Reunited With The Sheriff. Lynne Marshall
brushing her lips with his, working up the confidence to suggest more.
Letting Shelby go after he’d found her again was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t keep her from her dream to run her own top-notch kitchen. In her mind, New York was the best and only place in the States to get experience. Yet he couldn’t let her go without a promise, a real promise this time, not some corny Claddagh ring.
How long was he willing to wait for Shelby to build her career? How long could they be true to each other long distance? Only the test of time would tell...with the help of a promise.
“A promise?” Shelby’s deep brown eyes gazed into his, seeming to buy into any wild plan he concocted.
“Yes, let’s promise, no matter what—you do your thing, I’ll do mine—but let’s meet right here at sunset in four years.” He pulled out his phone and checked a future calendar for the date and day and repeated it to her. “Will you promise?”
Her gaze widened, the newly rising moon reflecting in her fawn-colored irises.
“I’ll have a question for you then,” he said, lifting a brow, teasing out the promise, “and we’ll see.” If our love is meant to be forever.
Her quivery smile, and the chill bumps appearing across her shoulders and chest gave him hope.
“Yes, I promise,” she said on a breath, sending his spirits soaring.
“Shelby Lyn Brookes, I love you,” he said.
“I love you,” she repeated, dreamy-looking and beautiful as the setting sun.
They sealed their plans with the kind of kiss they’d gotten especially good at that summer. Deep, drawn-out and filled with need. And this time, heated with a promise. Then they headed back to the Beacham House for their last night together in Sandpiper Beach.
Six years, seven months and nearly three weeks later...
Conor Delaney pulled his used muscle car into his designated parking spot at the family hotel, revved the engine, then turned the key. He liked old stuff, like this beat-up Camaro painted mostly with primer. And the old Beacham House, empty and begging for someone to buy it and bring it to life again, sitting far back on the cliffs above the Sandpiper beach dunes. That was a whole other story. He liked The Drumcliffe, too—the vintage hotel he’d grown up in and around, just footsteps from the beach. Thanks, Grandda, for thinking about the future way back in the 1960s and buying the land. Though Conor wasn’t exactly proud that at twenty-nine he still lived in the family hotel.
Tonight, he was especially glad he had the hotel restaurant at his fingertips. It had been a long Saturday, with several drunk and disorderly arrests at a local sports bar, no time for a lunch break, and, after the end of his shift, he was hungry. Really hungry. He thought about ordering room service so he could strip out of his deputy sheriff uniform and eat in his boxers and undershirt in front of the TV, but something nudged him to be sociable. A guy could only dodge his mother for so long before she came knocking on his hotel suite door—that was a major drawback of living at home at his age even if it was a noble cause to save money for that dream fixer-upper.
Again, another story.
Opening the car door, he stretched out his left leg, and thanks to the low-to-the-ground chassis, took his sweet time standing all the way up. They didn’t make cars like this with guys six foot three in mind. He straightened his shoulders, eyes on the prize—dinner!—no worries about needing reservations on a Saturday night because, well, this was The Drumcliffe Hotel Restaurant. The chef, Rita, was like a hundred or something, and the regulars were mostly senior citizens.
Conor’s brother Mark was taking over more and more responsibility with the hotel, now that Mom and Dad were on their countdown to retirement, and he had big plans, too. Or so it seemed. But since Mark had moved in with Laurel in the B&B across the street, and Conor had lost his last brother/roommate, he hadn’t caught up with all of Mark’s latest plans. He kind of missed their late-night catch-up talks, too. Now that he roomed with his first cousin from Ireland, Brian, the late-night conversations all centered around getting to know each other. A whole different thing.
Walking into the dark dining room, he saw more heads above the leather booths than usual, and something smelled great. Man, he was hungry.
The local high school girl playing hostess for the weekend smiled. “Hi, Mr. Delaney. Dining alone?”
He nodded.
Looking a little doe-eyed in the dim lighting, the long-haired brunette led the way to the family booth back in the far corner, then handed him the menu. Not the usual one, but a new narrow one-pager, in fuchsia. He perused the column of Today’s Specials written in a fancy font, and was surprised to see Rita had changed things up. Where was the pot roast, the meat loaf, the poached salmon?
Instead, he found a list of meals he’d never seen before, including beef tenderloin steaks on potato galettes with mustard sauce. What the hell was a potato galette? Organic farm-raised chicken breasts with fresh garlic and rosemary, sweet potato mash and kale. Who ate kale on purpose? Pan-seared tuna? Had Rita started smoking something besides her Virginia Slims?
When Abby, the long-term waitress, arrived to take his order, he lifted his brows and held out the menu. “What’s up?”
“New chef.”
“Rita retired and I didn’t hear about a party?”
“It’s next week.”
Maybe his crazy work schedule had finally caught up to him. “Okay, then.” He glanced at the menu again. “Well, what do you recommend?”
“I’m hearing great things about the beef tenderloins tonight. You’ll love those potatoes. Tried ’em myself earlier.”
Too hungry to think about heading up the street to the Bee Bop Diner for a burger, he ordered a beer from his grandfather’s adjacent pub and agreed to the beef dish. “Can a guy still get a green salad?”
“Of course, fresh baby greens—organic, of course,” Abby said before listing a series of weird new dressings.
With his hungry mind thoroughly boggled he shrugged. “Just... I’ll take the white wine and shallot one. Whatever.” What was going on?
He seriously worried about the fate of his family’s hotel if the restaurant went under. People in this small beach community didn’t like change, and many had been coming here for decades for inexpensive, traditional meals. That was another thing he’d noticed, a price hike for dinners. Not huge, but there nevertheless. He didn’t care because he didn’t have to pay, but what about the locals?
While he waited for food and drink, he thumbed through his phone wondering what a shallot was. Read a few lame tweets, checked his text messages and got sidetracked with an attached article in an email. His beer came, and shortly after, his salad arrived, which tasted better than any he’d ever had from Rita. Changing up the dressings turned out to be a great idea. Or maybe the improvement had something to do with using fresh spring greens other than iceberg and romaine?
When his main course arrived, plated like nothing he’d ever seen at The Drumcliffe before—the perfectly medium rare tenderloin was sliced and balanced on an oval mound of brown and crisp sliced potatoes, and topped with mustard sauce and fresh parsley—where had they found the new chef?
Half-starved, he dug right in, deciding to leave the questions for after dinner. Wow, was his mouth happy about that decision. Several times he sat straight, purposely slowing down his chewing to savor the flavors and tenderness of the meat. And Abby was right about the potatoes. They tasted like a little piece of starch-and-butter heaven, with a hint of cheese. They were so good they had to be bad for him.
“What do you think?” His mother appeared at his booth. She