Rocky Coast Romance. Mia Ross

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      Cooper echoed the sentiment and caught Bree’s look of surprise from the corner of his eye. “Something wrong?”

      “No, I just didn’t expect to hear a sermon on the dock.”

      “Their jobs are incredibly dangerous,” he explained patiently. “It’s important for them to know they’re not alone out there on the water.”

      Still looking perplexed, she let the subject drop, and he stepped back to give her the spotlight. While she introduced herself to the fishermen, he marveled again at her ability to make people feel at ease. Everyone but him, it seemed. Unfortunately he still hadn’t figured out why.

      “So tell me,” Bree addressed the oldest captain, a sixty-something old salt fondly referred to as Cap’n Jack. “What’s the biggest threat to your business these days?”

      “Them over there.” Nodding toward a chartered fishing yacht, he scowled. “These rich guys plow into our fishing lanes and scare off half the catch. They just want to come back with something to stuff and mount over the fireplace in their den. But this is how we make our living and take care of our families.”

      She cocked her head as if considering her response, but Cooper wouldn’t be surprised to learn she had most of her questions memorized. “They spend money here in town, though, at the hotels and restaurants. If they stop coming, how would you replace it?”

      “Dunno.” His leathery face cracked into a scowl he aimed in Cooper’s direction. “Ask our new mayor.”

      “You don’t approve of the job Mayor Landry’s doing?”

      “No, missy, I don’t. Nothing against Cooper, o’course,” he added in a grudging half apology. “It’s just I don’t see the need to change things that’ve been workin’ the way they are for generations.”

      There was some grumbled agreement, and Cooper carefully kept his expression neutral. All these men liked him well enough, but to them he was still wet behind the ears and in need of seasoning. The fact that Granddad was gone had no bearing on their opinions. They wanted the judge, and barring that, they wanted the town to continue running the way he’d done it for the past twenty years. Period, end of story.

      “Aw, lay off, Jack,” one of his crew members chided. “Cooper ain’t like most college boys. He’s done his time out on the water.”

      Bree turned to Cooper with undisguised astonishment. “You worked a fishing boat?”

      “My uncle was a lobsterman. I worked with him in the summers when I got old enough.”

      “Tough job,” she commented, then turned back to the crews. “I lived in Boston for a while, so I’ve got real respect for how hard you all work.”

      “Boston.” One of the younger hands spat into the water. “Their winter’s got nothin’ on ours. In the spring we gotta chop a path through the ice just to get to the fish.”

      Grinning, Bree jotted a note on her pad. While the others chimed in with their own tales, the interview devolved into general boasting. Then she did the worst thing possible.

      “Can I get some pictures of you guys?”

      Shouting agreement, they pushed and shoved to be in front. Finally Jack hollered for them all to knock it off and waded into the mix to sort them by height. While they got organized, Bree glanced over at Cooper and gave him a little wink, which told him she knew exactly what she was doing. Who’d have thought their very intense visitor had a playful streak? Cooper mused with a grin. She had these rough-and-tumble men right where she wanted them, playing up to her, falling all over themselves to give her unusual personal details for her article.

      And photos? What man didn’t want a pretty woman taking his picture, telling him it just might wind up on the internet?

      “Grab that camera, lawyer boy!” Jack called out. “We want a picture with the little lady.”

      Shaking his head, Cooper grinned and took the 35mm from her. Then he waited while they did rock-paper-scissors to decide who got to stand next to her. As he focused in, he marveled at how quickly she’d gotten them all eating out of the palm of her hand.

      If she was like this with men in general, he pitied the one who actually fell in love with her someday. The poor guy wouldn’t stand a chance.

      * * *

      Once she and Cooper had chosen their lobsters, Bree followed him up the metal gangplank, away from the commercial docks humming with activity. It was pretty warm, and the smell of fresh fish and seaweed permeated the salt-laden breeze.

      Oh, her mother would love that one, she thought, scribbling it down. It was poetic and earthy at the same time, just like Mom. With seagulls circling overhead, the bustling port looked busy enough to support five towns.

      Until she noticed the other side.

      The far end of the U-shaped dock was completely empty. No boats, no people, even the access gate had been welded shut. Some of the wooden deck boards were missing, and algae covered the lower areas of everything that remained.

      “How long has it been that way?” she asked, motioning toward the abandoned section.

      “Five years, give or take. It got to be so expensive to maintain, the town council voted to close it down and save the money.”

      It looked lonely and unwanted, tangible proof of the decline Cooper had described to her earlier. Now she understood his eagerness to entice tourists into the area. He didn’t want the rest of his hometown to end up like this.

      “Are you okay?” he asked, his brow wrinkling with concern.

      She’d been in lots of places that had seen better days, but she’d always managed to keep her professional distance. For some reason this old fishing village was different, and she’d need to put in more effort to remain objective. “Fine. Just hungry.”

      “Then I guess it’s a good thing we’re here.”

      Angling her away from the depressing scene, he motioned her ahead of him through a glass door etched with the Holiday Harbor logo and The Crow’s Nest beneath it in flowing script.

      “Nice touch, using the same artwork.” Noting the familiar design from his shirt, she tapped it on her way through. “Visitors pick up on things like that.”

      “That’s the general idea. Hi, Frances.”

      “Cooper. I didn’t know you were coming in tonight.”

      “Neither did I. Do you have a table on the deck?”

      “For you? Always,” she gushed, giving Bree a suspicious once-over. “And who is this?”

      “I’m sorry. Bree Farrell, Frances Cook. Bree came up from Richmond to do an article on Holiday Harbor.”

      “Cooper!” a man yelled, hurrying over to clap him on the shoulder. Tie askew, he was wearing a button-down and suit jacket with a Vote for Derek! button done up in red, white and blue. Turning to Bree, he offered his hand. “Derek Timms. Cooper and I grew up here and СКАЧАТЬ