Page 1 of Head Over Eels in Laguna (Ports of Call #1)

*E THAN

Grandpa sat in his armchair, a plume of smoke curling from his pipe.

Beside him, Rufus beat his tired tail.

I stood before them and held out the folder for their consideration, its glossy brochures and spreadsheets as tantalizing as a dessert tray at Marché Moderne.

At least, to me.

Grandpa and Rufus, not so much.

“Look, Grandpa.” I stretched a smile over my teeth and hoped I didn’t look like Rufus greeting the Amazon delivery guy. “You gotta see this.”

Grandpa grunted, puffing on his pipe. “I don’t need brochures to see the ocean, boy. I got it right outside my window. What’s your point?”

“The point is, these developers... they’re offering ridiculous amounts of life-changing money. It’s what your neighbors got for their place. Your house could go for even more.” My voice faltered beneath his hostile glare. “Prime real estate, and all that. You could travel, relax...”

“If I relaxed any more, I’d be dead.” He snorted and picked up the TV remote. “And I traveled the world with the Navy. Saw more than you’ll see in ten lifetimes. God help us both.”

I opened the folder, revealing more enticing images.

I hoped the one with the bikini beauty lounging on a brightly colored beach towel might catch his interest. “But this is different. This is about financial security. You could set up trust funds for your great-grandkids...” I immediately recognized my tactical error and wiped a hand across my forehead.

Grandpa jumped on my mistake and gave me a squinty-eyed look. “I don’t see any great-grandchildren coming my way, do you? Eh? Dating anyone?”

“Huh, maybe,” I hedged. “It’s new.” So new, we hadn’t even met, but Marcus and his new flavor of the month had tried to set up a blind date for me on Saturday. I had put them off, as usual.

Grandpa crossed his ankles and pointed the remote. “When you bring her over, I’ll look at your brochures.”

Hope, the elusive bird, fluttered in my belly. “Really?”

Grandpa flicked on the TV, and the theme song from Bonanza filled the air.

I thought that might be the end of the conversation, but Grandpa raised his voice over the TV’s tune.

“And these mythical great-grandchildren? They’ll earn their own way. Like I did. Besides, what do I need money for? I’ve got the ocean, my books, my pipe.”

“But the house is falling apart!” Mimicking a windmill, I waved my arms around. “The roof leaks, half the windows are swollen shut, the paint on the kitchen cupboards is chipping...”

“And adding character,” he retorted. “Whatever’s broken, I can fix. You forget—I built this place with my own two hands.”

“That was before you were an octogenarian! You need help. You need—”

“I need you to stop treating me like a child,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “This house is my home. It’s where your grandmother and I raised your mother... and you, lest you forget.”

I sighed and raked a hand through my hair. “I understand. But... sentiment doesn’t pay the bills. Or the taxes. Or the insurance, which is, by the way, skyrocketing.”

“I’ll manage,” he declared, his gaze unwavering. “I always have. And I always will.” He pointed his pipe toward the window; the gesture emphasized his point. “This place... it’s priceless. No amount of money can buy my memories.”

“But Grandpa...” I began, my voice trailing off.

“No,” he said. “I’m not selling. Not now, not ever. This is my home, and I’ll be carried out of here feet first. Now, bring me a sandwich.”

He turned back to the window, the sunlight catching the stubborn set of his jaw.

I stared at him, a mix of frustration and grudging admiration washing over me. I knew, deep down, this was a battle I couldn’t win.

“You know what I want!” Grandpa barked.

I trudged into the kitchen. “Do you have bacon?”

“Do I have bacon?” Grandpa snorted. “What sort of ridiculous question is that?”

I don’t know if the word bacon roused Rufus to his paws, but he followed me into the kitchen and dropped into a furry huff at my feet.

I found the bacon in the fridge, a package of hot dog rolls in the bread box, and a can of clam chowder in the cupboard—all of the ingredients for what Grandpa called a Sloppy Walter, and his own recipe for a premature heart attack.

I put the bacon on the griddle and listened to Grandpa flip through the TV channels.

When I emerged with a plate holding a piping hot Sloppy Walter and a large dill pickle, I found Grandpa watching one of those fixer-upper shows. This one featured a pretty brunette in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt.

The host wore a tool belt strapped around her hips and a girl-next-door smile. I started when her name flashed on the screen: Clare of Clare’s Revamp & Restore.

That was the woman Marcus wanted to set me up with!

Grandpa must have noticed my interest because he changed the channel back to Bonanza with a harrumph. “Nowadays, women think they can do anything.”

“And they can,” I said.

Maybe they can even do the impossible. I went into the kitchen to send Marcus a quick text.

*CLARE

I knelt in a sea of cold, muddy water, my hands slippery with grime, struggling to stem the flow from the burst pipe.

“This house is going to kill me!” I twisted with all my strength and a wrench, but the miserable piece of plumbing refused to budge—like it had a personal grudge and excellent upper body strength.

When I thought I couldn't get any wetter, the door creaked open and the shift of air told me I was no longer alone.

I turned to see a man, tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a suit that looked far too expensive for this kind of mayhem, standing in the doorway. His face was a mixture of concern and...was that... horror?

He cleared his throat. “Hello? I’m Ethan Bingham. We have—had—a date set up? Through a mutual friend, Marcus Morgan?” His voice, a low rumble echoing in the confined space, sounded uncertain. “Marcus told me I could find you here.”

If my hands weren’t already occupied, I would have slapped my head. I had completely forgotten I had promised Arrianna I’d meet up with Marcus’s friend.

“It looks like you’re busy...having fun without me,” Ethan said.

“All sorts of belly laughs,” I retorted.

Ethan hesitated, his eyes darting around the old house as if assessing the damage. Finally, he stepped inside, his expensive leather shoes crunching on the debris-strewn floor. I could practically hear him lamenting the inevitable mud stains.

“Need...uh...some help?” He hesitated, but looked willing enough.

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you think?”

He seemed to deflate slightly, his gaze dropping to his shoes. “Huh, not to brag, but I’m quite possibly, stronger than you. My being male, six-four and over two-hundred pounds, and you being...you.”

That last part was said with a heartfelt earnestness, and I found myself warming toward him because everything he said was true. “Alrighty then.” I waved my wrench at the toolbox, curious as to what he’d pick up.

He chose a wrench to match my own. A decent choice.

Determination flickered in his expression.

He shed his jacket, laid it on the kitchen counter, and rolled up his sleeves.

His movements were graceful and his forearms remarkably toned for someone who looked like he spent most of his time behind a desk.

Together, we fumbled with the stubborn valve, our hands bumping once—then again—as we both reached for the same spot.

I let out a nervous laugh, but he didn’t pull away, just adjusted slightly, his knuckles grazing mine.

Our thighs were only inches apart, my damp jeans pressed close to his expensive suit in the narrow space beneath the sink.

His warmth, solid and steady beside me, and the roar of the water wasn’t the only thing making my heart race.

We finally got a grip, twisted hard, and the valve gave with a groan. The water slowed, then stopped, leaving a ringing quiet in its place. We stayed like that for a beat too long, kneeling side by side, breathless and soaked, the silence almost more intense than the flood.

He smiled, a shy, almost apologetic expression. “You’re welcome.” He climbed to his feet and extended his hand.

I let him pull me upright. “I'm Clare, by the way.”

“I know who you are. I saw you on TV.” He didn’t release my hand.

“I’m not dressed for a date.”

“I can see that.” His gaze flicked over me before coming back to meet my eyes. “You were cute on TV, but I think I might like this drowned-cat look better.” A blush stained his cheeks. “Actually, I wanted to meet you, not just because you’re, well, you, but also, I have something of a proposition.”

My smile faltered, and I tugged my hand out of his. “A proposition?”

He shifted, his eyes returning to his leather, now-water-slogged shoes. “Yes. My grandfather, he... he has a beach house.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And?”

“Well,” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “I need your help convincing him to sell.”

A wave of amusement washed over me. “And why, exactly, should I help you?”

He looked up, his gaze meeting mine. “Because,” he said, his tone serious, “it's worth a fortune, and I think your viewers would love it.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You think I'm going to help you strong-arm your grandfather out of his home just because it's worth a lot of money...and my—I mean, my mom’s , viewers would love it?”

He sighed, a look of exasperation crossing his face. “No, of course not. It's... it's complicated. But I promise, it's for the best. It’s falling apart around his ears and...it’s not safe for him to be there on his own.”

I studied him for a moment, trying to decipher the emotions swirling in his expression. There was something there, beneath the surface, something more than just a desire for a quick profit.

“Alright, Ethan,” I said. “Tell me more.”

“Over dinner?” he asked with a hopeful lilt to his voice.

“Tomorrow night? When we’re not so waterlogged?”

“It’s a date.”