Page 310 of The Havenport Collection

Oliver

I was bone-tired but in need of a beer. I had spent the day with my mom, helping her move into the new assisted living facility we had been waiting two years to get into. She was lucid in the morning, but as the day went on things got more difficult.

It was part of the reason I had moved here earlier this year—the knowledge that Mom could be at one of the best memory care facilities in Massachusetts. Yes, the cost was insane, and yes, it took years and endless paperwork, but she had finally moved in, and I could finally breathe easier.

I only had two friends in town so far—my buddy Declan Quinn, who I had met in the navy when we were cocky kids just out of high school about to get our asses kicked by life, and my partner, Flint, who I had only known a few months but I was growing to tolerate.

Funny enough, the two of them hated one another, a fact that did not surprise me, since they were both antisocial pricks. Sadly, they were both busy tonight, so I set out to blow off some steam alone.

I needed to celebrate the victory of finally getting Mom settled and give myself permission to care about my own life for a few minutes.

Being a caregiver drained the life out of me somedays.

Not that I would trade my situation for anything.

It was just Mom and me. Dad had died when I was in my early twenties, and I was an only child.

They were both in their late thirties when they had me, so I had grown up with the understanding that I would be taking care of them someday.

But right now, I wanted a cold beer, maybe a pizza, and at least fourteen hours of sleep. I wasn’t working tomorrow, so I planned to crash early and then spend the day working out and catching up on TV.

Yes, I lived in the world’s most charming coastal small town—no joke, I bet there is a plaque somewhere declaring that—but I hadn’t exactly been living it up since relocating here from Boston almost a year ago.

I had been too busy proving myself at work—being the new guy was always so hard—and taking care of Mom.

So although I knew a good place to get a beer, I didn’t know anyone other than Quinn and Flint to hang out with.

I looked at the whiteboard I had hung next to my door by the shelf where I kept my keys.

I picked up the marker and right underneath “adopt a pet”—now faded from being written so long ago—I wrote “make some friends.”

I grabbed a stool at the Tipsy Whale. It was a Sunday night, so it was moderately busy, filled with mostly locals.

A few people recognized me, part of the deal when you’re a cop, and waved.

I greeted Fran, the bartender and owner, warmly and ordered a Binnacle IPA, settling in to watch the end of the Sox game.

By the seventh inning stretch I was growing restless and getting ready to leave when I heard someone approach.

“Is this seat taken?” a breathy voice asked.

I turned on my stool to respond but almost fell off in the process.

Standing before me was a woman. But not just any woman.

She was small and had long dark hair and sad eyes.

She was wearing some kind of business suit and looked vulnerable and incredibly sexy at the same time.

All thoughts of a quiet night of beer and pizza evaporated once I saw her face. At my core I was a protector, and the damsel in distress standing in front of me, batting those gorgeous lashes and flashing me sad eyes and a coy smile, made my heart almost leap out of my chest.

“All yours, gorgeous,” I said, gesturing to the stool. “Fran, this beautiful woman needs a drink.”

I turned to her, taking in her hair, her lips, and her legs in her sensible pencil skirt and heels. “Oliver,” I said, offering my hand.

She took it, returning my firm handshake. “Alexandra,” she replied, taking a seat.

“You look like you’ve had a shit day, Alexandra.”

She nodded, taking a gulp of the red wine Fran placed before her. “Yes. Horrible day.”

I nudged her shoulder. “Me too. Wanna talk about it?”

She tucked her silky hair behind her ears and considered my question for a moment. “No. I really don’t. How about you tell me about your day? What brings you out for a beer at seven p.m. on a Sunday night in Havenport?”

I wasn’t in the habit of spilling my guts to strangers.

And I wasn’t really in the mood to talk.

But there was something about her. I don’t know if it was the exhaustion she clearly carried with her or the slightly sassy attitude I could tell was lurking beneath the surface, but I found myself wanting to talk.

So we talked. She didn’t offer many details, just that she worked in Boston, right in the financial district, which was my old beat. Small word. I assumed she did something in finance, judging by her fancy clothes and heels, but she clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

After an hour of chatting and laughing about some of the silly calls I’d been on since becoming part of the small town police department, I finally found the courage to ask for her number.

I’d never been shy or lacked confidence, but this woman was not just pretty, she was smart as well.

I sensed that she was the type that demanded excellence of everyone around her, especially herself.

And I’d be lying if that didn’t make my heart beat a little bit faster.

She leaned in, giving me a whiff of a spicy perfume that went right to my head. I was so far gone already—a beer and some conversation and I was on the verge of proposing. I was getting downright silly in my old age.

She placed her tiny hand on my jean-covered thigh and bit her lip. “Do you want to get out of here?” she asked, cocking one brow.

Suddenly, my peripheral vision blurred as I struggled to catch my breath. Yespleaseyesfuckyes my brain thought. I forced myself to take a breath. I didn’t spend eight years in the navy to lose my shit over a pretty woman. Was she suggesting what I thought she was?

I rotated on my barstool until my legs were flanking hers. I tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, allowing my fingers to linger on her neck. I watched her pupils dilate and felt my cock ache. “I would like that very much.”