Page 9 of The Maine Attraction

“I see,” she says, folding her arms to mirror my stance. “So, who exactly were you expecting?”

I clench my jaw. “I don’t know. The shingle says Corbin and Sons. So, I suppose I expected one of them to show up.”

She rolls her eyes. “Really? You thought my grandpa, who’s been dead for twenty years, would show up?” ‘

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. “Or sons,” I point.

“So, my dad or my Uncle Robert? Both of whom are in their mid-sixties now and enjoying their much-deserved retirements.” She narrows her eyes. “Or did you just not expect awoman?”

“Let’s get this over with, okay? Where do you want to start? The lighthouse?” I turn to lead her toward the towering structure.

“You always did have problems with strong women,” she mutters under her breath.

I wheel on her. “That’s a lie! I have a twin sister, for goodness’ sake.”

“You sure didn’t like it when I kicked your butt in hockey.”

“That’s because I didn’t likeyou,” I say through gritted teeth. “Not because I have a problem with women.”

The truth is I admired Charley’s skill on the ice. She was the best player in the league by far—even though she was the only girl on the team. Our high school didn’t have enough girls interested in hockey to form a team, so she played for a community team before finally giving it up. That always made me a little sad, despite my pure, unadulterated loathing of her. Anyone who’s that good on the ice should have the chance to show off their skills.

She’s quiet after that, and I start to feel guilty for telling her that I don’t like her. As I lead her into the lighthouse, I turn to face her. “The lighthouse is in the worst shape. The house was built later, but the lighthouse has been here for—”

“Nearly two hundred years,” she says, nodding. “I know.”

“Be careful,” I say, leading her up the spiraling staircase to the observational deck. “There’s eight-eight steps, and some of the steps are starting to crumble.”

She frowns. “Are you sure you should climb them with the busted knee?”

She sounds genuinely concerned, and it catches me off guard. “I’ve spent months in physical therapy. I can climb stairs. I can even run in a straight line. I just can’t twist and pivot like I sed to.”

We start the ascent, trudging up one step at a time up the twisting staircase. Despite what I told Charley, my knee is starting to throb before we reach the top. Stairs that go straight up or down would be a cinch. Spiral stairs are a bit trickier.

I reach a spot where the step has crumbled and stretch my legs to skip the step. I turn to Charley and extend a hand to help her.

She stares at it like it’s a mousetrap for a second but then accepts my help. Her palm connects with mine, and it sends a shiver rippling down my spine—in a good way.What in the world was that?

I release her hand, and we continue to climb. Finally, we reach the observation deck. “There’s a hatch that leads up to the light,” I explain, but the ladder’s missing. “I’d love to get it updated with a modern light on an automatic timer or something.”

She smiles at me. “The days of lighting a lantern with whale oil are long gone, fortunately.”

We stand in companiable silence for a few minutes, admiring the view. My gaze keeps wandering back to her profile. In many ways, she hasn’t changed much since high school. The changes are subtle, yet transformational. She used to be a rebel who prided herself on cutting her own hair with scissors she’d swiped from the principal’s desk. Now, hair is still wild, blowing freely in the wind, but it’s natural and soft. I have a strange urge to reach out and touch it.

I’m reaching out my arm as she turns to look at me. “What are you doing?” she demands.

I lean against the wall and pretend to stretch. “Just stretching. The steps were more of a workout than I expected.”

She nods, satisfied with the answer, and I breath a sigh of relief at not getting caught.What on earth was I thinking?

She removes a hair band from her wrist and pulls her hair into a ponytail. “I’ve always loved this lighthouse. I used to pretend I lived in it.”

“Locked in the tower like Rapunzel?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. Waiting for Prince Charming to come to the rescue has never been my style.”

“No,” I agree. “If Prince Charming showed up on a white horse to save you, you’d probably challenge him to a duel, knock him to the ground, steal his stallion, and ride away into the sunset all by yourself.”

She frowns. “That all sounds good except for the riding into the sunset alone part. I don’t think being a strong female necessarily means I’m impossible to love.”

---