Page 4 of Summer with the Single Dad

“Noted.”

“You’re next to a pub, so quiet time in the evenings follows the pub hours. When it shuts down, that’s time for the parties here to quiet down too. We ask people to keep it quiet in the mornings until eight. So if you need to pack up and leave before then to catch the ferry, please do it quietly.”

She nodded.

“Ummm … there’s no television. We’ve stocked you with towels, and enough toilet paper and paper towels for about five days, after that it’s on you. We do have coin-operated laundry in a little area off my office back there. There’s a sign-up sheet that guests seem to find helpful since there are only two sets of machines. You’re welcome to just use the washing machine then hang your clothes on a line. I think there’s one strung on your patio out front.” He craned his head around to indicate outside.

“Okay.”

“Oh! And I almost forgot.” He reached into the back of his jeans. “All guests get these free drink vouchers to be used at the pub. So … here.” He held out the stack of free drink tickets and, of course, just like before, when she reached for them, their fingers touched.

That same electric fence sensation was back, and it was Bennett this time that pulled his hand away first.

What the fuck was going on? Did she just scuff her shoes along the carpet and touch something metal?

“Let me help you finish unloading,” he said, a little too loudly. He spun around and headed back outside to her Beemer, grabbing another tote—this time a plastic one with a lid— and carrying it into the cabin. She followed him a few seconds later with a suitcase and a duffel bag.

“I think that’s everything,” she said, scraping her top teeth over her bottom lip. “Thank you for your help and the introduction to the cabin. I appreciate it.” Her gaze shifted from his face to just beside him.

“Yeah, of course. Of course. Anything you need, you can find me or one of my brothers around. Wyatt’s in the kitchen, Dom’s at the bar, Jagger is always just … around, and Clint is in the brewery. So just ask for one of the owners, or McEvoy brothers, if you have any concerns. We all also live onsite, just up the hill beyond the tree line. So … help is never too far away.”

He resisted the urge to slam his palm into his forehead at that cheesy line.

“Thank you. And you are?”

Fuck. He was off his game today. Not that he’d ever really had game, but even his pseudo game was off.

He thrust out his hand. “Bennett McEvoy. Nice to meet you.”

“Justine Brazeau. Nice to meet you.” Her hand was soft but firm in his. She had long, slender fingers, and no polish decorated her short-trimmed nails.

Unlike before, this time there was no shock or zap when they touched. But that heat from earlier found its way into his neck and groin again.

He pulled his hand free first and cleared his throat just as her phone chimed once in her pocket. Saved by the bell. “Anyway, I’ll let you get settled. Welcome to San Camanez Island and McEvoy Cabins.” Then he shoved those hands that ached to touch her into his pockets, watched as she glanced at her phone, a stoney expression crossing her face before she stuffed it back into her pocket. Hmmm. What was that about? Curiosity burned inside of him, but he’d already dished up enough awkwardness to this woman for one day, so he hightailed it out of there at a brisk, but not weird, walk. He didn’t want her to think he was trying to escape, but he sure as fuck needed to get out of there.

He fell into his desk chair when he got back to his office, exhaling hard enough to cause the swath of hair that fell over his forehead to lift.

He glanced at the paperwork on his desk.

No way was he going to be able to concentrate on that now. Not when he had a half-chub in his jeans and alarmingly impure thoughts about the new cabin guest.

He’d been celibate for five years. Five fucking years.

He hadn’t looked at another woman since his wife passed. Hadn’t even thought about love, romance, or sex. Sure, he beat off in the shower a few times a week—but that was a stress release. He had no time for a relationship. He was raising two little girls and running a busy business with his brothers. There was also the guilt thing too.

He firmly believed that Carla had been the love of his life. That there was nobody else out there for him. So to have these infiltrating thoughts about another woman so suddenly and so intensely, hurt his head and his heart. It felt like a betrayal.

Clint—the oldest brother who was two years ahead of Bennett—had only recently found love again. His wife, Jacqueline, died in the same car accident as Bennett’s wife, Carla, Wyatt’s wife, Sheila, and Dominic’s wife, Remy. They’d gone on a girls’ trip to Vegas, but didn’t even make it to SeaTac airport before their car was sideswiped on the highway.

And as far as he knew, none of his brothers had any kind of relationships since their wives died. Not even no-strings. Clint was the first to take the leap, finding love in the most unusual circumstances, with Hollywood starlet, Brooke Barker.

But unlike Clint’s relationship with his late wife, Jacqueline, which had been rocky and headed for divorce, Bennett and Carla’s marriage was wonderful. So the guilt that wrapped around his heart like a serpent was unrelenting, and constricted tighter and tighter anytime his brain even attempted to think about how beautiful or intriguing Justine was.

You know nothing about her. She’s pretty. That’s it. She can’t even be intriguing when you know absolutely jack-shit about her.

Right.

He needed to get a grip.

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