Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,28

any signs of encouragement were welcome.

He released her hand, circled around to the other side of the bed, and climbed in next to her. After a few moments, she scooted a tad closer to him. Not touching, but near enough that he could feel the tiny dent she made in the bed.

Within ten minutes, she was sound asleep.

He wasn’t as lucky.

Half an hour later, he was still staring at the dark ceiling. Still trying to determine where to go from here.

Especially if their relationship reverted to the status quo once the sun rose on a new day.

What to do should that happen?

He was clueless.

All he knew with absolute certainty was that he was in over his head—and until he and Molly turned a definite corner, he wouldn’t be able to shake the fear that he was sinking fast.

9

He was a miner, not a fisherman.

But when you were brand new in a place that had no phosphate rock to excavate, you took whatever job was offered—at least until you had a chance to get the lay of the land and decide what you wanted to do with the rest of your life.

Such as it was.

Shoulders sagging, Thomma shoved his hands in his pockets as he trod down Dockside Drive. Fortunately, the wharf wasn’t far from their apartment, and he’d allowed plenty of time for the walk.

However, if all went well with the new tutor Father Murphy had lined up, he might soon be ready to take his driver’s test and put the car the town had given them to use.

The sweet smell of cinnamon tickled his nose, and Thomma slowed to peer into the window of a shop with a striped awning.

It didn’t take him long to spot the large tray of buns dripping with icing that was sitting on the counter.

This must be the bakery that had supplied those samples at the welcome party Saturday night.

Two customers were waiting in line as the clerk slid a spatula under one of the rolls and deposited it into a box.

His taste buds began to tingle.

If he had the money . . . and knew the language . . . and could spare a few minutes . . . he’d buy himself one of those. The small taste he’d had Saturday night had been delicious.

But the bread and hummus and cheese he’d had for breakfast was sufficient. Lingering here was a waste of . . .

“Good morning, my friend.”

He turned.

The guy with the gray ponytail who’d provided some of the food on Saturday smiled at him.

“Hello.” A recent addition to his vocabulary, courtesy of his mother.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” The man indicated the bakery.

Thomma furrowed his brow.

Strange.

The man was speaking English, but he got the gist of the question.

“Yes.” That about used up his repertoire of English words.

“Wait here.” The man held up one finger, pointed to the sidewalk, and joined the line inside.

The sounds were gibberish—but again, he understood the message.

A minute passed. Two. Thomma scanned the wharf across the street. He had to get going. Being late the first day on the job would make a bad impression—and it could take a while to connect with the man who owned the fishing boat that was now his place of employment.

“There’s always a line at Sweet Dreams in the morning.” The taco guy was back, holding out a white box. “Good luck—and enjoy that.” He crossed his fingers and motioned toward the wharf.

Again, Thomma got the gist of what the man had said.

Must be due to the body language his mother put such stock in.

“Thank you”—he struggled to remember the man’s name—“Charley.”

The guy tipped his duck-bedecked cap and continued toward the stand at the end of the wharf.

Box in hand, Thomma crossed the street and gave the waterfront a sweep. Susan had said Steven Roark would be watching for him—but they’d never met, and with all the activity down here at this hour of the morning, they could— “Thomma?”

He swiveled around.

A tall, thirtysomething man with dark brown hair had come up behind him, silent as a ghost.

“Yes.”

The guy gave him a once-over, then stuck out his hand and confirmed his identity, his grip firm. “Aftark?” He tapped the box.

“No.” This wasn’t his breakfast. He pointed toward the taco truck and hoped this man would understand it had been a gift. “Charley.”

One side of his boss’s mouth rose a fraction as he glanced that direction before striding down the wharf. “Tueal maei.”

Following the broad-shouldered man’s instruction, Thomma fell in behind him. His boss didn’t