Mia Ross - Rocky Coast Romance

They continued walking, and beyond the modest business district, Victorian-style homes rose up behind white picket fences. Their porch roofs were accented in crisp white gingerbread, their yards filled with neatly trimmed hedges and flower gardens. It was like stepping into a living, breathing Norman Rockwell painting. Even though she was seeing it for herself, Bree couldn’t quite believe a place like this still existed.

In front of one hung a brass sign that read Landry House—1820. During her research, she’d learned that was the year Maine had attained statehood, which meant the Landrys had been here a very long time. The yellow house had a cheerful presence, with tall windows and a wing on either side to balance out the porch running along the front. Well-tended flower beds led to two rows of petunias that bordered the wide walkway leading to the porch.

Large and inviting, it was nothing like the apartments Bree had grown up in. Always seeking new experiences, her restless parents had moved from one city to the next, so she’d never been in one place more than a year. Being so deeply rooted didn’t appeal to her, but obviously it worked for Cooper’s family.

“On the record now?” she asked.

There was that grin again. This time she caught a faint dimple in one cheek that gave him a little boy look she hadn’t noticed before. “Sure.”

“Tell me about Holiday Harbor.” She discreetly hit the record button on her phone. The video would be of the inside of her pocket, but the sound should be good enough for her to take notes from later.

“Back in 1816, my ancestor William Landry—”

He paused for a proud grin, and she smiled. “The cooper.”

“That’s the one. Anyway, he started up the coast with four wagons and a hand-drawn map from a blacksmith in Concord, Massachusetts. He claimed there was untouched land up here, sitting right on the ocean, where a man could farm or fish, or both. His brother and new wife joined them, along with a few other families. On Christmas Day, they ended up here.”

“Literally the end of the road.”

Bree wondered how those long-ago travelers had felt when they saw this place for the first time. Relieved that their long journey was over? Or regretting that they’d left civilization so far behind?

“Back then it was nothing but wilderness, but he liked it right away. So he got down off his wagon, looked around and said to his wife, ‘This is it, Addie. We’ll call it Holiday Harbor, in honor of our Lord’s birth.’ My family’s been here ever since.”

This was the kind of story people adored, and while Bree recognized she’d have to confirm every last detail except the name of the town, the yarn had a nice ring to it. In keeping with the village’s old-fashioned appearance, she’d call the article “Mayberry on the Sea.” “Nick told me you celebrate some unusual holidays up here.”

“Yeah, we do. Most months there’s a traditional holiday. When there’s not, we find something and make our own festival out of it.”

“So this month it’s the Fourth of July. What’s in August?”

“The seventh is always National Lighthouse Day. We’ll have a picnic in the square, bring in kiddie rides, carnival games, stuff like that. It’ll also be the fourth round of the Holiday Harbor Costume Regatta, which runs from May to September every year.”

Bree had heard lots of odd things, but this was a new one for her. “You mean people sail their boats dressed in costumes?”

“People, pets, whatever. Some folks even dress up their boats.”

That sounded intriguing, and slightly insane. In other words, ideal for her purposes. “Are you competing in the race on the Fourth of July?”

“Of course,” he said, as if that should have been obvious. “My sailboat Stargazer won the cup last year.”

It was so cute, the way he gave his boat all the credit. Most guys she knew would brag about their sailing prowess, but not this one. She found his humility a refreshing change.

They seemed to have reached the end of the town history, so she switched tracks. “Sailing attire aside, you don’t strike me as a small-town guy. What’s your story, Mr. Mayor?”

“Yale Law School, fast track to partner at a big firm in New York City. A hundred hours a week, no life. One day I realized I hated what I was doing and decided to come home. I went into business with my grandfather, and took over the law firm when he passed away.”

From his expression, she suspected there was more to the story than he’d confided, but she decided it was best to let him off the hook for now. Early in her career she’d learned that when she pushed for too much too fast, people tended to stop talking. “What kind of law do you practice?”

“All kinds. Real estate, wills, trusts, the occasional court case.”

The last item snagged her attention. “Any juicy trials recently?”

“Not unless you count a neighborly dispute over a horse.”

He was totally deadpan, and she didn’t realize he was pulling her leg until she caught the mischievous gleam in his eyes. It took her a few seconds, then it clicked. “Neigh-bor. I get it.”

“Get what?”

The gleam was still there, and she smiled. “You’re really good at that. You must’ve been awesome in front of a judge.”

* * *

Bree’s compliment tweaked a sensitive nerve, taking Cooper back to when he still believed his litigating success was all his own doing. Finding out otherwise had all but destroyed him. To mask his discomfort, he summoned the professional smile that had served him well in courtrooms and boardrooms alike. Pleasant but unreadable, during law school he’d practiced it in front of a mirror until he was satisfied he’d produced just the right effect. It had gotten him through a lot of difficult meetings during his career.

At least this encounter came with a fantastic view. Even without the last name he’d have known the pretty reporter had some Irish in her. The sun picked up strands of red in her curly brown ponytail, while highlighting a generous dusting of freckles across her cheeks. The effect was pixieish, completely at odds with the intelligence crackling in her dark eyes.

During his time in New York, Cooper had dated more than his share of models and actresses, the kind of women most people would consider perfection. But Bree Farrell, with her fair skin and forthright manner, was the most captivating woman he’d met in a long time.

Because that train of thought would only lead him into trouble, he shoved it aside and focused on more practical things. “It’s not a quick trip up here from Virginia. You must be ready for a nap.”

“That would be great,” she agreed with a sigh. “My plane left Richmond early this morning, and it’s been kind of a weird day.”

“How do you mean?”

As if on cue, David Birdsall, dressed in the height of nineteenth-century fashion, pedaled down the street on his tall antique bicycle. Bree gave Cooper a little smile, arching a single eyebrow that clearly said she had all the ammunition she needed to portray Holiday Harbor as a quaint seaside lunatic asylum.

Cooper grinned back. “That’s different. You can’t just jump on one of those things and make it work, you know. It takes practice.”

“Why is he riding it in the first place?”

“Monday’s our Independence Day celebration. He always hauls it out for that.”

“And the outfit?”

To an outsider it must look ridiculous, and Cooper couldn’t help chuckling. “That’s just a bonus.”

“Interesting.”

She’d said that before, and he got the distinct impression she was going out of her way not to aggravate him. Unfortunately her efforts were having the opposite effect, and he cautioned himself to be patient. Cynical and way too smart for her own good, he had the feeling she was going to batter his sleepy little town like a nor’easter.