“You’ll what? Reorganize my grains again? Alphabetize my spices?”
Both of those good deeds from the early days of their acquaintance were still huge sore points with Alastair.
“If you’d just give my methods a chance, I guarantee you’d find them more efficient. They’re based on careful research.”
“Efficient, like the way you set up the drinks station? That kind of efficient?”
Another sore point. She’d arranged all the liquids at the self-service drinks table according to their nutritional benefit. Her logic had been sound, in her opinion. If a drink was harder to reach, people would be less likely to go for it. Why not put the pitcher of ice water in the front and the soda cans as far back as possible? Was it her fault that people kept knocking over the water? Finally, Alastair and Toni had gotten sick of mopping the floor and banned her from instituting any more brilliant ideas without a vote.
“You really don’t need to keep bringing up the same old complaints,” she grumbled.
Finally freeing his sweater from her grip, he snatched up her iPod.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Changing the channel.”
She danced behind him, trying to grab for it, but his big body kept getting in the way. Alastair was a solid, compact hunk of muscle, it seemed, and he had no trouble fending her off. She’d never been at all athletic, which was one thing she worried about when it came to Ralphie. He was a fisherman, after all, and extremely fit. Probably even more so than Alastair, who’d spent an entire month hiking in Lost Souls Wilderness.
The sound of The Bangles singing about manic Mondays ended abruptly and Al Green came on, singing “Let’s Get it On.”
“How is this better?” she demanded. “Now he’s going to think I want to have sex with him.”
“I’m assuming you do, nae? It’s all you’ve talked about since he returned to port.”
“I wasn’t talking about having sex with him,” Ruthie hissed. “Our connection is so much deeper than that. Clearly it’s beyond your…ken.”
He glanced down at her, amusement in his deep-set eyes. “I do love it when you throw a bit of Scottish into your ridiculous statements. The only thing Ralphie Reed has a deeper connection with is his own mirror.”
She swatted him on the arm and tried to grab the iPod again. He held it out of her reach—not exactly hard when he was almost a foot taller than her—and used his thumb to search for something else.
“Is this a bit better?” he finally asked as a new sound flowed from the iPod. She stilled and cocked her head. The music he’d found was weirdly great, kind of vaguely Irish with an electronic beat and an otherworldly sound to it. It fit this beautiful spot—the lighthouse perched on a bluff with a top-of-the-world kind of vibe—to perfection.
“That’s not bad.” She half closed her eyes and let the ethereal sounds transport her. “Good intervention.”
“You’re welcome.” His husky voice, with its quirky burr, added to the hypnotic flow of the sounds filling the lighthouse. A ray of the setting sun struck the westernmost-facing window and infused the entire space with a rich golden haze.
Her breath caught and she felt as if the moment had cast a spell on her. The sun. The music. The lemony scent of the cleanser she used for the lighthouse interior. The more male scent of Alastair Dougal, who always smelled like a fir forest.
Local legend said the lighthouse had once been a secret spot for lovers. At this moment, she believed it.
“Am I interrupting something?”
She ripped herself away from Alastair, stumbling over her own feet. She would have fallen if not for Alastair’s quick action.
“Ralphie!”
“Hey, Ruthie. ’Sup?”
God, he was beyond beautiful. The blond ringlets that had made him such an angelic child were cropped short now, framing a face that belonged on movie screens. Technically, his eyes were blue. But blue was such a bland word that didn’t nearly describe them properly. Those eyes could make you feel like you were paragliding on a cloudless midsummer day without any fear of falling.
She gave a long sigh, oblivious to where she was and what she was doing.
Vaguely, she became aware of Alastair setting her on her feet and then releasing her. She must have grabbed on to his sweater at some point because she still clung to it.
“Hey, man,” he greeted Ralphie.
“Scottish dude. What’s shaking?”
“Not much. I was just leaving.”
“You should stay,” Ralphie said easily. He wore a soft blue t-shirt that made his eyes even more dazzling than she remembered. “So long as you don’t mind a lot of old stories about blanket forts.”
Ruthie let out a ridiculous sound that was part glee, part surprise. He remembered the blanket forts. That was significant, right? Out of all the women Ralphie had dated, she’d bet that none of them had built blanket forts with him.
“That’s all right. I still have some cleanup to do back in the kitchen. You kids have fun.” Alastair cocked an eyebrow down at Ruthie and gently tugged his sweater free. “You okay?” he mouthed.
She nodded, then shook her head. Weirdly, she didn’t want him to go. All this buildup to her first adult encounter with Ralphie and now she was terrified. What if she couldn’t manage to get any more words out? All she’d said so far was “Ralphie.”
Damn it! This was why she’d struck out on her own and gone to New York, so she could work herself out of this paralyzing shyness. If her friendship with Alastair was any indication, it had worked. If she wasn’t shy with Alastair, why would she be with Ralphie? You can do this, Ruthie.
She read the same message in Alastair’s eyes and drew strength from it. If Alastair thought she could do it, she could. He was a smart man and a great work husband.
Squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine, she faced her childhood dreamboat. Just be normal. As if he’s someone here for a tour. “Welcome to the Lost Harbor Museum of Homestead Life and Alaskan Oddities. It’s thoroughly delightful to see you again.”
Good Lord, was that a British accent she’d suddenly acquired for no reason? Sigh.
Two
Where the devil did that accent come from? Alastair stifled a laugh, which he did a lot around her. Call it the Ruthie Effect, since he never really knew what was going to come out of her mouth. That was one of the reasons he’d struck up a friendship with her. He’d known a lot of women in his time, but no one quite like Ruthie Malone.
He had to give Ralphie credit. The guy didn’t blink an eye. Maybe he was used to being called “thoroughly delightful” in proper Queen’s English. Wouldn’t surprise Alastair a bit.
“Sweet,” Ralphie said, ambling inside and closing the door behind him. He didn’t even let it slam, so another point for the fisherman. “Looking good, Ruthie. I almost didn’t recognize you at first. The hair gave it away, though.”
Looking self-conscious, Ruthie touched her glorious flame-like mane. According to her, she’d looked like Orphan Annie as a kid, but she’d done some kind of treatment in New York that made the curls relax and brought out the shine. “My hair doesn’t look exactly the same, does it, Ralphie?”