Page 39 of Chasing the Sun
I paused, facing her. She was perched on a high-backedstool behind the front desk, absently looking up from a book. The well-worn novel was splayed open on her lap—a vintage Harlequin romance with its long-haired love interest wrapping himself around the waif of a woman beneath him.
My mind instantly pinged to Cal wearing nothing but a towel.He’d look good with a sword in his hand.
A real sword. Not his dick—oh my god.
A strangled “Yep!” was all I could muster as a fresh wave of heat crawled up my chest and neck.
Helen chuckled to herself, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether her overly vague directions—the living quarters are down that hallway, past the kitchen and toward the back—were intentional.
Sure, the elderly woman had no way of knowing exactly what I would walk into, but the mischievous glint in her amber eyes told me she had a feeling I might stumble into her boss.
Maybe the innocent-looking woman really was a troublemaker.
I turned, wrapping my arms around my middle and suppressing a smile.
“You know,” Helen said at my back, “you got me thinking.”
Curiosity piqued, I turned with a raised eyebrow.
“The Lady,” she supplied. “You were right. It feels wrong that we don’t know more about who she really was, outside of the legends.” Helen leaned forward, pulling an old scrapbook out from behind the desk. It landed with a gentle thud on the thick oak desktop. The book was similar to the one at the library, but bound in cracked leather the color of wine.
“This old house came with a lot of old memories.” She nodded toward the book. “Including this.”
Drawn forward by intrigue, I stepped closer and gazed at the wordsScrap Bookin swooping cursive printed on the cover and embossed with gold. This kind of distraction was exactly what I needed to forget all about Cal and his thick, masculine groaning.
My fingers hovered over the words. “May I?”
I glanced at Helen, who smiled. “Of course.”
The hinges creaked open, and I was assaulted with the slightly sweet, musty smell of almonds. The old-book smell wrapped around me as my fingers floated over the pages, too afraid to touch it. The book seemed to be a record of the Barker household and general goings-on in Star Harbor. Newspaper clippings were glued next to sepia portraits. Faded, handwritten notes included scribbled dates and annotations.
I paused at a photograph of the Drifted Spirit Inn. Though the image was old, the home stood proudly in the background. The trees weren’t nearly as imposing as they now were, and the land around the home was undeveloped. At the base of the porch steps, a handsome couple stared at the camera, two children—a young boy and girl—by their sides.
A handwritten date was scribbled beneath it:1886.
“This is so cool,” I whispered, lost in the history of it all.
Helen pointed at the photograph that had captured my imagination. “That is Louis Barker along with his wife and children around the time that construction of the home was completed. He was an intensely private man ... little is known about his family.” She lifted a shoulder. “Most is probably just lost to time, which makes the mystery all the more alluring.”
I glanced up and smiled, knowing exactly what she meant.
“There are some pictures of the farmland, a few notes written by who I am guessing was Mrs. Barker.” Helen closed the book and slid it toward me. “I thought you might want to borrow this—use some of the old pictures.”
My imagination sparked to life. I could already see the social media images of then and now, side by side, showing what the farmland used to be and how Stan and I were honoring it, even today.
I reached for her hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”
Carefully, I lifted the book off the counter and hugged it against my chest. Bit by bit my plan for enticing people to Star Harbor Farm was becoming clearer. The most important hurdle was making sure the farm was up and running by the time people showed up.
That included a laundry list of items that made my head spin. It was time to focus. Prove myself.
I was drowning in tasks, and the last thing I needed was to be distracted by moody innkeepers who spent the better part of the evening scowling at me at the Lantern, only to moan my name in the shower.
Besides, Cal never had to know. Not about the hallway. Not about the moan. Not about the fact that for the rest of my damn life, I would hear my name in that voice, in that moment, whispered into the dark like a secret.
He never had to know.
ELEVEN
