“So you got the job,” he said, smiling.
She nodded.
“I’m not surprised. You told me about the interview the day you and Wyatt came to the boatyard, and I thought then that Sara Gage would be crazy not to hire you. How’s it going, by the way?”
“It’s been an adjustment,” she admitted. “Going from spending the day with a five-year-old to spending it with other adults was more difficult than I’d imagined it would be. I mean, all Wyatt asks of me is that I know how to make macaroni and cheese, remember to buy Popsicles at the grocery store, and read him his bedtime stories. But Sara Gage and her customers set the bar a little higher.” She sighed, remembering how exhausted she’d been after the first day of work. All she’d had the energy to make for dinner that night was frozen pizza. Wyatt, of course, had been thrilled.
“It’ll get easier,” Walker said now. “The important thing is that you like it.”
“I
do
like it,” Allie said, honestly. And she did. She liked talking to Sara about the pieces displayed in the gallery, liked meeting the artists responsible for them, and especially liked helping customers choose something for themselves or for someone else, “the perfect thing” to take home or to give as a housewarming gift or thank-you present.
She started to tell Walker more about her first week at the gallery, but the oven timer went off, and she went back to the kitchen to check the chicken for doneness. It was ready, the outside of it a crispy, golden brown. She slipped on potholders, lifted the roasting pan out of the oven, and transferred the chicken to a carving board.
“What’s Wyatt doing while you work?” Walker asked, watching her carve the chicken.
“He’s going to day camp,” Allie said, conscious, as always, of his nearness. It was distracting, but she tried to concentrate on what she was doing. She had to. She had a sharp knife in one hand.
“The first morning I dropped him off, there were a few tears,” she admitted, placing the slices of chicken onto a platter. “More than a few tears, actually
.
”
And not all of them were his.
“But he did fine. Mainly because that same day they had a forest ranger visit.”
“I take it Wyatt was impressed?”
“Well, let’s put it this way,” Allie said, carrying the chicken to the kitchen table. “Forest ranger has now edged out race car driver for Wyatt’s career choice.”
Walker smiled. “Can I . . . uh, help you?” he asked, watching her carry the rice and then the salad over to the table.
“Yes,” Allie said. “You can pour us both another glass of wine.” She didn’t know, though, if she
needed
another glass of wine. Her body already felt tingly all over. The problem was, she wasn’t sure if it was the wine that was making her feel that way, or Walker.
Walker refilled their glasses and they sat down at the table, which Allie had dressed up, a little, with a blue-and-white-checked cloth and a bunch of handpicked wildflowers in a Mason jar full of water. She’d drawn the line at candles, though, since their presence, she’d decided, would scream
romantic dinner for two
.
For a while, during dinner, they limited themselves to small talk. Walker was very complimentary about her cooking and helped himself to more of everything. Allie, on the other hand, pretended to eat, her stomach feeling fluttery and uncooperative.
“How’s business at the boatyard?” she asked, taking another sip from her wineglass. That, at least, she could manage.
“It’s good,” he said. “So good my business partner, who also happens to be my brother, wants me to leave the day-to-day management of it to Cliff Donahue and move back to Minneapolis.”
“Are you going to do that?” Allie asked, feeling a surprising twinge of anxiety.
“I don’t know,” he said, with a shrug. “I love living here, but I don’t know how much longer I can justify doing it full-time.”
Allie shifted in her chair and tried not to think about the possibility of Walker living somewhere else. It was strange that it bothered her so much, considering that, until recently, she’d been hell-bent on avoiding him.
“How did you and your brother get started in the boatyard business?” she asked then, genuinely interested. Either she was starting to get a little drunk, or boatyards had suddenly become a source of unbridled fascination for her.
“Oh, that’s easy,” he said, pouring her a third glass of wine. “Reid and I have always been obsessed with boats, probably because we grew up next door to a boatyard on Lake Minnetonka. When we were kids, the owner used to give us a few bucks to sweep out the place, that kind of thing. By the time we were in high school, we were working there after school, and then in college, we worked there in the summertime. After graduation, we saved enough money to buy our own boatyard. It was a dump, really, and it had almost nothing to recommend it, except that it was cheap.” Smiling at the memory, he added, “But we didn’t even know enough, at the time, to know how scared we should be.”
“I’m guessing it was a success,” Allie said, transfixed by what he was saying. Talking about his work, his usual reserve had fallen away. She’d never seen him so animated, so engaged. She remembered something Caroline had said about Walker. That he didn’t seem like a man who did anything halfway. That was true of his work, obviously. Was it true of other things, too? She felt a warmth spreading through her. An anticipation. This was not about the wine, she knew. This was about Walker.
“You know what? It was a success,” he was saying, when Allie’s mind returned to the conversation. “We were young and dumb, but we were also incredibly hardworking. We turned that boatyard around. And the next one. And the one after that.”
“How many of them do you own?”
“Twelve,” Walker said, draining the last of the wine from his glass. “Twelve and counting.”
“A boatyard empire?” Allie asked, only half joking.
“Maybe,” Walker answered, with a shrug. “I honestly don’t know. My brother, Reid, is completely driven. Our dad left when we were kids, and I think it hit Reid hard—harder than me, even. Now it’s like he’s got something to prove, except, by all rights, he should feel as if he’s proved it already. But he’s still not satisfied.” He sighed. “I’m not sure he ever will be.”
Allie was thoughtful, fiddling with the stem of her wineglass. “So your brother’s trying to even some score with your dad. But what about you? What’s your motivation?”
Walker thought about it. Then he smiled, almost shyly. “Honestly?”
She nodded.
“You’ve been out on the water on a perfect day, haven’t you?”
“Many times,” she said, smiling. Those days were her happiest childhood memories.
“Well, I have a theory,” he said. “I don’t care who you are or how many problems you have. I defy you to be in a boat out on the water on a perfect day and not be happy. Not just be totally, irrationally happy. At least that’s how I always felt.” He poured what was left in the wine bottle into her glass.
“So you’re in the boat business for purely altruistic reasons?” Allie asked, teasingly.
“No, not quite,” he admitted. “It’s a business—and a living—but if I can help someone realize the dream of owning a boat, then obviously, that’s the icing on the cake.”
“About that dream,” Allie said now. “I think I may be ready to take you up on your offer of selling us a boat.”
“Good, because I think I’ve found the perfect boat for you two.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “It’s used, but it’s in excellent condition. It’s a twenty-foot Chris-Craft, and it’s the perfect size and speed for this lake. I’d love for you to come in and see it. Or maybe we could even arrange to have it towed out here so you could take it out on the lake for a test-drive.”
“Wyatt would be euphoric,” Allie said.
“I can imagine,” Walker said, smiling. “And it’s a great all-around boat. You could even fish off it, if you wanted to.”
Allie frowned.
“You’re going to teach him how to fish, aren’t you?” he asked, seriously, as if teaching a child how to fish was a moral obligation.
“I don’t see anyone else volunteering,” she joked. She didn’t add that she’d already taught Wyatt how to tie his shoes, ride a bike, and swim. Teaching him to fish wouldn’t be any harder than teaching him those things. Except for the part where you took the fish off the hook . . .
“I’ll volunteer,” Walker said, suddenly. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I go every Sunday morning at five thirty. I can pick him up at your dock—if you think he’s ready, that is. He has to be able to wake up early. And sit still for long periods of time.”
“Oh, I think he’s ready,” Allie said. She didn’t think it. She knew it. “The getting up early won’t be a problem, not if he’s properly motivated. Same with the sitting still. He can be amazingly patient when the occasion calls for it.”
“Good,” he said, decisively. “Then let’s do it. This Sunday morning.”
“Why not?” she said, fighting a feeling of unease. Everything was happening so fast.
Too
fast
. Or was it? Because what, exactly, had happened? Walker was taking her son fishing. That wasn’t such a big deal, was it?
They lapsed into silence for a moment, and Allie drank the rest of her wine and set the empty glass on the table. When she looked up at Walker again, he was staring at her. No, not staring at her, not exactly. He was touching her, really, with his eyes. Touching her all over with them, the same way he had at the third of July party. And just like on that night, Allie felt something inside her pull tight, like a rubber band that was about to snap. She realized, then, that she’d forgotten to breathe, and she sucked in a little breath and stood up suddenly, almost knocking her chair over.
“I’ll make the coffee,” she mumbled, hurrying over to the kitchen counter and fumbling with the lid on the tin of coffee grounds. But when she pried it open and took the scoop out, her hands started shaking again, so much so that when she started to pour the grounds into the coffeemaker, she ended up spilling them on the counter.
“Here, let me do that,” Walker said, beside her now and reaching for the scoop. His fingers brushed against hers as he took it from her, and Allie felt an almost adolescent thrill at his casual touch.
“Do you really want coffee?” he asked, gently.
She shook her head.
He dropped the scoop back into the coffee can and took her hand in both of his. Then he turned it over, palm up, and, holding her wrist with one hand, used one finger of the other hand to trace an imaginary line up the inside of her forearm, from her wrist up toward her elbow. Allie closed her eyes. Wherever his finger touched her skin, it felt as if it were burning. Which didn’t explain why she suddenly shivered.
When his finger reached the hollow of her arm, opposite her elbow, he stopped. Then, still holding her hand, he bent slowly and kissed her lips, so lightly that Allie almost wondered if she were imagining it.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, opening her eyes.
“I’m doing what I should have done as soon as I got here,” he said, in a low, throaty voice. “As soon as I saw you standing there in the driveway, looking so ridiculously beautiful.” He kissed her again, and again. Maddeningly light kisses that barely left an impression on her lips and that left her whole body aching for more of them.
“Please,” she said softly, without even knowing what she meant by it. But Walker knew. Letting go of her hand, his arms slid around her waist, and he backed her up, almost imperceptibly, against the kitchen counter. She thought it was probably a good thing that he’d given her something to lean on for support. Because when he bent to kiss her again, it was a different kiss altogether from the gentle, soft kisses he’d already given her. This kiss was demanding. Hungry and urgent. And when his tongue pushed into her mouth, she felt a hot, liquid sensation slide through her whole body.
Breathe, Allie,
she told herself.
Just
try to breathe normally
. But it was hard to concentrate on anything other than how this kiss was making her feel. She felt like her whole body was a tuning fork, and Walker’s touch was making it sing.
She ran her hands around his waist and then, palms down, slid them up his back, feeling the warmth of his skin through the material of his shirt. She simultaneously pulled him closer and pressed herself harder against him. She wanted—
no
,
she
needed—
to feel more with each passing second.
And she knew, suddenly, what needed to happen. His shirt needed to come off. She needed to feel his bare skin beneath her hands. So she slid her hands up under his shirt, up over his flat stomach and well-built chest, and then she slid her hands back down again, grabbed the hem of his shirt and, in one fluid motion, pulled it up over his head and let it drop to the kitchen floor.
There,
she thought, pressing herself against his bare, suntanned skin, too absorbed in the moment to be surprised by her own behavior. She ran her hands over his chest again, over his shoulders and back. His skin was smooth and sun warmed, his chest lightly sprinkled with dark hair, and his shoulders were strong and muscular.
Walker, she knew, liked the way she was touching him. His breath came faster now, as his chest rose and fell more rapidly. She let her hands come to rest on his shoulders, tipped her chin up, and invited him to kiss her more deeply. He did, his tongue probing farther into her mouth in a way that made Allie’s breath come faster, too.
Far away, though, in some still sane part of her brain, there was a warning straining to be heard.
Slow
down, it’s going too fast. Put the brakes on
.
But she paid no attention to it. She was too busy thinking about how good it felt. The holding, the kissing, the touching.
I’ve missed this,
she thought.
I need this.
But just when she felt like their passion was reaching a tipping point, Walker seemed to pull back. To slow down. His grip on her loosened, and his lips left her mouth and traveled down her neck, coming to rest at the hollow at the base of her throat. It was an exquisitely sensitive place for Allie, and he seemed, intuitively, to know this. He brushed his lips over it, softly, slowly, with such deliberate gentleness that Allie practically squirmed with desire.