Love on the Sound Read online

  “Oh.” Amy told herself she had work to do, so there was no reason to feel jealous. It’s not like she would have been able to go. If she’d even been invited, that is.

  “Need anything?” Nell paused. “I’d invite you along, but it looks like you’re in the middle of it here….”

  “Yeah, it’s going to take me at least another couple of hours to finish up. I haven’t even gotten to the back yet. I’m good. Have fun. Say hi to Hannah for me.”

  Nell waved, and took off in a cloud of dust. Amy watched her go, then shook it off and got back to her roses. After half an hour, she called it good and moved to the back.

  Tall evergreens mixed in with leafy weeping willows in the backyard. When she moved in, it had been riddled with weeds, and the lawn patchy with moss and holes. The trees blocked the view of the Sound, and what had once been a cheerful cottage garden had morphed into an out of control mess. Jan had trimmed back the trees, tore out much of the grass, and laid gravel paths that wound between charming islands of perennials. Small statues of gnomes were scattered here and there. A sturdy swing hung from the biggest evergreen next to a picnic bench facing the water. Off to the side of the house, a small vegetable and herb garden provided her with parsley, chives, sage, rosemary, tomatoes, zucchini and green beans. Next year, she planned on expanding to include corn, maybe some eggplant, and onions.

  Amy settled into an easy rhythm—weeding, then deadheading, then moving on to the next bed. The clouds had blown west, and the sun shone down, sparkling on the water. The waves lapping at the beach below, the wind rustling through the trees, and the birds chirping eased her mind. She found herself humming as she moved along. Was this job great or what? And, if she ignored her sore muscles and powered through the rest of the backyard today, she could take it easy tomorrow and sort through some of the boxes in the attic. Take the afternoon off and go kayaking.

  Jan had just recently planted the center circular bed, and Amy crouched down on her heels to study it. Some green glossy leaves had shot up next to the snapdragons. Weed, or fabulous mystery plant that she’d regret killing? She’d already mistaken a blueberry bush for a weed earlier that summer, much to Janice’s amusement when she’d seen it in the yard debris pile. Amy looked at the other plants in the bed and decided the glossy green plant was too small compared to the rest of the plants, which she knew Janice had planted in one day. Therefore, it was an intruder.

  “Hello?”

  Amy yelped, and lost her balance, tipping backwards. Her heart shot up to her throat and beat in triple time.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I rang the bell, but no one answered.” The voice was deep, male, and if he was amused at the way she’d just fallen on her ass, he hid it well. Wise man.

  Amy scrambled to her feet. She turned around and—holy shit. There, standing in her backyard, stood Ben Morrison, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder, his faded blue t-shirt wrinkled, his dark jeans worn and ratty at the hems. Goddammit. Nothing like showing up after his reservation had been canceled and four days early at that. She took a deep breath. You are a professional, she reminded herself. Stay cool.

  “Mr. Morrison.” She walked over and extended her hand, before realizing she still wore her dirt-encrusted gardening gloves. She snatched her hand back just as he was reaching out to take it. “Sorry.” She forced herself to smile and stripped of her gloves. Her hand was dirty anyway—dirt always seemed to slip in somehow—and sweaty, but she shook his and thought with some pleasure of him having to wash off her dirt.

  “Do you know where I can find the owner of On the Sound?” he asked, looking back to the house.

  “I’m the owner,” she said and watched the surprise flicker across his face. Grass and paint splattered jeans, sweat stained shirt, hair damp and clinging to her face, no make up. Great first impression. He on the other hand, was even more gorgeous than he appeared on the big screen, with those cobalt blue eyes and tousled dark blond hair. Her nerves began humming when he smiled at her, eyes crinkling, straight white teeth flashing, a dimple creasing one side of his unshaven face.

  Twix bars, she reminded herself, and straightened her spine. “I’m Amy Malone. I’m sorry, Mr. Morrison, but I wasn’t expecting you.”

  He blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over the stubble shading his jaw. “Yeah, I’m a few days early, I know. I’m really hoping you have a room.”

  With some Molton Brown Pepper Body Scrub? “Actually, I contacted your assistant yesterday to let her know that I wouldn’t be able to accommodate your stay. I sent her a recommendation of some other hotels that I thought would be more suitable.”

  “You’re booked?” He glanced around the quiet backyard, and Amy wondered if he was thinking about the near empty driveway out front.

  “No, I’m not booked,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But I’m not able to accommodate the list of your requirements that your assistant sent over.”

  “Kendra didn’t tell me that.” He shifted the overnight bag, frowning, and Amy noticed the dark circles under his eyes, deep lines carved into his face.

  “Would you like to come inside? I’d be happy to call one of the other hotels for you.” So you can go the hell away.

  He glanced around, then sighed. “Look, Ms. Malone. I left L.A. Sunday and have been driving almost non-stop. If I have to get on that ferry again and find my way around another island—right now, my only requirement is a room with a bed and a shower. I can figure out another hotel tomorrow.”

  She couldn’t really come up with a good argument for turning him away when it was obvious she didn’t have any guests. But dammit, this really screwed up her afternoon. She thought she did a good job hiding her annoyance as she nodded and motioned him towards the inn.

  “All right, Mr. Morrison. This way.” She marched up the path to the house and led him in through the French doors in the living room. “Our check in desk is this way.” While she was checking his ID—as if she really needed to—and swiping his credit card, she realized that none of the rooms had linens. She’d stripped them all and washed them—thank God—but still hadn’t put them back. Suppressing a sigh, she handed him his credit card. “I’ll run upstairs and get your room ready. Make yourself at home.” She gestured to the sitting room. “Can I get you tea, coffee, water?”

  “No need to go to any trouble. I’d really like to just head up to my room and crash.” He was polite, but firm and already moving towards the stairs.

  “Call me picky, but I prefer my guests to sleep on beds with actual sheets and pillows on them. And, to be able to take a shower and dry off with a towel. Your room doesn’t have any of those, since I wasn’t expecting any guests today. I’ll just be a few moments, and in the meantime, please have a seat through there.” She didn’t wait for a reply and left him standing in the entryway. Once she’d rounded the landing corner and was out of sight, she took the stairs two at a time until she reached the second floor.

  No need to go to any trouble, she fumed as she picked up the laundry basket she’d left sitting in the hallway. Importing body scrub from England and coffee from Peru wasn’t any trouble in his mind? And, his precious high-thread count sheets were going to be wrinkled—too damn bad.

  She unlocked the door to the suite to the right of the stairway—her largest room, created when she’d knocked out the wall between the front and back guest rooms. Luckily, aside from the missing towels and sheets, it was clean. She opened up the windows in the sitting room to let in some fresh air, and then washed the garden dirt off in the bathroom before restocking it with towels. A glance at the mirror revealed she had not one, but two dirt streaks across her face, and a ring of sweat around the neck of her t-shirt. Nice. Well, if she couldn’t provide him with the extra large condoms, at least she wouldn’t be tempting him to use one, she thought with a grin.

  Within five minutes, she had made the bed and given the room a quick once over to see if anything else was missing. She stashed the laundry basket in the adjace
nt empty room and went back downstairs, where Morrison sprawled on the couch in the living room, his eyes closed.

  “Your room is ready, Mr. Morrison,” she announced from the doorway, and he jumped a little.

  “Great.” He climbed to his feet. “Is it safe to leave my suitcases in the car overnight?”

  “As long as you’ve locked it, you should be fine.” She peeked out the entryway window as she led him to the stairs, and spotted a sporty red Porsche—a modern version of Nell’s car. “Giving all the other Porsche owners a bad name,” Amy could almost hear her grumble.

  Upstairs, she handed him the key and gestured towards the open door of the suite. “Here’s your room.” She paused in the doorway as he walked into the sitting area and dropped his bag on the overstuffed armchair. He looked around the room and said nothing. Amy bit back her annoyance—she’d already known that he wouldn’t like the hotel, right? Never mind the gorgeous views of the Sound, the fully stocked bookshelf, the huge fireplace, the comfy loveseat, the luxurious dark mahogany four-poster bed with its fluffy down comforter.

  “Breakfast is from 7 to 9:30, and the menu is in the information folder on your desk,” she said. “Normally, I ask guests to put in their order the night before, but since you are the only one here, you can order in the morning. We don’t serve dinner, but there are restaurants in the village, and the pizza parlor offers delivery service. The bookshelf has some local guidebooks, and you’ll find the ferry schedule there in the folder. Checkout is at 11. If you need anything, dial ‘0’ on the phone, and I’ll be paged.”

  He muffled a yawn behind his hand, and nodded. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  She nodded and left without another word, closing the door behind her. Downstairs, she debated calling Hannah to tell her about her mystery guest’s arrival, but remembered she was out with Nell, shopping. If she’d been doing the same, she would have missed Morrison’s arrival. Maybe he would have given up and gone to another hotel.

  At least he hadn’t rattled off demands for his body scrub and condoms, she consoled herself. Yet. Probably because he was too tired to notice.

  It was almost three o’clock, and she decided there was no reason to let the arrival of a movie star interrupt her day. Another hour or two and she could finish up the yard. The cordless phone got reception out in the back, and if he needed her, he could call. After all, she was to be instructed when her services were needed, as Kendra had informed her. Incompetent bitch. Muttering to herself, she strode back out to the yard and directed her wrath at the assistant who didn’t bother to let her boss know his reservation had been canceled and apparently had been too lazy to book him someplace else.

  Amy allowed herself five solid minutes of complaining under her breath as she yanked out weeds with a vengeance. Then she stopped, tilted her head back and looked up at the blue sky, dotted with puffy clouds. The sun was shining, and her yard was looking pretty damn good. And tomorrow, she’d still be here, in her little corner of the world. The sun was supposed to be out again, and she would take a lazy kayak trip down to Spencer Spit State Park.

  Ben Morrison? He didn’t matter. Tomorrow, he’d be gone.

  Chapter 7

  Ben woke up to the sun streaming in through the white lacy curtains. He’d left the window open during the night, and outside he heard the faint rhythmic pulsing of the Sound, mingled with the chattering of the birds in a nearby tree. Stretching his arms above his head, Ben yawned, feeling more rested than he had in months. One thing he knew for sure—no way in hell was he staying in On the Sound for only one night.

  Glancing at the clock, he realized it was well after 10:00 a.m. He’d missed breakfast. Ben wondered if he could charm his host into cooking him something and then realized, probably not. She didn’t want him here, that much was written all over her face. Not that he could blame her. The inn was a quiet place, and if she’d seen his recent TV debacle—and who hadn’t—she probably was leery of renting a room to a has-been movie actor who was, by all appearances, also a drunk.

  Ben yawned again and pondered how to charm her into letting him stay. Yesterday, he’d nearly wept with relief when he pulled off the road and into the gravel driveway of the light blue three-story building with its white trim. He’d driven from L.A. in two days straight, stopping for a few hours sleep here and there. His body ached, eyes burned.

  No one had answered the doorbell when he climbed up onto the wide wraparound porch, and he’d sighed, realizing that he really should have called before hopping in the car and heading up a whole four days before his reservation. Ben had shifted his bag to his other shoulder and walked back down to the path. A beat-up gray pickup sat in the driveway, so in theory, someone might be home. He’d eyed the lawn strewn with grass clippings, the earthy freshly-mowed smell still lingering in the air. Maybe the owner was in the backyard?

  He’d headed around the inn and stopped when he’d rounded the corner to the back of the house. The view had grabbed him first—the jewel blue waters of the Sound lapping at a rocky beach, framed by towering evergreens. Then the garden—he never paid much attention to plants, but the multiple gravel paths ringed with flowers, the charming statues of gnomes, the bright yellow picnic bench perched overlooking the water…all combined into a cheery haven. The sun streamed in through the tree branches, and the wind rustled the weeping willow leaves. Adirondack chairs were spaced along the back porch, and even though he’d wanted nothing more than to tumble into bed and sleep for the next million hours, sitting in one of those chairs and watching the sunset was coming in a damn close second. He hadn’t cared what the inside of the inn was like—this was exactly what he was looking for.

  It was only then that he’d noticed the woman weeding the center flower bed, humming to herself, the sun throwing red highlights off of her chin length brown hair.

  He’d mistaken her for the gardener with her stained and tattered jeans and t-shirt. Her hair had been damp with sweat and clinging to her flushed face, which had been smeared with dirt. Big brown eyes had widened at the sight of him, and he’d managed to hide his amusement when she fell on her cute butt. But instead of the flustered, star-struck look he was accustomed to getting, those eyes had narrowed a fraction in annoyance, before she’d quickly reverted to cool professionalism.

  Remembering, Ben sat up in bed, and pondered the best way to charm her into extending his stay. On the Sound had been his first choice when he’d looked at the San Juan Islands, and the list of requirements he’d given Kendra to check on when confirming the reservation had been minimal. And, he mused, looking around the room, the room already met several of them. Yesterday, when he’d trudged up the stairs and entered the room, he’d been struck silent by how great it was. The walls were painted a pale mossy green, and the sea flashed bright blue out the east windows. A stone fireplace took up a good portion of the sea-facing wall, flanked by huge windows. Over the mantle hung a painting of the island in a storm—gray sky, slate blue water whipping up against the rocks, trees bent. There was no TV, thank God.

  The only conclusion he could come to was that she was leery of the publicity his stay could bring. However, since he’d told no one where he was going—except Kendra and the sailing company who was bringing up his boat—he didn’t think that would be a problem. It was hard to imagine reporters flocking to the remote island by ferry. In any case, he imagined that since he’d given the press no further fuel to add to the fire, the furor over his national meltdown was already dying down.

  Resolved, Ben got out of bed and hopped into the shower. He threw on some jeans and a t-shirt, finger combed his damp hair and slipped into flip flops. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d never ordered dinner last night—he’d woken up around 8, groggy, and eaten a granola bar he’d had in his bag, tried to read for an hour or so, then fallen back asleep. The aroma of fried bacon drifted up the stairs when he opened his door, and he headed downstairs, hopeful that perhaps his disapproving landlady had pity on him
after all and saved him something.

  Following his nose and the sound of clanging dishes, he wound his way past the reception desk and into a large, bright kitchen, where Amy was bent over a dishwasher. Ben took a moment to appreciate the view—she had really great legs, nice muscle tone—before he called out hello. She jumped, and he sighed. Great, Morrison, off to an excellent start.

  “Sorry,” he said, holding his hands up. “I seem to always be sneaking up on you.”

  “No problem,” she said with a smile that seemed forced. “I hope you had a nice night, Mr. Morrison”

  “Excellent,” he replied, looking around the kitchen. No sign of food. Damn. “And please, call me Ben.”

  Amy dried her hands on a dishtowel and closed the dishwasher. “I called the Rosario Resort for you, and they have a lovely deluxe suite available for eight weeks. I think you’ll find Orcas Island to be very relaxing, and the Resort is quite luxurious.” She picked up a sheet of paper from the island and walked over to hand it to him. “George Meeriam is the manager, and here’s his number. They’ve put a temporary hold on the room and just need to hear back from you by 1:00 p.m. today. I didn’t mention your name, but I think you’ll find George to be quite respectful of your privacy.”

  Ben slid his hands into his pockets without taking the paper. “That’s very kind of you, Ms. Malone. Here’s the thing, though. I’d much rather stay here, if you still have a room available.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you.” She straightened, and Ben caught her sneaking a quick glance at her watch. “Mr. Morrison, I’m very sorry to rush you, but check out time is in 15 minutes, and I have an appointment in the village.”

  She wasn’t a very good liar, Ben thought. He could see in the telltale light of satisfaction in her eyes as she came up with the one about the appointment. Plus, while she had on a light coat of makeup this morning, her hair was still damp, and her feet bare. Not exactly on her way out the door.