CHAPTER 5

Tristen walked the docks, eyeing the antique boats that had been entered in Port Carling’s annual boat show while trying to clear his mind of Melanie Summer and the nasty look she’d given him as she’d stormed out of Vincent Valo’s office. The guy had been a condescending prick and it had been nearly impossible for Tristen to sit there, acting as though he wasn’t insulted on her behalf. The problem was that the real estate office he moonlighted for needed Vincent as he was the man who could get things rezoned faster than anyone else on the council. Today it had been Tristen’s job to schmooze, and he’d walked right into that wave of anger coming from the woman whose image had kept him tossing and turning late into the night.

But now he was done work for the day, had let Dot loose on the boat show for a half hour, and had time to ponder an idea he wanted to try. Working with stone always cleared his mind and today he was counting on it.

He continued walking along the docks that wrapped along the one side of the small island park that had been cut off from the mainland by the larger steamship locks behind him. He remained on the lookout for the boat that had inspired his latest idea. It was a long shot, but he thought he might be able to use the boat’s hewing, notching, and joining technique with stone. A way to naturally fit several rocks together without the use of anything but skill.

And there it was. The Winged Goddess. An exceedingly rare wooden boat from the 1930s. Tristen waited for a group in tennis whites to move past, stealing the opportunity to check out the boat while a woman wearing a baggy shirt and shorts had the owner distracted.

Wood was different than stone, but it was also surprisingly similar. You could alter it. Carve it into almost anything if you were patient and knew how to finesse it. But you couldn’t just jump in and do whatever you wanted to any kind of stone. And sometimes, if you tried to do too much without paying attention to the individual rock’s internal cracks and striations, it broke. Kind of like a marriage.

“Sunk her this spring,” the owner was saying.

The woman gave a shocked squeak, and Tristen let out a huff of a laugh at her indignation and horror.

“Yep,” the man continued. “Mouse hole I didn’t notice when I put her in. I gunned it to shore when I realized I was taking on water. Sunk her less than ten feet from land. Boy, that water was cold!”

“You and the boat are obviously okay, though?” she asked, her voice kind and soft. Caring. Familiar.

Later. Tristen needed to focus on the boat. The voice could very well belong to a woman he was avoiding—and there were several.

Their conversation grew more distant as they moved to the other end of the boat to check out the supposed damage, and Tristen crouched by the bow, inspecting the woodworking techniques.

“Well, hello!” cooed a voice dangerously close to his ear.

That was not the same familiar one he’d heard a few moments ago.

He cut a glance to the side. Crap. Alice Estaire. Stalker extraordinaire. Okay, not stalker. Just overly friendly and clueless. Sort of like a puppy. She ran a finger across his shoulders. Not surprisingly, she found a knot and began kneading it. He stood abruptly, smoothly displacing her hands. Nice enough lady, but not the one for him.

“Hi, Alice.”

She squeezed her arms together in a way that made her breasts push higher in her pink tank top. “I see you’re back at the real estate office.”

He gave a tight smile, turning on his heel to hurry away. “Lovely to see you. Must meet up with someone. Sorry.” He nervously toyed with a polished stone in the pocket of his shorts and scanned the crowd for his daughter. Now would be the perfect time for Dot to show up. Striding down the dock, he made obvious phone-checking gestures. He felt bad for the way he’d brushed off Alice, but what was a man to do? They’d already had the it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk. She didn’t take his hints, and if he was any more obvious he’d hurt her feelings. If he did that she might cry. And that would be uncomfortable for everyone.

At the end of the dock, still not spotting Dot, he paused beside an old schooner, taking in the way it had been put together. He still wanted a few more moments with the Winged Goddess, but didn’t dare backtrack.

After asking permission, he took a few photos of the joints at the schooner’s stern. Pretty standard and nothing exciting, but he felt the need to do something as he waited out Alice. A woman was bending to chat with a man sitting in the boat docked in front of the schooner, her laughter washing over him. That laugh. Melanie.

Beautiful, beautiful Melanie.

Tristen resisted the urge to run.

Away.

Fast.

“Beautiful lines,” she was saying, her hands out as though fighting the temptation to run them over the boat’s curves. A surge of jealousy swirled within Tristen and he tamped it down, crossing his arms, wanting to turn away but unable to. He couldn’t possibly be jealous of a boat. How ridiculous was that? He faked further interest in the schooner as he watched her chat, animated and happy. In her element.

She was wearing scruffy, loose clothes, so unlike the dress he’d seen her in just forty minutes ago. Her face was open, relaxed. Was one of the Summer sisters Melanie’s identical twin?

And yet he knew this was his Melanie. The same woman who’d had bikers eating out of her hand only yesterday.

“So Tristen Bell is into old boats?” she asked, coming over. Was she swaggering? He could swear that was a swagger. Why was she acting as though she had something on him?

She hated him. He’d seen it in her eyes, so why wasn’t she avoiding him? 

He glanced behind him, aware he was backing away.

“Funny,” she said. “I hadn’t guessed that—despite your truck. Although that thing is just old. Nothing like this boat.” She did a little move as though she was a model showcasing the antique craft. He’d never seen a woman act sexier, even in that horrible old T-shirt that was much too large for her luscious form.

Which meant there was something wrong with Tristen’s brain. Seriously wrong.

This woman had the potential to push him into something that could destroy him, and all he could do was stand there and smile.

Managing to snap out of the hold she seemed to have on him, he said, “Was that a dig, Melanie Summer?” He sounded almost breathless, and cursed himself. Where was the suave dude he used to be? Had he inadvertently locked him away with his playmate—the monster side that had destroyed his life?

He couldn’t be sure, but Melanie seemed half pleased to see him and half hopeful that she could find a way to shove him between the dock and boat, hold his head below the lake’s surface and see how long it took him to drown.

The fact that her expression suggested his life was in imminent danger really shouldn’t be a turn-on. But it was.

“A dig?” She placed a finger to her chin and stared upward, coy and cute. “Hmm. Possibly.”

Oh, she was going to kill him. Definitely. Something scary had switched on within her and there was a flicker of the devil in her gaze. She wanted to get even for something. It was a look he’d received a lot back in Toronto for crossing people or signing contracts with new companies before his competitors even had a chance to say hello.

“They don’t make them like they used to,” he said, clearing his throat. He pointed to the boat in front of them. Then, hesitantly, and with enough time to second-guess himself, he jerkily leaned in to give her a light kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you.”

She smelled good. Like cookies.

Her danger face melted and she blushed, unable to meet his eye. “You know it makes you sound like an old man when you say ‘they don’t make them like they used to.’”

He grinned. He knew he was supposed to stay away from her, but couldn’t quite remember why.

Oh, right.

Land developments, possible relationship expectations, et cetera. She was so fun to toy with though. All he had to do was compliment her or show her a minor courtesy and she melted like sugar. The old Tristen would have used that against her in some way.

“I am an old man,” he said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“Did you know that I happen to like older men? They are more stable and kind.” She gave him a shrewd glance. “Usually.”

“I thought you liked bikers.”

“They’ll do in a pinch, but I prefer men who are little more refined. And I must say, your manners are impeccable. Generally speaking.”

There was a hazardous element to her words, but that flirty smile… She could punch him in the nuts, but if she gave him that smile he’d ask for a repeat.

Stupid, stupid man that he was.

His voice dropped. “Are you flirting with me, Melanie Summer?”

She turned away, addressing him over her shoulder. “Maybe.”

Hello, flight control? Yeah, we have trouble on the runway. Despite being grounded it seems Tristen is gearing up for takeoff.

He took in her tatty outfit, carefully noting every worn detail. “You like old things?”

“I like things that are…experienced.” She turned back to him, not touching, but acting as though she would play with his necktie if he’d been wearing one. The idea did funny things to his groin.

“You are a beautiful and dangerous woman, Melanie. You would never need a man like me.” He wanted to touch her, move close, tell the world that she was his and that this was their little corner of the planet, and to go away.

She laughed, a high flush dancing across her cheeks. “I’m just playing, Tristen. Besides, I’m sure you and your actions won’t ever show up on anything but my hit list.” She gave him a smile brimming with moxie, but something had changed her eyes. They looked less playful and devilish. More hurt somehow.

He pretended to pull a dagger out of his chest, while keeping a watchful eye on her. Maybe she didn’t hate him, just the way he behaved.

Story of his life.

Had that aspect not changed despite two years of beating himself up over it?

“So, tell me, what do you like about antique boats?” She crossed her arms, suddenly serious as they stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the moored vessels.

“I’m sorry about Mr. Valos.”

She gave a frown that brought her lips into a pout before she shook off his apology.

“So what do you like about them?” she insisted.

Tristen took a moment to change his focus from her and their games to the vessel in front of them. “They’re like people.”

“How so?” The crowd swelled and ebbed around them, bits of conversations floating past in waves. This was where he excused himself, found Dot, went home and didn’t come out again until it was safe.

Likely around 2050.

Melanie’s arms were still crossed protectively.

“Sometimes they shine in their age,” he blurted. “They become better.”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to say something that sounded deep, but there was something about Melanie Summer that hit him hard enough to be uncomfortable. He wanted to learn more about her, but at the same time wanted to push her far away so he could breathe properly.

She nodded thoughtfully and went to sit on a nearby bench.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Tristen sat beside her, arm draped across the backrest. So much for being able to breathe right. His arm wasn’t around her, but he was close enough to feel the heat from her back seeping through the fabric of his shirt.

“I took the morning off.”

“And what do you like about these old crafts?”

“Their stories,” she said immediately. “Their history. They made it through when others didn’t.”

Why did it feel as though she was no longer talking about boats?

“Anyone ever tell you they can’t talk?” he joked.

She swallowed hard, her neck lengthening as she jutted out her chin. “Shut up, Mr. Bell. You know what I’m saying.”

“Sorry.” The truth was that he did know. It just sounded hokey and he hadn’t talked about anything real or deep in a very long time.

They sat in silence, the bench comfortable, just like the quiet between them. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, seeing as she’d been angry with him only an hour ago.

“I thought you were done with developing?” Melanie stared at him, and he was fairly certain she was waiting for him to form a nervous tick, or generally reveal that he was, indeed, a lying schmo who wouldn’t stand up for her.

Oh, wait. He’d already done that in Vincent’s office.

“I am done,” he said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Then what about the land you were talking about with Mr. Valos?”

Tristen stretched his legs out in front of him, enjoying the shade from the large trees that grew on the grassy hill behind them. “Eavesdropping, Ms. Summer?”

“It was difficult not to when you were taking my appointment time.” He could feel the anger from Vincent’s earlier dismissal building within her again, and it was as though he was sitting on a volcano about to erupt. Time to bail.

No. He wasn’t a chicken. He could use the old Tristen in a way that wasn’t monstrous and stand up for himself.

“You took my appointment time and then didn’t leave.”

“I most certainly did not take your time.” She drew herself up, eyes flashing. “And next time, grow some balls and be honest. If you don’t want to help, then fine. But don’t lie to me.”

Oh, this chick was going down.

“For your information I am a Realtor, Melanie, and sometimes I inquire about zoning bylaws.”

“And yet you can’t give me advice about that sort of thing.” She opened her small purse, pulling out her checkbook, voice cool as she said, “I see how this works.”

“What are you doing?”

“You have to be paid to be helpful, obviously.”

He took in their surroundings on the island, wondering how many of the people on the nearby sidewalks and docks were overhearing their conversation.

He stood, but didn’t walk away. “I don’t do that sort of stuff any longer.” He squeezed his eyes shut when he saw the rejection in hers. “I’m sorry, Melanie. It’s not about you. It’s about me, okay?”

Dot loped out of the crowd, her sharp gaze taking in the two of them. Tristen slung an arm over his daughter’s shoulders, pulling her into a half hug. She seemed both conflicted and happy by the embrace.

“Nice talking to you, Melanie,” he said over his shoulder as he steered Dot away. They could take the path around the quieter side of the island where the small boat locks were located, then maybe take a shortcut up the hill past where the small museum was nestled, over the footbridge and then back to his truck and his much-needed solitude.

Dot planted her feet like Max did during hot-weather walks. “You didn’t introduce me to your girlfriend.”

Melanie quirked her head, then bent over, laughing.

Nice. Now he felt insulted. Why did this woman have to live on the same planet? Couldn’t she move back to Mars or Venus, or wherever women were from?

“What’s so funny?” he snarled. He tried to stare her down, but an elderly woman caught his attention as she moved toward him with her walker. Hitch the walker forward, drag the bum leg. Hitch, drag, hitch, drag. It was distracting. Especially given how she kept staring at him, unblinking. He stepped out of her path, but she deliberately turned toward him once again.

Not good.

Melanie, now standing, extended a hand to Dot. “I’m Melanie Summer. Pleased to meet you.”

The old woman, now a foot away from them, cleared her throat.

“Oh, Mrs. Kowski!” Melanie bent over the walker, giving her a hug. “So lovely to see you.”

“Did I hear you have a boyfriend?” the woman asked.

“No, ma’am, you most definitely did not,” Melanie replied.

Tristen smiled. How many people called older women “ma’am” these days? Melanie had been raised right.

Mrs. Kowski glared at him and made a disgruntled sound. He reached out and shook her hand. “I’m Tristen Bell. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m sure the pleasure is all yours.”

Ouch. A relation of Melanie’s, perhaps? She had the same sharp tongue.

Mrs. Kowski started in on him. “What is wrong with you that you won’t take Melanie out for a lovely supper? A woman needs to enjoy as many good suppers as she can before they put her in a home and she’s stuck eating strained peas and other foods that are affront to the term meal.” She edged closer, almost nailing him with her walker. “You hear me, sonny?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mrs. Kowski,” Melanie said. “The man will barely talk to me, let alone take me out for supper.” She winked at Tristen. “He’s always acting as though he’s got a great big bug up his—”

“I talk to her,” Tristen interrupted, clutching Mrs. Kowski’s cool fingers. “Although I don’t know why. And I do not have a bug up my—no. Never mind.”

He was fighting for this crusty old woman’s favor and wanting to win. Melanie Summer was trouble, all right.

“This is my daughter, Dot.” He looked to Dot, hoping she would smile and charm the lady.

“You poor dear,” Mrs. Kowski said to the silent teen. “Daughter Dot. Your father isn’t one to think things through, is he?”

Dot smirked in collusion. Before Tristen could defend the name, Melanie was choosing sides, as well. “You poor thing.”

“I resent that tone,” he interjected.

“He made me have breakfast, and thinks that everyone should eat as much as he does.”

Tristen bristled. Food habits were not good conversation territory for them right now. Getting her to finish her breakfast had just about done him in.

“I’d rather not talk about meals, thank you.” Mrs. Kowski sniffed and headed for someone new to grouch at.

“I could tell you how to apply for legal emancipation,” Melanie muttered to Dot out of the side of her mouth. “Then you can eat what you want, when you want.”

“I heard that,” Tristen said, trying to draw his daughter away.

“Really?” Dot’s eyes grew rounder and she held her ground once again. “You know how to do that?”

“Please don’t encourage her.” What would Cindy do if Dot managed to pull that one off? He’d have to move farther away than Muskoka.

Melanie winked at him over Dot’s head as the teen turned to glare at him.

“You know what legal emancipation is?” Melanie asked his baby girl, tempting her toward rebellion.

“I took a pre-law class in high school last year. I want to become a lawyer.”

Melanie gave her a high five. “I’m a lawyer!”

“Get out!”

Yep. This was where things got bad.

Melanie grinned. “Which schools are you looking at?”

“I can’t decide between McGill or Queen’s.”

“McGill? That’s seven hours away.” Tristen protested. Toronto was far enough. He needed Melanie to convince Dot that Queen’s was the place to go, as it was only a little over four hours away.

Although, if every meal was like breakfast, he might just pack his daughter’s bags and send her to school at the other end of the country.

“That’s hardly far, Dad,” Dot said with a smirk. “But I need more experience before I apply, as my marks aren’t stellar. Something about being abandoned by my father a few years ago set me back.” She whisked her shaggy mane out of her face to make sure both eyes could reach him with their death-ray glare.

“Yeah, not at the joking stage for that little misunderstanding yet,” he muttered.

Melanie, as if sensing his desperate need to change the subject faster than a rocket could launch, asked, “Are you looking for a job or internship?”

“Either would be great.”

“There might be an opening in my office.” She pulled her phone from her shorts pocket and addressed Tristen. “Can I ask?”

“Oh my God!” Dot gave a little bounce that was completely at odds with her rocker chick style. She whirled toward him, hands clasped. “Please?”

He couldn’t be the one to dash all that hope. And honestly, he hadn’t seen his daughter this overjoyed since the trip to Disney World when she was seven.

But damn. More Melanie? That wouldn’t end well for him.

Nevertheless, he gave a minuscule tip of his head, and Dot was in his arms, bouncing and squealing and generally making a scene, as well as bursting his eardrums.

“Thank you! Thank you!”

“Yeah, sure.” He gave a sharp nod. “I’m going for ice cream. You coming?”

“Dad, teenage girls don’t eat that kind of thing unless they’re fat or something.”

Melanie’s cheeks flushed and she ducked her head so fast Tristen wanted to rewind the moment and erase it. A small voice in his head warned him not to acknowledge the comment, and to disappear. It was the same one that had told him to work harder when Cindy expressed that she needed more from him. It wasn’t a very smart voice.

“Dot, just so you are aware, men don’t like bitchy women. They like real women who don’t mind putting food in their mouths.”

Ah, man.

That didn’t work.

His little parenting party had officially come to a grinding halt, and he was pretty sure he’d inadvertently offended Melanie while he was at it. He couldn’t win, could he?

“I don’t care about men,” Dot snarled. “Don’t you even listen?” Her voice reached a crazy pitch and he cringed. Tilt-a-Whirl time. “Not that you care, I have a girlfriend now.”

“So, I’ll just text my boss and see what’s available, shall I?” Melanie said, her voice tight.

“What? When?” he asked Dot. “I left you alone for twenty minutes.”

“Just now.” Her arms were crossed, her chin jutted. “Her name’s Samantha.”

“Um?” Melanie was still waiting.

“Sorry. Yes, Melanie,” he said. “I appreciate it, and I’m sure my ungrateful daughter does, as well.” He tugged Dot’s arm, urging her away from what was quickly turning into a complete disaster.

“I do appreciate it, Dad.” She dug in, refusing to budge. “I need to give Melanie my phone number. It’s rude to just take off without even a goodbye.”

“I didn’t take off,” he said, his voice tight with held back anger. “And I said goodbye.”

“It’s okay, I know your dad’s number,” Melanie said without looking up, her shoulders frozen in a way that told him she was trying to hide, so she wouldn’t be dragged into their fight.

“You do?” The hope and curiosity in Dot’s voice made him want to gag her.

“Yeah. A mutual friend gave it to me.” She looked at him this time. Her eyes were different. Sad. Lonely. Rejected.

Again.

Who was he kidding? Melanie Summer sad, lonely, and rejected? Get real. She was nothing like him. She wasn’t hiding away from the world. She was out there shaking things up.

Dot was staring at him, putting together random, unrelated pieces and undoubtedly believing that he was lying to her once again.

“I didn’t just take off on you, Dot, so just leave it alone, okay?” He stomped off, hoping she’d follow, so he wouldn’t have to call Cindy and tell her he’d already lost their daughter.

* * *

Tristen took a seat at his kitchen island as Dot grinned at him, momentarily forgetting the ice cream cone in her hand, and giving Max the opportunity to claim the melting treat with a well-timed flick of his jumbo-sized tongue.

Yes, Melanie had come through for his daughter, saving the girl’s future with one text to her boss—a text that had just secured Dot a position as an intern.

And now Tristen owed Melanie.

In deeper by the moment.

Dot threw her arms around him, pulling him into a monster hug, before running to her room to text her friends about the turn in fate.

He looked at Max, who was eyeing Tristen’s empty hands. “Sorry, pal. I ate my cone back in town.”

The dog’s brown eyebrows lowered and he dropped his hundred-pound frame to the floor with a thump that vibrated through the laminate flooring.

“How do you not break something when you do that?” Tristen muttered. Grabbing a handful of blueberries, he opened the patio door, trying to ignore the garbage barge speeding by. It was too small to be Shawn McNeil’s. Plus Shawn always followed the speed limit, whereas this barge was trucking along as if rules didn’t apply. Tristen went back inside for his phone, then dialed the number for the police.

“There’s a large barge with demolition debris speeding through the bay outside Port Carling,” he told the dispatcher. “The scrap is just about spilling into the water. Maybe it already has.” Because of the way the barge was weighted down with the remains of an old cottage, its speed was that much more dangerous. Traffic near town was bad this time of day, especially with the boat show.

“We’ll send out the marine patrol,” the woman said before hanging up.

Tristen leaned against the deck railing. This was the second or third barge he’d noticed in the past day or so. He supposed the recession wasn’t hurting people as badly as he’d thought, which would mean vacation properties might pick up again. Not a bad thing when a Realtor earned a decent commission, and most cottages in the area went for over a million hot ones.

He smiled and returned to the kitchen to sort out supper. He needed something good, celebratory, healthy, yet filling for a growing teenager. Something his daughter would eat without protest.

“What’s her name again?” Dot asked, joining him in the kitchen, phone in hand.

“Melanie.”

“Cool.” She texted something, tucked the device away, then smirked. “Her name was right on your lips, wasn’t it?”

“There’s nothing between me and Melanie.” He reached far into the fridge, maneuvering jars of pickles and jam out of the way.

“Why not?”

“Why should there be?”

“She didn’t go running and screaming from you.”

He pulled his head out of the fridge to stare at his daughter.

“Not much fashion sense, though.”

“She has plenty.” His tone was too curt, his defense too quick. He put his head back in the fridge, half wishing it was a gas oven.

“You totally owe her one. You should take her out for supper.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“She wants something from me.”

“Ew! I didn’t want to know that.” The disgust on Dot’s face made him smile. He was tempted to leave the misunderstanding in place for his own amusement, but knowing she would be spending a lot of time with Melanie, he didn’t want inopportune comments popping out that might give the woman the wrong idea about him and his intentions.

Not that there were intentions. Other than to avoid her.

“She wants me to help stop a development. Advice and such, and I don’t do that any longer. I’m happy with stonework.”

Dot crossed her arms and twisted her lips doubtfully.

“I left the business. I’m here and have time now. Okay? I’m happy.” He turned away and clanged some pots together. He was happy, dammit. He would continue to cut his old world from his new life—with the exception of Dot, of course—and it would remain just fine.

“You’re a jerk.”

“Hey!” He pointed a noodle scooper in her direction. “Watch your language.”

“It’s true. She totally just bailed you out and you can’t sit down and tell her how to take down corporate Canada before they destroy the world? Nice, Dad. Real nice.”

“I don’t like your tone, young lady.”

Dot stormed out and Tristen fought with the urge to go after her and yell until his voice grew hoarse. Instead, he sat at the table and clutched his head, because she was right. He was a jerk. However, where Melanie was concerned, he had absolutely no plans to remedy that fact.