Page 18 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

I feel bad for bringing that to mind, but he did do it. Except this kind of reception isn’t what I’d expect considering what the press said about the condition of the room. “Also, why didn’t you tell me we’d be seeing them?” I whisper as we approach. “I could have added them to the schedule.”

“We’re friends,” he says tersely. “Or should I tell you all about the millions of those I have?”

There’s a distinct note of self-deprecation in his tone, and I realize I haven’t heard of Hopper having any friends at all, or at least none that don’t work for him.

My heart squeezes a little at that, but I don’t have time to analyze that because the woman throws open her arms as she covers the last few feet between us.

“Hopper!” the woman exclaims, like he’s their long-lost son.

“It’s been too long!” Al exclaims when they’ve finished with the hugs and back pats. Margaret clasps her hands under chin, cooing at him like he’s a six-three baby.

I’m suddenly wondering if the press mostly gets things wrong. I mean, of course they get things wrong. That article talking about how Hopper refuses all autographs and routinely makes children cry got things wrong, obviously.

I shove the thoughts aside when I see the couple looking at me expectantly.

I smile. “Oh! Hi! I’m Chris Maplewood. It’s so nice to meet you both.”

“We were so sure Tru could never be replaced,” Margaret says after they introduce themselves. “But she tells me you’ll take good care of our Hopper while she’s off.”

“I sure will,” I say. Depending on her definition of ‘care’.

The couple leads us into the richly carpeted main hallway. “We watched all the Laser movies with our grandson yet again last week,” Margaret gushes. “Hope you say yes to the next in the series.”

“Depends on what my people tell me,” Hopper says ambiguously, though I catch the stiffness in his back. I’m learning the superhero franchise is not his favorite thing to talk about, even though it’s made him a gazillion dollars and a household name. Maybe that last part is why.

As Al pulls Hopper into a conversation about one of his grandsons, Margaret clutches my arm. “Tell me, Chris. Is Hop looking after himself?”

I blink. “Oh. I think so.”

“No drugs?”

“Not the fun kind.”

She frowns.

I school my smile into a matching expression. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

“Drugs are no laughing matter, young lady.”

“I know. It was more about him not being—never mind, not important. No, I don’t think he’s doing any drugs.”

“Drinking?”

I consider that. Besides the day I met him, I haven’t seen him drink at all. To be fair, he didn’t drink that day, either, thanks to me. He was just hungover. “Not really. He’s eating an obscene amount of protein every day and doing lots of exercise. ”

“Good. We worry about him so.”

I glance over at her. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“You’re surprised, aren’t you? After what he did here.”

“A little, honestly.”

“You don’t think he deserves our affection?”

“Oh…I don’t know. I just…”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t either, not at first. We were devastated. Al talked about suing. But listen. If you’re working for Hopper, you need to know just what kind of man he is.”

I quite honestly have no idea what she’s going to say next. But she doesn’t leave me time to say anything anyway.

“We have a son,” Margaret says. “He went through an awful time in middle school.”

I grimace. “I remember middle school.”

“Oh, and I know what you’re thinking. The mean girls. The bullies. Well.” She looks at me pointedly. “Our son was the bully.”

“Oh.” We’re nearly at the meeting room. She holds us back as Al and Hopper head inside.

“I’ll never forget the pain of trying to get our son to see that what he was doing was wrong.

It’s very difficult when someone is so sure they’re right.

Hopper—well, Hopper did a bad thing. He put several holes through the walls in our best suite.

Now, I’m not sure why he did it. Mainly because he refused to make excuses.

He just said he did a foolish thing and wasn’t expecting our forgiveness.

I’ve heard things about his past, like how he discovered his mom had gained her angel wings not from the doctors but a—what was it?

” She screws up her face. “A TicTac , I think they call it. Some hospital staff person made a video. There were photos and everything.”

I suck in an audible breath. “I had no idea,” I say softly, reeling.

“Well, his manager—Mabel, sweet thing—she hired a lawyer, got everything taken down. But you know what they say, things live forever on the World Wide Web.”

I’d smile at how she references the internet, but there’s nothing to smile about after what she’s just told me.

I send up a silent thank-you that socials weren’t really a thing when my dad passed.

The thought of finding out you’ve lost your person online makes me physically ill.

Not that the neighbor waking me up sobbing in the middle of the night was super great, either.

“Of course,” Margaret continues, “that was a few years back. But we figure it was the anniversary of her passing that came up two months ago that threw that boy for a loop. He didn’t say as much, but he did tell us later they were like peas in a pod, so we put it together.

” She presses a hand against her chest. “He did a bad thing, no doubt. But when he woke up the morning after he broke down, you know what the first thing he did was?”

A few weeks ago, I would have guessed he called Tru. Or one of his people to deal with it. But now I’m not so sure. I shake my head. “I don’t.”

“He sought us out. Came to us directly, himself, hat in hand, and told us exactly what he did. Then he paid us. But he didn’t just dump cash on us and leave us to hire contractors and what-not.

He wrote a check for the equivalent of the rate of that room for six months, including our holiday rates.

Those are double, you know. Then he asked us to think about everything we ever wanted with this place.

We entertained him, because gosh, when a man like Hopper asks you for something, you jump, you know?

We put everything on there. Things we knew would never get done.

It was a darned laundry list. And you know what he did?

He took that list and turned it into a plan.

He organized it all—with our consultation, of course—and here it is, getting done! ”

She beams as a worker in a visi-vest passes us by, nodding.

“He didn’t do it all himself,” I say.

“Oh he did! At first, anyway. We had meetings several times a week for a month. On the computer, of course. He vetted all the local contractors, then got us the best contracting company money could buy. The ones who do all the fancy houses in town.” She sighs almost dreamily.

“Getting that room knocked around a bit was the best thing that ever happened to us. And not just because we’re getting the place redone.

It’s because we get to know a man like Hopper Donnach. He reaffirmed our faith in humanity.”

For a moment, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

I couldn’t help being swept up by this story.

But then I give my head a shake. She’s starstruck, that’s all.

Exaggerating. Remembering with rose-colored glasses on.

I’m impressed, for sure, that Hopper went above and beyond in repairing the damage.

But she’s talking about him like he’s some kind of saint.

There must be some kind of angle he’s working by doing so much with this place he could have just walked away from.

The good publicity, maybe? It’s a PR stunt, surely.

But during my internet stalking last night, I didn’t read anything about him doing all this.

Only the original incident itself, where commenters called him a spoiled, entitled asshole.

Words I’ve used myself.

“Anyway, I just think the world of him,” Margaret says, “and Al does too. He doesn’t tell us much, so you telling us he’s doing well—it means the world to us.”

“Bangles!” a voice calls from inside.

I keep myself from rolling my eyes for Margaret’s sake.

“I have to go,” I tell her. “But thank you for telling me about what happened.”

“He made us promise we wouldn’t talk about it to the papers, but we tell everyone we know what he’s done. The papers aren’t right about him!”

I give her a smile and head into the room, feeling like there’s something important I’m missing—something just out of reach.

When I step inside, I smash into Hopper. Like, quite literally run directly into a wall of man.

“Hey!” he says, gripping my shoulders to keep me from falling.

I’m mortified at the memory of the woman outside needing his help only a few minutes earlier. But Hopper’s expression is not unfazed like it was with her. He looks worried.

“Oh,” I say. Oh?

Hopper’s hands sear the flesh of my upper arms. But worse, my breasts are crammed right up against that warm-marble chest, sending a dangerous bolt of heat straight through me.

Okay, so this is not like the woman outside, who he held at arm’s length, and released as soon as she was steady again.

I force myself to take a breath so I can think straight.

Because I’m a lot closer, and he hasn’t let me go.

I should probably be backing up. Except when I do let out a breath and breathe in again, I inhale a deeply familiar scent that nearly makes me let out a melting sigh.

He’s been using this sage and eucalyptus soap I love, made by a local artisan.

I’m actually obsessed with it. I sniff it every time I come across it in the store, though I’ve never bought it because I can’t justify a twenty-five-dollar bar of soap.

But Lord. On Hopper? I feel like I’m gliding on horseback through a magical forest.

But it’s not just the soap, is it? It’s the soap on him .

“Everything okay, Chris?” Hopper asks, brow furrowed.

I look down to see I’ve bunched his shirt in my hands. My heart flutters, and for a moment, all I see is the Duke.

All I hear is a voice calling me sweetheart.

My crushes are melding together. Into this man I hate. Because I hate my boss, right? Right?

“Yes,” I say, though it takes me a minute to let go of him and take a step back. “Yes, totally fine.”

“I was just coming out to get you. Was Margaret talking your ear off?”

I swallow, my throat still sandpaper-dry. Even though I’m not pressed up against him anymore, we’re still standing too close, just outside the door. He’s examining me, his brows still knitted together. “Are you sure you’re okay? ”

Hopper looks genuinely and increasingly concerned. I stand there, unable to move.

I blink, rapidly. “I—uh—I think I have something in my eye. An eyelash.” I actually do, suddenly, thanks to my aggressive blinking.

Damn it. It’s never hot to be rubbing one’s eye, pulling at an eyelid to clear it.

I was hoping by cursing and doing that, I could get him to quit looking at me like that.

To distract myself from the very bad sudden realization that no, I don’t hate Hopper at all.

I get irritated with him, yes. A lot. But hate is not the feeling that makes my stomach spin like a whirlpool when he’s near me.

It’s not the driving force that gets me out of bed each morning and sends me practically skipping to my car to get to work.

It’s something else entirely.

But this plan was incredibly stupid. Because Hopper does the worst possible thing. He reaches out and touches me. Like cups the side of my face with two hands and tilts my head up toward him. Almost like he’s going to kiss me.

My lips part all on their own, my heart thudding. I inhale sage and eucalyptus. I feel the press of his hard body against nearly the whole length of mine, and this time, every cell in my body seems to melt like burning wax at the contact.

Hopper dips his face low—low enough I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips.

Then he brings his hands up higher and presses his thumbs against my eye, pulling it open. “Hey!” I say. I go to slap his hands away, but he grabs me round the wrists with his free hand.

“Hold still. I’ve got you. ”

Something tickles over my skin at that. There’s an air of familiarity to those words.

But then Hopper angles his face this way and that, half making me laugh as he plays ham-fisted doctor and half making me warm with heat as his breath dances over my cheek, then my neck, his gorgeous eyes peering into mine.

He still holds my wrists easily bound with one of his hands, and the fact that I’m at his mercy is almost pornographic.

In my body’s opinion, anyway. My nipples pebble against him, heat warming my core.

And when Hopper’s free hand crawls behind my neck and grips my hair, I swear I let out something a little like a moan.

But he’s only tipping my head back, looking for an eyelash. His face splits in a grin and he lets me go, bringing a thumb up and brushing it under my eye. “Got it.”

“Great,” I squeak. “Thanks.”

“You want to make a wish?”

“What?”

“When you find an eyelash, you’re supposed to make a wish,” he says to me as if I’m an alien new to the planet.

“No. I’m fine.” I usually never give up the opportunity to make a wish on anything.

I’m not superstitious, but I live for little moments of magic.

But mortification has made my body a tense, throbbing mess.

“How about that Margaret, though, huh?” I say awkwardly as I grip him by the shoulders to practically shove him out of the doorway.

“She’s the president of your fan club. She thinks the world of you for some reason.

” I hope I’ve layered enough sarcasm in my voice to cover up the turmoil in my body .

Hopper’s expression grows tight. He’s like this when people pay him compliments. Like it hurts him.

“Hop? Are we doing this?” a voice calls from inside the room. “What’s the holdup?”

But he’s still looking down at me.

“What?” I say, trying to calm the heat still burning inside me. Does he not believe me about Margaret? “She said all this?—”

“It’s not real, Chris,” Hopper says. His voice is gruff. “Never forget that I’m a shit.” Then he turns and leads me inside.

Does he really believe that? After worrying over my eyelash and telling me to make a wish?

After all the things I’ve been learning about him that are so contrary to what the world thinks?

Because it’s clear now that I do not believe Hopper Donnach is a shit the way he does. I think not even a little.