anymore.
Even if he was the most compelling man she’d laid eyes on then or in all the long years since.
She jammed the top on her lipstick and zipped her purse shut. She just wanted to look presentable, that was all. Put together. In control.
Satisfied with her rationalization and her appearance, she slid out of the car and locked the doors, ignoring her broken back window.
The Inn at World’s End was a sprawling white Victorian perched on the bluffs north of the harbor. Neglected gardens and old, storm-weathered trees surrounded the spindled porch and rolling green lawn. The owners, Caroline and Walter Begley, were transplants from Boston. Liz had already noticed that they catered more to the yacht crowd than to the islanders.
Which suited her just fine. She didn’t need the entire island speculating about the new doctor’s after-hours rendezvous with some hot stranger in the bar.
The Reef Bar had a separate entrance off the crumbling parking lot. Liz tugged on the heavy wooden door, grateful for the room’s low lighting.
The Reef’s walls were decorated with fishing nets and neon beer signs. At the bar, a couple of lobstermen in flannel shirts and faded ball caps provided additional local color. The rest of the scattered clientele was a mix of pastel stripes and plaids, a blur of tans and topsiders. The women wore white denim skirts and capris, the men salt-faded polos from L.L. Bean.
Alone in a corner booth facing the door, Morgan sat, his black shirt blending with the shadows, his pale hair capturing the light.
Liz met that gold-rimmed gaze and sucked in her stomach.
She threaded through the tables, head high. In control. “What do you want?”
He raised his brows at her bluntness. His lips curled in a thin smile. “You used to prefer some preliminaries. Sit down.”
Her cheeks burned. Her hand tightened on the strap of her purse. She didn’t let men—she didn’t let anyone—boss her around. But she was attracting attention, standing here. She dropped onto the bench and lowered her voice. “How did you find me?”
“I recognized your vehicle. Drink?”
She glanced up as the waitress appeared beside their table, a fresh-faced college student who looked too young to serve alcohol. The girl smiled hopefully at Morgan, clearly ready to give him whatever he wanted.
Like Liz sixteen years ago.
She winced. “I don’t need anything.” This wasn’t a date. And she wanted a clear head.
“You look like you do. Another whiskey,” he instructed the waitress.
“Wine.” She didn’t have to drink it. “A glass of pinot grigio,” she ordered, and tried to hide her annoyance when the girl waited for Morgan’s nod before moving away.
Liz cleared her throat, the edge of her determination blunted. “Well.”
“Yes.”
“Here we are.”
“Indeed.”
The faint mockery in his voice made her fist her hands in frustration. “What are you doing here? What do you want?” she repeated.
“To see you.”
“You haven’t seen me in sixteen years,” she said baldly.
“To meet my son.”
Her stomach jumped. For one wild moment, she was tempted to deny he was Zack’s father. He couldn’t know. He had no proof. But the impulse died stillborn.
He wasn’t stupid either.
“Is this some midlife crisis thing?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon.”
She pressed her clammy hands together in her lap. “You didn’t care about the possibility of fathering a child sixteen years ago. It’s a little late for you to come forward claiming . . .”
He raised his eyebrows. “Paternity?”
“Concern.” Their eyes locked. She leaned forward across the table. “Which makes me wonder what happened to change your mind. Life-threatening illness?”
“I don’t get sick.”
“Divorce?”
He held her gaze. “I never married.”
Her heart gave an inconvenient kick. Oh, damn. He could have added, “ No one could ever compare with you. ” Or, “ I was waiting to find you again. ”
But he
Even if he was the most compelling man she’d laid eyes on then or in all the long years since.
She jammed the top on her lipstick and zipped her purse shut. She just wanted to look presentable, that was all. Put together. In control.
Satisfied with her rationalization and her appearance, she slid out of the car and locked the doors, ignoring her broken back window.
The Inn at World’s End was a sprawling white Victorian perched on the bluffs north of the harbor. Neglected gardens and old, storm-weathered trees surrounded the spindled porch and rolling green lawn. The owners, Caroline and Walter Begley, were transplants from Boston. Liz had already noticed that they catered more to the yacht crowd than to the islanders.
Which suited her just fine. She didn’t need the entire island speculating about the new doctor’s after-hours rendezvous with some hot stranger in the bar.
The Reef Bar had a separate entrance off the crumbling parking lot. Liz tugged on the heavy wooden door, grateful for the room’s low lighting.
The Reef’s walls were decorated with fishing nets and neon beer signs. At the bar, a couple of lobstermen in flannel shirts and faded ball caps provided additional local color. The rest of the scattered clientele was a mix of pastel stripes and plaids, a blur of tans and topsiders. The women wore white denim skirts and capris, the men salt-faded polos from L.L. Bean.
Alone in a corner booth facing the door, Morgan sat, his black shirt blending with the shadows, his pale hair capturing the light.
Liz met that gold-rimmed gaze and sucked in her stomach.
She threaded through the tables, head high. In control. “What do you want?”
He raised his brows at her bluntness. His lips curled in a thin smile. “You used to prefer some preliminaries. Sit down.”
Her cheeks burned. Her hand tightened on the strap of her purse. She didn’t let men—she didn’t let anyone—boss her around. But she was attracting attention, standing here. She dropped onto the bench and lowered her voice. “How did you find me?”
“I recognized your vehicle. Drink?”
She glanced up as the waitress appeared beside their table, a fresh-faced college student who looked too young to serve alcohol. The girl smiled hopefully at Morgan, clearly ready to give him whatever he wanted.
Like Liz sixteen years ago.
She winced. “I don’t need anything.” This wasn’t a date. And she wanted a clear head.
“You look like you do. Another whiskey,” he instructed the waitress.
“Wine.” She didn’t have to drink it. “A glass of pinot grigio,” she ordered, and tried to hide her annoyance when the girl waited for Morgan’s nod before moving away.
Liz cleared her throat, the edge of her determination blunted. “Well.”
“Yes.”
“Here we are.”
“Indeed.”
The faint mockery in his voice made her fist her hands in frustration. “What are you doing here? What do you want?” she repeated.
“To see you.”
“You haven’t seen me in sixteen years,” she said baldly.
“To meet my son.”
Her stomach jumped. For one wild moment, she was tempted to deny he was Zack’s father. He couldn’t know. He had no proof. But the impulse died stillborn.
He wasn’t stupid either.
“Is this some midlife crisis thing?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon.”
She pressed her clammy hands together in her lap. “You didn’t care about the possibility of fathering a child sixteen years ago. It’s a little late for you to come forward claiming . . .”
He raised his eyebrows. “Paternity?”
“Concern.” Their eyes locked. She leaned forward across the table. “Which makes me wonder what happened to change your mind. Life-threatening illness?”
“I don’t get sick.”
“Divorce?”
He held her gaze. “I never married.”
Her heart gave an inconvenient kick. Oh, damn. He could have added, “ No one could ever compare with you. ” Or, “ I was waiting to find you again. ”
But he
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