Page 4 of Love Bound

It’s hard to live an orchestrated life. It takes a lot of work to keep all those balls in the air, all at once, and not have them all go flying.

Some sleaze-ball, doughy realtor or banker or something from Boston is not going to take away my clinic and the one thing that ties us all to our parents. I carefully arrange the muffins on a white plate with delicate roses along the edge.

The reality is, Finn Colton is trying to kick me out.

And he has no idea who he's dealing with.

Chapter Two

Finn

Seven in the morning is shit late, but I never sleep anymore. I set my watch down on the cheap little side table and lie staring at early light against the windows. I'm tired. Tired of waking up angry all the time. Wrestling with that window last night should have been my last fight of the day, but then the showers spat rust—I tried all five—and I ended up sponging up in the mudroom off the Inn's kitchen in a foot sink. At least I think that's what it is. Just a square, low basin with a lip and an equally low faucet.

Maybe to clean mussels? Lobsters? Traps? Feet? Dogs?

I finally fell asleep around three a.m. and now the sunrise is blinding me. Every time I close my eyes, I just want my brain to shut up. It's been like this for two years and rolling dark thoughts around in my head is not a solid plan for success.

I had success. I had it all. It's not what it's cracked up to be.

When Allison and I visited this place four years ago, it was still open and looked nothing like it does now. Yeah, maybe it needed some TLC but not a complete renovation. We were on our way down from Quebec City on our seven-year anniversary and found this place. It was July, and quintessential Maine, with cerulean blue skies and sparkling water, the islands just off the beach interrupting gazes and everything wavering colors of green with batches of summer flowers everywhere.

Shit.

Allison fell in love with Echo Bay and The Inn, and we ended up spending the rest of our time here. She made me promise to do something that day and now, I'm trying to make it happen. She always wanted to come back, but we never did. I wish we had.

Now it's eight. I roll over, the bed creaking and smelling of mildew. The springs in the frame must be a thousand years old. I had an old sheet in the back kitchen I used for wiping out mud and that's what I slept on last night. There was a musty throw in one of the closets, some hand-embroidered thing in black with bright colors, but it worked.

Wiping my eyes, I sit up, reach over, and sniff my T-shirt from yesterday before pulling it on. I don’t have any clean underwear, so it will be a commando day. The wheeling gulls outside pull me to the window and I see several huddled together on the roof below, on the slate stretching over the front porch facing the sun.

We'd talked of buying it then, but we didn’t have any money. Now I have the money, but don't have her. It would take two years at least to bring this place around. I could wait that long. I could do that for Allison. I could sit here and pine for her and sweat for her and bleed for her. That would be my penance. Anything to bring her back to me.

I reach for the doorknob to the bathroom, a bright little glass item, and it comes off in my hands.

The place is literally falling apart. Whoever took care of it did a shitty job. George Johnson, nice guy, but not handy with a hammer is my guess. I stare at the knob in my hand before reaching for a Phillips head and squat to fix the damn thing. Maybe this is why he was so reluctant to sell. He knew the place was a dump.

Dump or no dump, I bought this place for her. And I know it's crazy, but I want to have it ready for her.

Someone knocks at the front door downstairs. What the hell?

I it again, this time, more like a rap. I grab my watch and check the time.

Fuck. Who comes over on a Saturday morning at eight twenty-five?

As I trip down the stairs, I can see someone outside on the front stoop. The door has two parallel panels of glass from the middle up. Dirty, filmy, curtains block my view, but then the person moves slightly and it's clearly a woman. Probably some do-gooder from town welcoming the newcomer. I stand still for a moment thinking if I don’t move, maybe she'll go away, but she leans in and starts to peer through the glass.

I sigh, put on a smile, and open the door.

"Hey," she says.

There's a light blond woman with a loose ponytail, light green cardigan with threads pulled, and blue jeans, standing and holding a plate of muffins.

Are you kidding me?

"Hi," she tries again. "Six blueberry muffins. Just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood." There's a pause. "Oh, and this." She holds a completely round, blue stone in her hand, like a marble. "Found it right outside. A good omen."

For God's sake.

"Hi," I say. We stand for a few moments and then I realize I should invite her inside. That's what people do. That's what I used to do. But I don't want her to come in.