Every Little Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 2)

“Dad . . . you’re being stubborn, and you’re going to lose someone you love because of it.”

“I do love Diane. And I would be with her for the rest of our lives. But she seems to think my not wanting to marry her means I don’t love her and there is nothing I can do to change her mind.”

“You could marry her.”

“I don’t want to,” he said firmly. “Sometimes . . . there’s just no finding that compromise.”

Frustrated with his father, but hearing the resolve in his voice and knowing what that meant, he realized this was in fact the end of his father’s relationship. And he was sad for him. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Me, too. I . . .” His words grew thick with gruff emotion. “I’ll miss her.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing to say, son.”

He had a thought. “Come out here.”

“What?”

“To Hartwell. Spend a few days, a week, however long you want. Take a break from New York.”

“I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of an important deal. But after? I would like to spend more time with this young lady of yours.”

“Definitely. Dad, you’re welcome here anytime.”

“Good,” William said. “Well, I best get going. And you . . . give the redhead some time. Be patient.”

They hung up and Vaughn put his phone down on the table. He stared at it, thinking of his father’s advice, and his heart began to beat a little faster. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a little black velvet jewelry box.

It was light in his hand but it may as well have weighed ten tons for all it symbolized.

“Be patient,” he murmured, and slipped it back into his jacket out of view.

Bailey

I stood in the doorway of Dahlia’s workshop, watching as she sat on a stool, bent over a piece of jewelry. Her brows were drawn together in focus. Her total concentration and the fact she had rock music blaring loudly meant she didn’t realize I was there.

Years ago she’d given me a spare key to her shop.

The store was light and bright, and it was filled with Dahlia’s own jewelry creations. She was a gifted silversmith and had converted part of the storeroom in the back of the building into a workshop. As well as jewelry, Dahlia sourced unique gifts, books, toys, witty mugs, clothes, and accessories. For the past year, since George Beckwith closed down his tourist shop, Dahlia had been selling Hartwell tourist stuff—T-shirts, magnets, mugs, postcards, key rings, etc.

The air smelled heavily of the coconut diffusers she had placed around the store to mask the heavy aroma from her workshop. Although Dahlia described herself as a silversmith, she also worked with copper, bronze, and gold. She liked to oxidize metals, using a chemical called liver of sulf

ur to oxidize silver, and it made the place smell like rotten eggs. Hence the diffusers.

After seeing the Closed sign on her door, I’d decided to check in on her. It was Aydan’s day off at the inn. Mona was watching over the place while Jay supervised in the kitchen so I could make sure my friend was okay.

Realizing Dahlia wasn’t going to look up anytime soon, I crossed the room to where her phone sat in a music dock and I switched it off at the wall.

“Ah!” she cried out behind me.

Trying not to grin and failing, I spun around to face her. “Hey, there.”

Dahlia glowered at me. “I nearly died.”

“You do insist on listening to your music that loudly.”

“What are you doing here?”