Half Moon Harbor

Book 2: Bachelors of Blueberry Cove

by Donna Kauffman

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Bold, brash, Irish - Brodie Monaghan's been breaking hearts ever since he arrived in Maine to rebuild the family business. Still, there's one woman he just can't wow. Grace Maddox claims she's now part owner of Monaghan Shipbuilders, and she has her own dreams for the weathered dockside buildings. Tiny Blueberry Cove has a way of welcoming strangers with wide open arms, but is the sleepy coastal village ready for the fireworks these two spark? DIY is so much better with two....

Release date: December 13, 2013

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 400

Sample

The morning of Brodie Monaghan’s one-year anniversary as a resident in Blueberry Cove, Maine began with a hard-on and a surprise visitor. Unfortunately for him, those events occurred in exactly that order.

Living right on the wharf in Half Moon Harbor, he loved waking to the sounds of herring gulls and the guillemots calling back and forth as the tide eased up past its peak and began its rapid descent. The sun gloriously making its way over the horizon in the wee early hours, accompanied by the low, reverberating thrum of Blue’s lobster boats chugging out toward Pelican Bay, was the best alarm clock known to man.

Brodie stretched fully, not minding as the linen sheets and his grandmother’s old, faded quilt slid to the hand-hewn cypress floorboards in a tangle. Restless night. Again. He let the chilly May morning air ripple over his heated, bare skin, but it did little to calm down his body’s morning state of affairs. He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the scratch of his morning beard, knew it was a match to the shaggy condition of his hair, then glanced down through barely open eyes. “Aye, yes, I know. I’ve been neglectin’ ye, I have.”

The part of his anatomy to which he’d directed the comment twitched as if in response, making Brodie grin, even as he sank his head back into his goose-down pillow and let his eyes drift shut. He was considering taking matters into his own hand—a poor substitute, but he was a man who believed in taking gratification where and when he could—when a loud clatter on the docks below brought the rest of his body upright, as well. Grunting, he rolled out of his bed, which was located in the newly added loft of his converted boathouse. Well, one of his boathouses. All of which happened to be situated on his docks. His privately owned docks.

Probably the ruddy pelican again, getting his claws caught up in the frayed old ropes still piled out on the back piers. Damn bird apparently hadn’t found a mate this go-round so had chosen to make a summer bachelor pad out of the small boat shed at the end of the central pier. Been making a noisy nuisance out of himself since. “That’s likely why the rest of yer flock gave ye the heave-ho,” Brodie muttered. “Of course, we’d both likely be in better spirits if we could get ourselves well and truly laid.”

Still, he didn’t want the great winged beast getting hurt. He’d meant to get the old ropes hauled out the previous fall, before they’d frozen into miniature piles of ice as winter descended, but that season happened earlier in Maine than he’d realized, and then hung around quite a bit longer. It was well into spring with summer just around the bend, but the mornings still had quite the nip to them, and the water was downright frigid. However, in recent weeks the sun had returned consistently enough to fully defrost his happy little patch, and he made a mental note to give Owen a call down at the hardware store and see who might be available to help with removing the old, half-rotted heaps.

Before he could cross the narrow space to spy out the porthole window and see exactly what had happened on the docks below, there was a louder thud, followed by some very inventive swearing. As far as Brodie knew, Auld Eán, as he’d taken to calling the pelican, could grumble like an old man, but hadn’t as yet managed that particular feat

His grin returned. Partly because, as an Irishman, he respected anyone who was as passionate in their cussing as he was, but more so because he was fairly certain the colorful curser in question was a woman.

It was respect for the fairer sex more than any modesty on his part that had him grabbing and pulling on the pair of faded green-and-blue plaid pajama bottoms he’d dropped beside the bed before climbing between the sheets. “Down, boy-o,” he said to his still invigorated manhood, which also apparently approved of passionate, swearing women. “I promise I’ll end the drought and soon enough. But for now, behave. We’ve company.”

He climbed down the circular iron stairs to the open area below. He’d had the main floor converted into kitchen and living space. The corner area, where the picture windows in the east and south walls came together, was dedicated to his drafting table and work desk.

Normally he grinned every time he looked over the newly finished space, sending silent thanks to fellow new Blueberry Cove resident Alex MacFarland for her fine craftsmanship and dedicated work ethic, but for once, his thoughts were mercifully on another woman.

Perhaps I’ll get lucky and this one won’t already be spoken for.

He flipped up the oversized iron latch, slid open the large plank door that was original to the boathouse, and stepped out onto the docks. And immediately wished he’d also grabbed a sweatshirt. And his wellies. The steady breeze coming off the water was quite brisk. His nipples went stiff, but that was the only thing interested in staying that way. Folding his arms and rubbing his warm palms over his chest, he jogged down the pier and around to the docks on the far side where the noise had come from.

“I should have left you in the car,” he heard as he neared the back corner of the boathouse.

Definitely a woman. One with a decent bark, too. Despite the gooseflesh covering his bare torso, his morning mood grew decidedly cheerier.

“Pants are ruined, heel busted. And I’m pretty sure I’ll need some help getting these splinters out. Ouch! Damn, that one’s deep. Seriously, how does someone your size cause so much trouble?”

Brodie slowed his pace. Ah, so she had wee ones. Or a wee one, at least. Those usually came with a father of some sort. Present company excepted. And doesn’t that just figure?

“I have one moment of weakness—one—and this is what happens. I get you.”

Just like that, Brodie’s smile faded, as did every ounce of his respect. No child should be talked to that way, made to feel unwanted—as if they’d had a choice in the matter—even in the heat of the moment. Especially in the heat of the moment.

He rounded the back corner intent on . . . well, he wasn’t sure, exactly, but no one was going to shout down a tiny tot on his docks, or anywhere else in his presence. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, taking the short ladder up to the higher pier in a single hop. “This is private property and you’ll be wantin’ to watch your tone with the wee one if ye don’t wish to make a direct exit, seaside.”

She hadn’t heard him. “Aw, come on now, there’s no need for—cut it out with the look, okay? That’s what got me into this mess in the first place. You’re killing me here. Oh, no. No! I didn’t mean—don’t you even think about—augh!”

Brodie took one look at the woman sprawled all over his dock, tangled up in a pile of ropes—and the small, scruffy mutt presently planted on her chest, tail wagging like mad, giving lots of wet, slobbery doggie kisses to his owner, and his goodwill was instantly restored.

“You tell her, laddie,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s a good boy.”

At the sound of Brodie’s voice, the wee bit of scruff looked up, spied him, and set off down the dock in a dead dash toward him, barking the whole way.

“Whomper! No! Stop! Down! Something! Hell, what’s the right command? He’s friendly!” she called out as the dog increased his speed. “But be careful, because he can jump really—”

At that exact moment Whomper launched himself from the dock, and in an amazing display of vertical prowess that would make any of those lads in the NBA quite envious, he landed squarely against Brodie’s chest.

“High,” she finished, limply.

Brodie instinctively caught and clutched the tiny terror, staggering back a step, but remaining upright in the end. He simultaneously realized two things. One, he still wasn’t wearing a shirt, and two, the dog’s claws were remarkably sharp. Then he got a whiff of Whomper and realized a third thing. The tiny rascal had apparently found a dead fish he liked . . . and had gotten quite cozy with it.

In danger only of being asphyxiated by the smell of wet canine mixed with fish guts and possibly licked to death, Brodie immediately held the thing away from his body. “Whomper, me boy.” He shook his head and grimaced at the stench. “Not even the tide would take you out, mate.”

“I’m so sorry,” the woman called out. “He’s kind of. . . exuberant.”

“She’s being kind to ye now that ye’ve gone and made a scene.”

His pronouncement was met by bright dark eyes and a lolling tongue, along with a still wagging stub of a tail. Part terrier, part harbor doxy, most likely. His white scruffy fur was marked with the occasional splash of black and brown, yet the wee bit still managed to be quite the dashing rascal. One pointed ear and one with a rakish tilt at the tip didn’t hurt matters any, either.

Brodie felt a certain kinship to the mutt, despite being half frozen and smelling like a fishing net left out in the hot sun. “Aye, ’tis a charmer you are, born and bred. Gets you out of a lot of scrapes, does it?” He grinned and gave the little fellow a fast wink when the dog yipped in response. “Yes, I know. Comes in handy, that, eh?” The dog wriggled with renewed adoration.

Still holding him at arm’s length, Brodie strode down the dock toward the pup’s entangled owner, who was still cussing under her breath as she tried—and failed—to extricate her feet and heeled shoes from the frayed edges of the heavy ropes.

“Might take both of our charms combined to get you out of this one,” he murmured to the dog. “That and a hot shower. With lots of something exceedingly sweet-smelling.” He shuddered. Their commingled fishiness was impossible not to breathe in. “Good Lord, but we reek.”

“I’m really sorry,” the woman said, teeth gritted as she worked to get the strap on her shoes free. “He’s very well behaved, but only when he wants to be.” She glanced up at the dog and gave him an arch look. “Like when luring unsuspecting women into taking him home.”

Brodie grinned at the wriggling dog. “Well, mate, I’m finding you more interesting by the moment.”

She eyed both dog and man. “Perhaps he’d be happier with a fellow hound to room with, then.”

Brodie barked a laugh at that. “I can see why you picked her from the crowd,” he told the dog. “Women who know their own minds and aren’t afraid to speak them are infinitely more interesting.” He bent down and set the pup on the docks. “Now, be a good lad and don’t run off whilst I free your mistress here. You’ve a bit of making up to do, I’d say, but we’ll get ourselves cleaned up first, aye?”

Whomper planted his butt on the dock, tail going in a furious spin, panting happily as he looked up at Brodie like he’d caused the sun to rise all by himself. Laughing, Brodie glanced from dog to owner. “You had no chance,” he told her as he crouched down beside her. “You realize that.” He swiftly pulled the knotted rope fibers free from the buckles on the side of her heels.

She sighed. “I never thought of myself as a sucker for strays, but I guess there’s always that exception.”

She glanced up just then, and with the angle of his head blocking the bright beams of the rising sun, looked directly into his eyes for the first time.

Suddenly, he was the one all tangled up—only he wasn’t quite sure why.

There was nothing extraordinary about her eyes. They were hazel, in fact, not quite distinctly green or blue, and possibly leaning a bit toward brown. Or gray. She was pretty enough in that her features were all lined up just right. Her hair was a shiny sable brown and long enough to likely do justice to a man’s pillow when spread across it, but being as all those lovely strands were presently pulled back tightly against her head in a way that took them out of the equation entirely, collectively there wasn’t really anything about her that would turn a man’s head in a crowd.

And yet, in that singular moment, he couldn’t quite look away. Without breaking their gaze, he deftly slipped her shoe with the dangling heel from her hose-clad foot.

“Thank you,” she said, and if there was a hint of breathlessness in her tone, he was quite certain he’d imagined it. “I should have worn something more sensible, I guess. I didn’t think I’d be encountering any particularly tricky terrain this morning.”

He said nothing to that and their gazes continued to hold tight. Then she completely and quite surprisingly dazzled him by flashing a full-on smile. “I guess I was wrong about that. In more ways than one.”

His smile spread more slowly, but ended just as broadly as her own.

“I’m Grace Maddox, by the way. Aren’t you cold?”

“I passed cold several minutes ago. I would have said I was numb . . . only that smile of yours is like a blast straight from the sun, so that can’t be the case now, can it?” He eased up from his crouched position, offering his hand to pull her up next to him. Her fingers were slender, but her grip was quite strong, and there were calluses on her palms. He’d barely registered the surprise of that before she slipped her hand from his and began brushing at her long black coat and crisp linen slacks that now sported a greasy black stain on one knee.

She gave up as quickly as she began, with a roll of her eyes and a wry slant to her mouth. “Given it smells like rotting fish now, the state of my good coat is kind of irrelevant, isn’t it?”

He’d taken a step back, telling himself it was to save her from having to smell the fish on him, then realized she was right. She’d been equally tainted. Yet a bit of distance seemed wise, at least until his equilibrium returned.

“I should let you get back to . . . wherever it is you came from,” she was saying, “and get warmed up. And cleaned up. I’m really sorry about that. Thank you for the rescue. Please accept my—and Whomper’s—apologies for disturbing your sleep.”

Brodie ran a hand through his tousled hair, realizing that between the bed head, the morning beard, and pajama pants, he presented quite the rumpled picture. “It’s not often I’m awakened by a damsel in distress, but I can’t say I minded it.” His lips curved. “Your smile was payment enough. Glad I could be of service.”

“It just rolls off your tongue, doesn’t it? The charm,” she added, still smiling when he raised a brow in question. “You’re probably not even aware of it, second nature.” Her gaze shifted from him to the still perfectly seated dog, that wry arch returning to her brow. “I can definitely see why the two of you bonded.”

Brodie chuckled at that, not even trying to refute the assessment, self-aware enough to know the truth in it. He folded his arms and tucked his hands under them as his awareness of the morning chill returned to the point of being beyond ignorable, the action having the unintentional result of pulling her gaze to his chest and arms, and on down over the rest of him, where it appeared she got a bit hung up as well. He grinned, liking that she wasn’t as impervious to him as she pretended to be. Fair’s fair, he thought. And just like that, he wasn’t in quite so much of a hurry to find the nearest shower. Not alone, anyway. “What brings you down to my docks?”

Her gaze jerked up to his and the smile blinked away as if it had never been. “Your—?” She looked momentarily confused; then her expression cleared. “Oh, do you live on one of the boats in the harbor here?”

“At one point, I did, indeed. Now I reside in my boathouse. Converted boathouse,” he amended, though not sure why it mattered that she know that.

The confusion returned with a frown for added measure. “Your boathouse? Which would be . . . ?”

“All of them, actually, but I live in that one.” He nodded to the building he’d just come around at the far end of the lower pier, the smallest of the four main boathouses. His grin began to fade as her frown continued to deepen. “What is it, exactly, that brings you to my docks this fine spring morning?”

“Who are you?” she countered.

“Brodie Monaghan.” He sketched a quick, formal bow, despite being half naked and smelling of dead fish, then grinned once more when Whomper barked in approval. “Seventh-generation builder of boats and current owner of Monaghan’s Shipbuilders. Such as it is.” He nodded to the largest of the boathouses, built by his ancestors’ own hands, stationed several piers down, hugging the gentle slope of the land that curved up behind it and the heavy pilings that marched out into the water in front. It had been the first of what had gone on to become the Monaghan family heritage in the Americas.

Due to fire, flood, and the ravages of time, it had been rebuilt from the pilings up several times since its inception in the early 1600s, with timely modifications made each time. But the current structure was still more than a century old, close to two, and showed its age and neglect, as did the weather-beaten company name painted on the side. After decades of disuse and utter lack of maintenance, the proud company logo was barely distinguishable. One of the many things he aimed to change, in due time.

“And you, Grace Maddox . . . who might you be?”

She nodded toward the last in the row of the four main boathouses, nestled at the opposite end of the Monaghan waterfront property from where they were standing. “Owner of that boathouse.” She pulled a sheaf of paperwork out of her leather satchel. “As of this morning.”

Grace watched with careful attention as Brodie took the papers from her hand. Careful because she should be paying attention to this potential new headache, but she was having the devil of a time keeping her gaze on the papers and not the exquisitely sculpted chest and fantasy abs directly behind them.

That dilemma was helped not at all by the fact that she was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten those muscles by spending time in a fancy gym, but by working with those rough and tough, wide-palmed, workman’s hands of his—which she also took care not to ogle. Along with his equally gifted face.

His green-as-emeralds eyes and that clever little cleft in his chin easily put him in the ranks of the drool-worthy. But because the gene pool fairies had apparently been drunk off their collective asses the day they created him and didn’t know when to say stop, that pretty, oh so pretty face had to go and be matched with ridiculously sexy dimples that winked out when he smiled. And don’t even get her started on that delicious brogue of his.

The ogle avoidance wasn’t because she was shy. Far from it. She was quite certain he was well used to turning heads, most of them female, so catching her staring would likely just be yet another casual confirmation of his studliness. That was precisely the point. She wasn’t interested in being yet another ogler in what had to be a long line of oglers. Anyone who’d been around her for even a short time would realize that she wasn’t much of a joiner. God knows her life would have been much easier if she’d had that mind-set. But those same gene pool fairies who had blessed the Monaghans, or at least this one, with all that natural, gregarious charm had skipped the Maddox family tree entirely when the team player gene had come up for distribution. Her branch had been blessed with an overabundance of the fiercely independent gene, though she wasn’t sure blessing was the word she’d always have used to describe that particular trait.

True, it had come in more than a little handy during her formative years, but there had been distinct disadvantages, as well. She was trying to rectify that now. Her thoughts drifted to her brother, Ford, but she purposely pulled them back to the matter at hand. Those manly, manly hands . . .

Grace supposed, given the surprising news of her rescuer’s name and ancestry, and the fact that it matched the one painted on the side of the main boathouse, she should be grateful he hadn’t snatched the mortgage papers away, or ordered her off his docks, or both. It appeared that Cami Weathersby, her Realtor, had some explaining to do, as did a few folks down at the county tax and property offices. Not that Grace was worried that the sale of the boathouse was anything other than legitimate. She’d known from the moment Cami had led her onto the property last week that it was perfect for what she had in mind. Grace was nothing if not focused when she had a goal in her crosshairs, but her excitement hadn’t kept her from doing her due diligence on the place. Being an estate attorney came in handy like that.

A former estate attorney.

Grace held her hand out. “I think you’ll find all the paperwork in order, but please feel free to check with the county offices. I’d recommend you start with the tax assessor.” She slipped the strap of her slim leather messenger bag over her shoulder and tucked her hand in the exterior pocket, wincing as the splinters still embedded in her palm brushed against the stitched leather trim. She handed him her banker’s business card. “You can also call my loan officer. Sue—Mrs. Clemmons—seemed really pleased that the place was going to get some attention and was more than happy to work with me on my new business loan.”

Privately, Grace was beyond thrilled she’d been able to purchase the property outright, and for what amounted to a steal. It had allowed her to think much more broadly about her plans for the place, which was a good thing since she’d initially planned on buying either an old inn or an older home she could turn into one. She definitely hadn’t planned on renovating and completely repurposing a boathouse into an inn. But, based on the outright purchase and her relatively healthy personal portfolio, she’d secured a small business loan. Instead of moving in small stages as her previous, somewhat conservative estimated budget would have allowed, she could more or less leap straight into the deep end and really get moving on the renovation. She couldn’t wait to get started. But she didn’t think Mr. Monaghan really wanted to hear all about that.

Brodie was still scowling, and it was either a testament to those drunken gene pool fairies or the embarrassing length of time that had passed since her last serious relationship that the expression served to make his strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones stand out more handsomely than before. If that were possible. He was like a walking billboard for steaming hot, up-against-the-nearest-wall fantasy sex. The kind you only saw in movies. Her gaze briefly dipped to his chest again, and it was possible his lilting brogue played through her mind as her little voice added down and dirty, steaming hot, up-against-the-nearest-wall fantasy sex. Yeah. She’d buy a ticket to that show. Hell, she wanted to be in that show.

He handed the papers back, but didn’t reach for the business card. Instead, he took her hand in his, the surprise of his touch making her draw in a quick breath, which, from his glance into her eyes, he’d heard.

He turned his attention to the angry red welt on her palm and the sliver of his dock that was jammed into the center of it, along with several smaller slivers embedded on either side. “Och, but that doesn’t look like much fun. You need to get these taken out.” He cradled the back of her hand in his wide palm and bent his head to take a closer look. He gently bent her fingers back a bit to better expose the splinters to view and absently rubbed his fingers along hers in a consoling gesture that seemed so natural, she wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it. But of course, a man who looked like he did, who exuded over-the-top sex appeal from every last pore, was likely quite well aware of the effect his touch had on members of the opposite sex.

It took great restraint not to jerk her hand free. The contrast of the gentle strokes and the work-roughened skin of his fingers shot zings of awareness to points front and south, making her want to shift on her feet, maybe press her thighs together a little—or a lot—and wish the soft silk of her bra wasn’t clinging quite so snugly to her now-taut nipples.

“I-I plan on doing just that. As soon as I’m near a pair of tweezers.”

He lifted his gaze to hers. Up close and real personal, all that deep, sparkling green was every bit as disconcerting to her freshly reawakened erogenous zones as was his touch. And the two together, well . . . She carefully slid her hand free and tucked Sue’s business card away.

“Good,” he said, making no attempt at all to move back out of her personal space. “As for Monaghan’s, as happy as I am to know that the lovely Mrs. Clemmons is smilin’ upon ye, as hers is a delightful smile indeed, this place is already getting the attention it needs.”

Grace wondered how much money Brodie had charmed out of the older loan officer. She imagined, given the lethal levels of charm he possessed, that the sky had probably been the limit. In an effort to get her equilibrium back, she shifted her gaze and did a slow scan of the waterfront property. Even in its dilapidated condition, it was not insignificant in scope. Monaghan Shipbuilders sat centrally, right in the pocket of the gentle inward curve that had given the harbor its name, and accounted for at least a third of the waterfront real estate. The deep harbor edged into a naturally upward sloping open area of timber-free land, and it was that precise combination, Grace understood from Mrs. Clemmons, who was as proud of the heritage of Blueberry Cove as Brodie appeared to be, that had led the eighteenth-century shipbuilders and town founders to choose the place as their new homestead.

Back then they were building, among other things, magnificent two-masted schooners and three-masted clipper ships, each of significant length and scope, and therefore needed to construct them on land that had to be just the right angle so that, when completed, the ships could slide straight into the deep waters of the harbor and be sailed out into the bay. Personally, she wasn’t sure how any of that had been accomplished, especially given the rudimentary equipment they’d had at their disposal at that time, but she didn’t doubt Mrs. Clemmons knew what she was talking about.

In fact, as someone who spent a significant amount of time on the water, albeit in a rowing scull, Grace had taken the history to heart, realizing that it was her turn to stake her claim in Half Moon Harbor and build what she hoped would become the future Maddox family heritage. Granted, there wasn’t much Maddox family left, but heritage had to start somewhere, right? She’d honor the generations of Monaghans who had poured their hearts and souls into the property, be respectful of those who had come before her, and learn from them where she could. But she planned to stake her claim as well, and hoped they, in the form of the current generation landholder, would respect that.

It was in that moment that the enormity of what she’d done suddenly became very real, in a way it hadn’t—or couldn’t have—before. She didn’t know Brodie well—or at all, actually—but she understood, given his ties to the land, and the people, that she’d need to present a solid front to him when revealing her plans. And she felt anything but solid at the moment.

She anchored her gaze to the waterfront and held it there. The main boathouse was built half on land, half on the substantial pilings that extended into the harbor, creating a wide, heavy pier. From that pier ran a series of smaller docks, anchored and floating. Brodie’s smaller boathouse was on the near side of the main building, situated mostly on land and slightly edged out over the water. A smaller dock extended from the side and a wider one where they stood connected to the main dock. The two other boathouses were situated on the far side of the main building. The third in the row, of moderate size and scope, was completely on land, though its condition was the poorest of the four.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day, lass, and I’m but one man,” he said, the slight defensive edge to his tone making it clear he’d taken her studied appraisal as a judgment before she had voiced a single word.

If he only knew, she thought as her gaze shifted and stayed on the last boathouse in the row. The one that was now all hers. A shot of pure adrenaline—or maybe it was sheer terror—made her heart race. She’d plotted, she’d planned, she’d tried to be methodical and smart . . . mostly because she knew her new life decision was anything but rational. Still, she couldn’t truly believe she’d really gone and done it.

Her boathouse hugged land and water and was second in size only to the main boathouse, and then, not by much. A smaller version of the main pier extended directly from the rear decking and was separate from the other docks. On learning from Cami that her ownership included that pier, she’d immediately envisioned sailboat rentals, along with dockage. . .