into his pockets. “It’s a dilemma, but Dex will figure a way through it.”
Maggie’s eyes shifted to meet his, eyebrows lifted. “Okay. So now can we talk about what you really came out here to talk about?”
Hold grinned, rocked back on his heels. “That transparent, huh?”
Transparent? The man was glass, Maggie thought. Anyone could see he was wearing his heart on his sleeve—except maybe Hold himself. And Jessi. But only because each of them chose not to see it.
“You haven’t gone to much trouble to hide your interest in Jessi,” she said, “and since I’m her only family, I’ll ask you what your intentions are.”
“I don’t understand why I should have to decide where we’re going to end up before we’ve even had our first date.”
“Fair enough, but—”
“But she has a history. Everyone has a history, Maggie. It’s how you choose to handle it that matters.”
“Have you said that to her?”
“She’ll walk.”
“You’ve already got her on the run, Hold.” Maggie crossed her arms, cocked a hip. “Men love the chase, I get that. But pursuing Jessi isn’t exactly getting you what you want.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Try not to be a complication.”
“I just want to be there for her. Especially now.”
“I get that, too, but she doesn’t know you well enough to lean on you.”
“Doesn’t trust me, you mean.”
“Yeah, that’s another way to say it.”
Hold slipped his hands into his pockets, blew out a breath. Tugged the reins on his patience. “How am I supposed to earn her trust if we ignore each other?”
“I’m not saying you can’t talk to her,” Maggie said, “but you have to give her some room.”
“Let her come to me?”
“How about the two of you meet in the middle? Wouldn’t that be more satisfying, more meaningful?”
“What if she doesn’t budge?”
“Then it’s not meant to be, Hold. And you won’t have to wonder if she gave in because you wore her down.”
He mulled that in his slow southern way, then said, “It won’t be easy to stay away from her.”
“That’s how Jessi will know it’s about her, not the chase.”
The stiff wind from earlier had died off, replaced by a thick, salt-tinged mist rolling in off the ocean and covering the island in what felt like a wet blanket. A freezing cold wet blanket, Jessi thought, and pulled her coat tighter around herself as she walked through the village. She hooked a right at Meeker’s Antiques, and since it meant the ocean was at her back, at least the mist wasn’t wafting into her face anymore. She might have breathed a sigh of relief if not for her destination.
Which she refused to think about, because thinking about it made her long to turn around. And she couldn’t turn around.
So she continued down the narrow, cobbled lane lined with as wide a selection of houses as could be found anywhere. A quaint cottage squatted between a half-timbered Tudor and a single-story covered in faded redbrick. On the other side of the lane sat a pair of bungalows with little dormer windows and wide front porches.
The lane dead-ended at the driveway of a two-story, wood-sided saltbox, which had been retrofitted with an impressive—and completely misplaced—set of pseudo-Greek columns. The narrow lane picked up again on the other side of the house’s brief backyard. Jessi had always thought it apt that the place created a roadblock.
Joyce Proctor certainly lived up to that reputation. She opened the door, took one look at Jessi, and closed it in her face. No surprise.
Joyce believed Jessi had gotten herself pregnant on purpose, but rather than trapping Lance into marriage as intended, the idea of being a father had driven him away. In Joyce’s eyes, her son could do no wrong. Even when they’d been kids, whenever Lance got into trouble, Joyce found someone else to hold responsible, and so she’d raised a son who never took responsibility.
And this was about
Maggie’s eyes shifted to meet his, eyebrows lifted. “Okay. So now can we talk about what you really came out here to talk about?”
Hold grinned, rocked back on his heels. “That transparent, huh?”
Transparent? The man was glass, Maggie thought. Anyone could see he was wearing his heart on his sleeve—except maybe Hold himself. And Jessi. But only because each of them chose not to see it.
“You haven’t gone to much trouble to hide your interest in Jessi,” she said, “and since I’m her only family, I’ll ask you what your intentions are.”
“I don’t understand why I should have to decide where we’re going to end up before we’ve even had our first date.”
“Fair enough, but—”
“But she has a history. Everyone has a history, Maggie. It’s how you choose to handle it that matters.”
“Have you said that to her?”
“She’ll walk.”
“You’ve already got her on the run, Hold.” Maggie crossed her arms, cocked a hip. “Men love the chase, I get that. But pursuing Jessi isn’t exactly getting you what you want.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Try not to be a complication.”
“I just want to be there for her. Especially now.”
“I get that, too, but she doesn’t know you well enough to lean on you.”
“Doesn’t trust me, you mean.”
“Yeah, that’s another way to say it.”
Hold slipped his hands into his pockets, blew out a breath. Tugged the reins on his patience. “How am I supposed to earn her trust if we ignore each other?”
“I’m not saying you can’t talk to her,” Maggie said, “but you have to give her some room.”
“Let her come to me?”
“How about the two of you meet in the middle? Wouldn’t that be more satisfying, more meaningful?”
“What if she doesn’t budge?”
“Then it’s not meant to be, Hold. And you won’t have to wonder if she gave in because you wore her down.”
He mulled that in his slow southern way, then said, “It won’t be easy to stay away from her.”
“That’s how Jessi will know it’s about her, not the chase.”
The stiff wind from earlier had died off, replaced by a thick, salt-tinged mist rolling in off the ocean and covering the island in what felt like a wet blanket. A freezing cold wet blanket, Jessi thought, and pulled her coat tighter around herself as she walked through the village. She hooked a right at Meeker’s Antiques, and since it meant the ocean was at her back, at least the mist wasn’t wafting into her face anymore. She might have breathed a sigh of relief if not for her destination.
Which she refused to think about, because thinking about it made her long to turn around. And she couldn’t turn around.
So she continued down the narrow, cobbled lane lined with as wide a selection of houses as could be found anywhere. A quaint cottage squatted between a half-timbered Tudor and a single-story covered in faded redbrick. On the other side of the lane sat a pair of bungalows with little dormer windows and wide front porches.
The lane dead-ended at the driveway of a two-story, wood-sided saltbox, which had been retrofitted with an impressive—and completely misplaced—set of pseudo-Greek columns. The narrow lane picked up again on the other side of the house’s brief backyard. Jessi had always thought it apt that the place created a roadblock.
Joyce Proctor certainly lived up to that reputation. She opened the door, took one look at Jessi, and closed it in her face. No surprise.
Joyce believed Jessi had gotten herself pregnant on purpose, but rather than trapping Lance into marriage as intended, the idea of being a father had driven him away. In Joyce’s eyes, her son could do no wrong. Even when they’d been kids, whenever Lance got into trouble, Joyce found someone else to hold responsible, and so she’d raised a son who never took responsibility.
And this was about
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