Chapter Twelve

Keaton opened the door to Dane and Daniels Architecture and Interior Design. A bell chiming like Big Ben announced his arrival. He hadn’t taken more than three steps when a young woman with inky-black, spiky hair and a nose piercing, dressed entirely in black, rose to her feet from where she’d been sitting behind the reception table.

“Keaton Grace?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Patrice Watkins. You spoke to me when you made your appointment with Abram.”

She extended her hand and he took it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Watkins.” Keaton noticed the diamond solitaire on the third finger of her left hand.

“It’s Patrice. Since moving down here I discovered hardly anyone uses their last name. Please come with me. Abram is expecting you. May I get you something to drink?”

“No thank you.”

Keaton followed her through the reception area, which was tastefully furnished with two side chairs upholstered in natural Haitian cotton flanking a low table topped with a vase of fresh flowers and succulents in small decorative pots. Twin Tiffany-style floor lamps matched the one on Patrice’s table. Recessed lighting, recorded music flowing from speakers concealed in the ceiling, and the colors of blue, gray, and white created a calming effect.

A man he assumed was Abram Daniels came from around one of the two desks in a large open space with an armoire and drafting table on which sat a three-dimensional rendering of an antebellum mansion at the end of a live oak allée. Keaton was transfixed by the scaled-down detail of the model house with pale pink columns and tall, black-shuttered windows.

“This rendering is incredible.” He was unable to disguise the awe in his voice.

Abram nodded, the skin around his brown eyes deepening when he smiled. He offered his hand. “Abram Daniels.”

Keaton shook the proffered hand. “Keaton Grace.” He smiled at the tall, thin interior decorator sporting a long, light brown ponytail. Tiny gold hoops in each ear, a reddish stubble, and a plaid shirt, jeans, and work boots rounded out his casual look.

“Please come and sit down, Keaton.” Abram led him over to a table with a large computer monitor and two stools. Waiting until Keaton sat down, he touched the wireless mouse. “I’m responsible for decorating the interiors, while Morgan takes care of the architectural component of the partnership. That rendering is what Angels Landing Plantation should look like once it’s restored.”

“How long do you project the restoration will take?”

“Probably four years. Morgan’s husband, Nate, still has to reconstruct the slave village and that won’t be for at least another three years.”

“It looks as if it’s going to be phenomenal.”

“It will. It’s a daunting task, but once it’s completed Angels Landing Plantation will become a smaller version of Williamsburg, Virginia.” He pointed to the tube in Keaton’s left hand. “May I see your floor plans?” Keaton watched as Abram scanned the floor plans into the computer, then pulled up another program. “Do you know the architectural style of the main house and guest cottages?”

“I believe it’s a version of a Southern vernacular farmhouse. There’s an open porch on the first floor and veranda on the second. The guesthouses are one-story, smaller versions of the main house.”

“Siding or brick?” Abram asked.

“It’s brick,” Keaton confirmed.

“Now you’re going to have to decide what style of furnishings you want—contemporary, traditional, American formal, European classic, or casual country.”

“What do you consider casual country?” Keaton asked Abram.

“It’s what I think of as simple charm or a vintage mix. Let me bring up each style and you can make your choice.”

Keaton spent more than two hours with Abram; with a click of the mouse Abram was able to drop sofas, chairs, tables, and even paintings and photographs into each of the rooms on the floor plan. Keaton recalled the furnishings in the house on Magnolia Drive. The entryway and living room on the first floor were quintessential American formal. Dinah’s apartment was definitely American eclectic, while Francine’s claimed more of a Zen look. She’d created a home that projected harmony and balance.

“I’m leaning toward casual country that will include a few contemporary pieces,” he told the decorator. “I prefer simplicity to fussy.” For Keaton the more uncluttered the room the more freedom he had in which to move around.

“Let me work up some sketches and print them out for you. Once you narrow down which style you want, then we’ll talk about color schemes.”

“How soon after I decide what I want can I expect delivery?”

“I deal with several local furniture manufacturers that guarantee delivery within a month to six weeks. How does that fit into your schedule?”

“I met with the contractor and he predicts completing all the work by the first week of March.”

Abram ran a hand over his hair. “If I submit your order let’s say early next week, then you can expect delivery of all of the pieces by April fifteenth. Some may be delivered much sooner if they’re in stock. I’ll let you know about the availability once you give me the okay.”

Keaton hadn’t had to concern himself with decorating the house in L.A. because the style was predictable. The overall design of the house was Spanish contemporary and that made it easy to decorate. He would take Abram’s suggestion and study the printouts until he was able to pinpoint which style would not only suit his taste but also his lifestyle.

And for the first time since coming to the island to live he felt as if he were a transient. The walls in the boardinghouse suite seemed to be closing in on him and Keaton found himself sitting out on the veranda just to offset the feeling of claustrophobia. Perhaps it had something to do with the three-week separation from what had become normal and familiar.

He was pleased with Liana’s decision to move back to Pittsburgh, where she had the ongoing support of family members as she went through her impending divorce. Keaton was certain she would enjoy sitting out on her porch either early in the morning or at the end of the day. There was nothing and no one to keep her in L.A., and she’d said she was looking forward to moving away from a place that still held so many painful memories.

As Keaton left the architectural and design firm and made his way to the parking lot, he spied Francine’s red Corvette parked in a space not far from the rear of the Parlor Bookstore. He scanned the lot, looking for her. He’d just gotten in behind the wheel of his vehicle when he spied her getting out of a gleaming white Cadillac Escalade along with Morgan. He paused, not turning on the engine as he watched her and Morgan as they stood talking to each other. Both were wearing sunglasses. The temperatures were now warm enough to go out during the day with a light jacket or sweater. He wasn’t able to pull his gaze away from the curve of her hips in a pair of skinny jeans. A rising breeze blew her curls around her face. Staring numbly, he watched as she pushed the curls off her forehead, tucking them behind her ears.

Keaton felt like a voyeur as he watched the graceful movement of her hands when she gestured. His gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts under a pullover. In that instant he conjured up the image of making love to her, which triggered a violent reaction when he couldn’t stop his growing erection.

He knew if he didn’t pull out of the parking lot she would notice him and possibly come over and see the bulge in his jeans. All of his motions were slow, almost mechanical, as he started up the SUV, but as fate would have it she turned in his direction. Quickly, he pulled the hem of his shirt from his jeans, pulling it down over his waistband. He got out of the vehicle as she and Morgan approached him. Keaton tried thinking of anything else but his swollen manhood. He had to congratulate himself on a winning performance when he leaned down to kiss Francine’s cheek before nodding to Morgan.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

Morgan smiled, dimples winking. “How was your meeting with Abram?”

“It went well. He gave me some printouts of different styles.”

“That always works well because you get to see exactly what each room will look like.” Morgan looked at Francine. “We just came back from looking at a litter of kittens.”

Keaton’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “You’re getting a kitten?” he asked Francine.

When she shook her head, red curls moved as if taking on a life of their own. “No. It would be for my grandmother. She’s the cat person.”

“You don’t like cats?” he asked Francine.

“It’s not that I don’t like them. They don’t like me.”

“What breed are they, Morgan?”

“Patches is the queen and she is a Snowshoe. Rasputin is a Russian Blue.”

Keaton smiled. “Very nice. Are you selling them?” he asked Morgan.

“Not to friends. If you want one, then I’ll put it aside for you.”

“I won’t be able to come for it until my house is ready.”

Morgan shook her head. “That won’t be a problem.” She smiled at Francine. “See, Fran, I told you I’m not going to get stuck taking care of five cats.” She shifted her attention back to Keaton. “If Nate and I weren’t putting an addition onto our house, I’d have you and Fran over for a little get-together. Right now I’m staying with my in-laws and their children.”

“If you and Nate want some grown folks time you’re always welcome to come and stay at my place for as long as you want,” Francine offered. “You know I have the extra bedroom.”

“Maybe we’ll take you up on your invitation even if we stay over for a couple of days. And I’ll even do the cooking,” Morgan added.

Francine took a step, looping her arm through Keaton’s. “That’s not necessary. Keaton happens to be a wonderful cook.”

Taking off her sunglasses, Morgan gave him a long stare. “You cook?”

He nodded. “A little.”

Francine tugged on his arm. “Stop being so modest, Keaton. This man comes from a family of chefs.”

“That does it. Nate and I are coming.” Morgan narrowed her eyes at Keaton. “What are you making?”

He smiled. “Anything you want.”

“Can you make red rice and sausage?”

“Yes.”

“How about mustard greens and cornmeal dumplings?”

“That, too,” he confirmed.

Morgan placed a hand over her flat belly. “When are you cooking?”

Keaton looked at Francine. He didn’t mind cooking for her friends, but it wouldn’t be at his house, but hers. “When is it convenient for you, sweetie?” The endearment had slipped out unbidden.

Francine lowered her eyes, not wanting Morgan to see her uneasiness when Keaton addressed her as sweetie. She knew it would take a while before she was completely comfortable with their growing friendship. If he hadn’t spent almost three weeks away from the island she was certain their relationship would’ve progressed from where it was now.

Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she retrieved her smartphone. Since the receptionist had double booked clients for that hectic week she’d begun keeping her own calendar. Tapping the icon for the calendar, she scrolled through the days. “I have a haircut at three tomorrow, and that should put me home at four.”

Taking out his own phone, Keaton tapped several buttons. “Will your grandmother be home to let me in?”

She reached into another pocket and took out a set of house keys. “I’ll give you the key so you can let yourself in.”

Keaton took the single key when she slipped it off the ring. “How will you get in?”

“I’ll use the front door.”

“What time should Nate and I get there?” Morgan asked.

“Six,” Francine and Keaton said in unison.

Morgan leaned into Keaton and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. I’ve had the weirdest craving for greens and cornmeal dumplings, and Nate’s sister claims her dumplings either come out too dry or too soupy.” She opened her tiny purse and took out a large bill. “This is to cover the cost of the food.”

Francine groaned inwardly when she saw Keaton’s expression and it didn’t bode well for her best friend. “That’s okay, Mo,” she said quickly. “We’ve got this.”

“Are you certain?” the architect asked.

A muscle in Keaton’s face twitched noticeably as he clenched his jaw. “Very certain.”

Morgan returned the money to her purse. “As soon as our house is finished, you and Fran must come for dinner. And unlike my BFF, I can cook.” She glanced at her watch. “Gotta run. I was supposed be at the restoration site fifteen minutes ago.” She wiggled her fingers. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Francine waited until Morgan drove away, then turned to meet Keaton’s eyes. “Are you certain you don’t have another road trip scheduled for tonight or tomorrow?”

Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her close. “Nothing that couldn’t be avoided.”

Burying her face against his shoulder, she laughed softly. “I was just teasing you.”

“I take it Morgan’s pregnant?”

“Yes. What gave her away?”

“She talked about cravings, and the only time I’ve known women to talk about them is when they’re in the family way.”

“I occasionally have cravings and I’ve never been pregnant.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“What…” Her query was preempted by the chiming of her cell phone. It was an alert for her next scheduled appointment. “I’ll talk to you later. I have to get back for my next customer.” She tried to pull out of Keaton’s embrace, but he held her fast.

“Wait, sweetie.” Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to hers. “I’ll talk to you later. If you’re not too tired I’d like you to join me on the beach. Maybe I’ll bring a surprise.”

“What surprise?”

He kissed her again. “If I told you then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

“No.” The alert chimed again and Francine smiled up at him through a sweep of brownish-gray lashes. “I’ll see you later.”

Two hours later and dressed in a pair of cropped jeans and a thick cotton pullover, Francine, clutching a quartet of lanterns, followed Keaton as he carried an oversize canvas bag in one hand and a smaller one in the other, her bare toes sinking into the soft, powdery sand with each step. There was only a slip of a moon in the dark sky littered with millions of stars. If it hadn’t been for the lampposts in the parking area, the entire beach would’ve been pitch-black.

Keaton stopped and dropped the bags on the sand. “I think this is as good a spot as any.”

She set down the lanterns at each corner of the blanket, then, resting her hands at her waist, she shook her head. “Anyplace on the beach tonight is a good spot.” Unlike the night of the full moon, this time the beach was almost deserted.

She watched as he emptied the contents of the larger bag, spreading out a blanket on the sand, followed by a small hibachi and a bag of charcoal. It wasn’t until he reached into the small bag and removed a plastic container with graham crackers and another with marshmallows and chocolate bars did it dawn on her he intended to roast s’mores.

Going to her knees, she knelt on the blanket. “How did you know I love s’mores?”

“Your grandmother mentioned it the night I waited in her apartment for you.”

“You’re just full of surprises, Keaton. And that’s what I love about you.” She couldn’t see his expression but Francine did feel tension emanating from him. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t ever tell me you love me unless you mean it.”

“It was just a figure of speech.”

“Not for me, Francine. Just… please don’t say it again.”

Francine wanted to stick her tongue out at him or make a face as she’d done as a child, but then reminded herself she’d left childhood behind years ago. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

“No, sweetie. I’ve got this.”

She began to wonder if perhaps the man with whom she’d found herself so enthralled had a split personality—a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. First he’d figuratively bitten her head off when she said she loved him, then within the next breath had called her sweetie. He had to be either one or the other, because she didn’t do well with mercurial moods. And she had never bought into the temperamental artist stereotype. Her answer to that was to save it for the stage, the camera, or the canvas—mediums established for displays of genius and/or expression.

Keaton could’ve bitten off his tongue for barking at Francine. She didn’t deserve to be the target of his increasing frustration about his growing feelings for her.

“I’m sorry, Francine. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” The moment the apology left his mouth Keaton felt as if a weight had been lifted off him.

She’d uttered the word love so matter-of-factly he feared that his growing feelings for her wouldn’t be reciprocated. He knew he was falling in love with her. Her face, voice, and body haunted him whether in wakefulness or sleep. It was as if she had cast a spell over him. At first he’d attributed it to immersing himself in the African American folk magic of the Gullah people, but whenever he came face-to-face with Francine he knew it had nothing to do with witchcraft. He was falling in love with a woman who made him think of a future, something he hadn’t done in the past. Marriage, family, and a happily ever after. He’d always believed the sanction of marriage was forever, but knowing his sister’s marriage would end in divorce was a blatant reminder that people fell in and out of love all the time.

“Apology accepted.”

“I promise I will never use that tone with you again.”

Keaton intended to keep his promise. Even when he suspected Francine was angry with him she usually gave him what he thought of as the stink-eye, but she never said anything that she had to apologize for.

He continued to empty the bags, removing an iPod, with a dock and speakers. “I thought we could use a little night music.”

The brightness of her smile competed with the light from the lanterns. “My, my, my. You’ve thought of everything.”

“Almost.” He continued to empty the bags, handing her a bottle of Perrier. “It’s not champagne, but you’ll have to use your imagination.”

Within the span of fifteen minutes they were holding tongs with a graham cracker, a piece of dark chocolate, and a marshmallow, topped with another cracker over the smoking coals, the sweet aroma redolent in the salty air. Francine held the paper plate while Keaton took one of the gooey treats.

“Let it cool before you burn your tongue,” Francine warned him.

He took a bite, moaning softly. “Oh, man. That is good. I think it’s cool enough for you to eat.”

“You’re right. It is good,” she said after biting into the melted chocolate and marshmallow. They ate s’mores, washing them down with chilled sparkling water, and then lay together like spoons on the blanket listening to the eclectic playlist. “How come mine didn’t come out like yours?” Francine asked after a comfortable silence.

“What’s wrong with yours?”

“I don’t know. They just taste different. Maybe I didn’t use enough chocolate.”

Keaton pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. “Are you cold?”

“Not now. Your body’s like a blast oven.”

He laughed. “I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.”

“It’s a compliment. You’re hot, Keaton, and I also want to thank you for offering to cook for my friends.”

“It’s no biggie, sweetie. I haven’t cooked since moving here, and I don’t want to lose my edge. I was supposed to cook for you, but flying out to California threw a monkey wrench in that plan.”

“My grandmother waited for you to come and get the groceries you left at her place, but when I told her you had to go away she used them so they wouldn’t go bad. As for you losing your edge, I don’t think that’s going to happen. You truly missed your calling when you decided not to become a chef.”

“I don’t think so,” Keaton replied. “There are enough chefs in my family.”

“Daddy told me he met your father when he played football.”

Keaton nodded. “Dad used to tell me stories about the players coming in after practice or a game. It was the only time when there were never any leftovers.”

“My mother said when Daddy came after the season ended he’d eat her out of house and home. If he hadn’t gone on a diet to lose his game weight he probably would tip the scales at three fifty. Right now he’d around two hundred.”

“I weigh more than he does,” Keaton admitted. “I’m two fifteen.”

“How tall are you?” Francine asked.

“Six-three.”

“You’re three inches taller and twenty years younger than my father, so you’re good.”

“I have to work hard not to put on weight because I spend a lot of time sitting.”

“You can come bike riding with me or you can walk the beach like a lot people do before the temperatures reach three digits. During June, July, and August all businesses shut down between noon and two.”

“That’s like siesta in Europe.”

Francine laughed softly. “The tradition goes back more than a hundred years. Sometimes it’s so brutal the mayor issues weather emergencies. Last year they mandated businesses close from noon to four in order to conserve energy.”

“That’s smart. What do you do during siesta?”

“I always go home, take a shower, and change my clothes. Right after the Memorial Day weekend we operate on a summer schedule. My mother and grandmother cook on Sundays for the entire week. They’ll make a ham, roast several chickens, and occasionally a turkey. Then they make the sides: slaw, potato salad and greens, rice and sweet potatoes. All I have to do when I come home is heat up a plate in the microwave and I’m done.”

“Does your father cook?”

Francine nodded. “Yep. Mama taught him.”

“Who taught your mama?”

“Her mama. My maternal grandmother was employed as a cook by one of Charleston’s wealthiest families. I believe it was my mother’s cooking that prompted my father to propose to her. Then there’s Grandma Dinah. A lot of folks here claim Grandma’s dishes come as close to those at Jack’s Fish House as anyone in the Lowcountry.”

“I’m still pissed that I missed dinner at your house.”

“Now that you’re back you can expect another invitation. Grandma Dinah’s first love wasn’t cooking but the stage, but her mother was dead set against a career where in those days actresses were regarded as harlots, trollops, and prostitutes, so she threw all of her energy into learning how to cook. Home cooking is only one piece in our patchwork quilt of Gullah culture, but the kitchen is the most important room in the house.”

“I notice people down here do eat a lot, but there aren’t too many who are overweight.”

“That’s because there are no fast-food restaurants on the island. Even if you eat at Jack’s every day you’re getting locally grown produce without the additives and preservatives. Otis and Miss Vina buy their hogs from a local farmer and it’s the same with their chickens. And most of the seafood comes from local waters.”

“I guess you’re out of luck if you’re looking for sushi.”

“Yuck! I don’t like raw fish.”

“Did you try it when you lived in New York?” Keaton asked Francine.

“Once and I swore never again. This Gullah prefers her fish fried, broiled, or baked.”

“You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the girl.”

“Do you have Southern roots, Keaton?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Then you should know the significance food plays in our heritage. How our ancestors were able to create scrumptious dishes from leftover scraps that now appear on gourmet restaurant menus. All you have to do is look at the number of cooking shows on network and cable TV. It’s as if we’ve suddenly become obsessed with food. For years our kitchens have been the gathering place to catch up on what’s going on in our lives and community. And don’t forget about Sunday dinner with the table groaning with platters of fried chicken or baked ham along with all the sides. It made sitting in church and listening to the long-winded pastor extolling the wonders of heaven while warning us against the pitfalls that lead to hell and damnation worthwhile.”

Keaton nodded in agreement. “I remember those sermons when I used to spend my summers with relatives in Tennessee. One day my aunt invited Pastor Evans to Sunday dinner. He was a big man with a big voice and an even bigger appetite. Every time he said, ‘Bless you, Sister Thelma,’ he would take another piece of fried chicken. My cousin, who was two years younger than me, started crying when the man reached for the last piece on the platter that had been piled high with two cut-up chickens. My aunt was so embarrassed when he cried out, ‘Mama, please don’t let him take the last piece.’ The man had eaten a whole chicken by himself, unaware or not caring whether anyone else had had a piece.”

Francine’s giggles carried easily in the night. “What did your aunt do?”

Keaton’s laughter joined hers as he remembered the look of terror on his cousin’s face. “She punished my cousin. He couldn’t leave his room for a week except to eat and use the bathroom. She never invited Pastor Evans back to her home no matter how much he publicly praised her cooking. And what we didn’t know was that my aunt had been warned about the minister’s prodigious appetite and she’d prepared a third chicken that she’d put away so none of us knew about it except my uncle. Normally two chickens would feed my aunt’s family of six and she’d always end up with enough left over to turn into salad the next day.”

“That is hilarious. I would’ve given anything to have seen your cousin’s face when he said that. Better yet, the pastor’s face.”

“The good pastor either ignored my cousin or he was completely clueless as to what he’d done when he did take the last piece. It’s something I tease my cousin about to this day whenever we have family reunions.”

They fell silent again, and Keaton thought Francine had drifted off to sleep. He blew on her scalp and she shuddered visibly. “Now that I’m going to have houseguests for the next few days, do you still want to go to the Happy Hour on Saturday?”

“That’s up to you. I made a reservation for the two of us. If Morgan and her husband are up to going, then I’ll call and change it to four. Or I can cancel and we can stay home.”

“Even though Nate’s cousin is part owner of the club, he doesn’t frequent it too much.”

“Why don’t I switch the reservation to the following weekend?” Even though he rarely went to clubs himself, Keaton thought it would be nice to take Francine to a place with live music and dancing.

Turning over to face Keaton, Francine rested her leg on his. “Thank you.”

He kissed the end of her nose. “You’re welcome.” His left hand searched under her sweater, pressing his palm to her bare belly. “I’m not the only one who’s hot.” He felt the rush of her breath against his throat when she exhaled audibly. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to touch you, baby. And one of these days I’m going to kiss and taste every inch of your body until you either beg me to stop or I pass out from pleasure. It’s going to be your choice, Francine.” He felt her trembling and Keaton knew it wasn’t from the wind coming off the ocean because her skin was warm to the touch. He withdrew his hand. “I’d better get you home before we end up doing something we’ll both regret.”

Keaton waited for Francine to put on her shoes before he rounded the vehicle to slip into his. He drove back to Magnolia Drive not wanting the night to end. Everything about his relationship with Francine was easy, uncomplicated. Once his bruised ego recovered from her refusal to accept a role in his film he realized his relationship with her had she accepted would’ve been vastly different than it was now. It would’ve been actor and director, the professional line indelibly drawn where he could not cross it.

It suddenly hit him when he maneuvered up close to the side of the house, only feet from her door. Francine was the first woman he’d met that he thought of as a friend before the possibility of becoming lovers. Guys had their guy friends and women their girlfriends. But it wasn’t often a man could go out with a woman and count her as a friend. This is not to say he wasn’t physically attracted to her because he was. However, the physical attraction didn’t come with an all-encompassing need to sleep with her as it had with some of the women in his past.

Keaton waited until she’d unlocked the door leading to her apartment before pulling her close to his chest. “I had a wonderful time tonight.” When she glanced up at him through lowered lashes he felt as if he was being seduced. Her mouth and body said one thing while her eyes sent out signals he had no problem interpreting.

“So did I,” she admitted in a breathless, whispery voice. Francine put her arms around his neck, pulling his head down. “Thank you.” She brushed her mouth over his. “Good night, Keaton.”

He pulled her closer, one hand at the small of her back, molding their bodies from chest to thigh. The glow from the light fixture above the door turned her into a statue of gold as his gaze moved lazily over her face and down to her throat, longing to fasten his mouth to the spot. His gaze reversed itself, lingering on her mouth.

His lips brushed hers, the gentle kiss surprising Keaton with the amount of control it took for him not to devour her mouth. Raising his lips from hers, he buried his face along the column of her neck, breathing a kiss on the silken perfumed skin.

He kissed her neck again. “Good night, beautiful.” Keaton waited for Francine to close and lock the door. It was as if he were paralyzed because he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to leave her. Not tonight. Only because he didn’t want to spend the night alone.

Keaton didn’t want to return to the Cove Inn and spend the night tossing restlessly because he’d spent more time denying his feelings for a slender woman with curly hair and freckles. When Francine told him that she loved him he feared blurting out the same. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You don’t have to, Keaton.” She held out her hand. “Come.” She wasn’t disappointed when he took it, threading their fingers together. “You can sleep in the spare bedroom.”

Bringing her hand to his mouth, he dropped a kiss on her knuckles. “One of these days I’m going to return the favor, when the renovations on my home are completed.”

“Is that a promise?”

He nodded. “It’s a vow.”