First Star I See Tonight (Chicago Stars #8) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,52

grow dark. She hadn’t thought ahead to where they’d stay for the night, but Coop informed her he’d reserved rooms at a place in Two Harbors, a North Shore town a good three hours away. She was drained from the events of the past couple of days, and she’d have preferred someplace closer, but he refused. “I’ve heard about this place, and I want to check it out.”

“How much?”

“More than you can afford. You can pay me back in overtime.”

He was being difficult just to be difficult, but then he redeemed himself. “I’ll admit I wasn’t crazy about getting involved in this, but I’m glad you nagged me into it. You did a good thing back there.”

“You, too,” she said.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the car. She was glad when he flipped on the radio.

He took over the driving when they stopped for gas. Around ten o’clock, he pulled off the two-lane highway into the town of Two Harbors. There weren’t many big hotel chains on the North Shore, but even so, she hadn’t expected him to turn into the gravel lane that ran alongside the city’s iron ore docks.

The hulking docks were eerie at night, their towering, ribbed-steel skeletons reminding her of a dystopian vision of ruined skyscrapers in a once great city. A freighter loading ore from the nearby mines was berthed at one of the docks, the glare of giant floodlights making the scene even ghostlier.

Ahead of them, on top of a bluff, the thin beam from a lighthouse pointed a sweeping finger into the harbor. Coop followed the gravel road right up to the gate of the red brick building. With its narrow windows and chalk-white trim, it would have looked like an old-time schoolhouse if it weren’t for the square light tower rising above one corner.

“We’re staying here?”

“Some friends told me about it. This is the oldest continuously running lighthouse on Lake Superior. The historical society turned it into a B and B a while back.”

She reached for the door handle. “As long as it has two bedrooms, I’m fine with it.”

“Hold it!” He hit the door lock, trapping her in the car and looking pissed for no reason at all. “You don’t seriously imagine I’ll try to get you into bed?”

His reaction took her by surprise. She came up with an exasperated sigh. “I wouldn’t think so, but there was that odious kiss the other night, and since I seem to be a guy magnet for the most unlikely men, what do I know?”

“You’re not a guy magnet.”

“Really? Then what was that kiss about?”

“It was about saving your stupid life.” He pointed one long, sturdy finger at her. “Let’s get something straight, Sherlock. I have no sexual interest in you. None. Zip. Zero. The only reason I kissed you was as a distraction from what I really wanted to do, which was strangle you. Now this conversation is over.”

He unlocked the doors and ejected from the car.

What is with him? She obviously needed sleep because she was a tiny bit peeved about his dismissal of her sex appeal, a jab that wouldn’t have bothered her if it had come from anyone else. More than a tiny bit. She was peeved enough to want to challenge him, but a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Marilyn had appeared at the door. “Mr. Smith? Welcome.”

Mr. Smith? That was the best he could come up with?

He’d flipped the trunk and pulled out a small duffel. Piper retrieved her backpack and followed him into an old-fashioned kitchen with a rag rug to wipe feet, a porcelain sink, and an antique gas stove. White lace curtains draped the bottom halves of the narrow windows, and a coffee mill perched on one of the sills. Beneath it, an American flag folded into a triangle rested on top of a wooden hope chest.

The kitchen smelled of fresh-baked goodness from the two wedges of chocolate cake sitting out on china plates. Through one doorway, she saw a set of stairs, through the other, a turn-of-the-century dining room complete with a steam radiator, dark floral rug, oak dining table, and sideboard displaying china figurines. These were the old lighthouse keeper’s quarters.

Coop introduced her as Ingrid, his massage therapist.

“Piper Dove,” she said. “I’m actually Mr. Smith’s sobriety coach.”

“Well, God bless you,” Marilyn said with a cheery smile. “There’s no shame in admitting you need help, Mr. Smith.”

Piper patted his arm. “Exactly what I’ve been telling him.”

The bad mood that had prompted his little outburst