the light gray eyes she used to stare into for hours. He stepped close with his voice low for her ears only. “Deny that you feel something for me, and that’s why you’re running toward any asshole you find on the boardwalk.”

His wide shoulders blocked everyone else from view, and the sense of him surrounding her became overpowering. She gave a gentle nudge but a firm order. “Back. Off.”

For a brief moment, he looked hurt, but it must have been a trick of the light because that didn’t make any sense at all. Surely, he didn’t think anything would ever happen between the two of them. Only a fool would go back to a man who’d selfishly abandoned her in a foreign country.

And she had already proved herself a fool once with him.

Twice would simply make her an idiot.

“I’ve got to go.” She took a step, but he followed.

“No, you don’t, Bean.”

She snapped her head up. There was a time she’d loved the nickname, she’d been his Irish warrior, his bean laoch, though he butchered the Gaelic term every time he tried to say it. When he’d shortened it to Bean it had seemed so intimate. Only they knew what it meant, what it stood for. She’d crossed an ocean for him.

But then he left.

Yet she still survived. She was a warrior. But not his.

She poked him in the chest, hiding the startling sensation that ran along her arm at the feel of him beneath her fingers. “I am not your Bean. You lost any claim to that name or me. Got that?”

He grabbed her fingers, refusing to let them go, and dropped his chin once in acknowledgment, an intense look in his eyes as he searched her face. She resisted the sigh of relief her lungs burned to give as she tried to tug her hand free. Finally, he understood.

There was a rough edge to his voice with his next words. “No matter who you run to or how many times, I’m not going anywhere. You got that?”

Mitch, Janice, Maxine, and Claire stood watching them from a few yards away, waiting to see what happened next. They should be embarrassed. She shook her head, tugging her fingers from his grip. “I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll be right here.” His jaw was set in fierce determination.

Why couldn’t he have made that decision ten years ago?

With a strength born of necessity, she let the desperation to both run to him and away from him fall like the leaves from cape trees in autumn.

Belying a calmness she didn’t feel, she lifted the corners of her lips, and turned toward her nosy audience. She loved her little family here in Cape Van Buren, but they were crazier than a moose during mating season.

Mitch waggled his eyebrows at her—the shit. The man would do anything for anyone, but he also loved a little fun at someone else’s expense. Two could play at that game.

“Hey, Maxine,” she called out. “Mitch was such a good helper clearing out the attic, I bet he’d be even better organizing the basement. You need room for your—” she fake coughed into her palm, “—supplies…don’t you?”

Maxine’s eyes grew wide along with the grin on her face.

Mitch shot Blayne a look, promising her a slow and painful death, but for some reason she felt lighter, happier.

“Wow. That was mean,” Jay whispered.

She tilted her head. These boys were going to learn not to mess with her one way or the other. “No,” she said with a smirk, then hollered once more to the group, “Maxine, Jay just said he’d love to help, too.”

Maxine whistled. “Perfect! Four bulging biceps are always better than two.”

Slowly turning toward Jay, it took every ounce of strength she had not to laugh. The look of betrayal on his face was priceless.

“What the hell?” His strained whisper was music to her ears. That would teach him.

“Now that was mean.” She winked and gave a little wave as she headed down the boardwalk toward Max Stanton and his artist’s hands.

Too bad he wasn’t a magician.

Even after ten years and a broken heart, she needed some kind of magic trick to get the hell over Jamie.