Want Me Always: Heron Harbor, #1

By Lea Nolan

If you like Chesapeake Shores and Virgin River, you'll want to dive into Heron Harbor. . .the small town with big heart.

He missed his chance with his first crush. Now that she's back in town, he won't make that mistake again.

 

Wren Donovan's done with love. Betrayed and humiliated by her ex-fiancé, she retreats to her family's beach house on Heron Harbor Island to lick her wounds and gorge herself on ice cream, spray cheese, and a box of glazed donuts. Wren vows to devote herself to her law career and swears off men forever, but she isn't prepared for what being reunited with her oldest friend makes her feel…

 

Smith Connors can't believe his eyes when Wren walks into his restaurant. He's loved her since they were kids, when summertime found them inseparable best friends. As a boy, he'd never felt good enough for Wren. But now he's a rising-star chef with a thriving business who knows what he wants—which means he's not letting beautiful, brilliant Wren get away again. 

 

Smith determines to show Wren how good they could be together, and soon neither of them can resist the heat growing between them. He'd do anything to earn her faith—and her heart, if only she could learn to trust again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lea Nolan
• Release date: Apr 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393821861

Book preview

Chapter 1

Wren Donovan dragged her suitcase and grocery bags up the beach house steps, slid her key in the lock, then shoved the door open with her shoulder.

Home away from home. At last.

Leaving her bag in the foyer, she brought the groceries to the kitchen and dumped them on the counter. Her phone buzzed. She opened the group chat she shared with her sisters and responded to Raven's last message.

Made it here in one piece. Stop worrying about me. Please.

Wren hit send, then lifted her gaze to the big living room window overlooking the Atlantic. The gray mid-October sky and slate-colored waves perfectly matched her mood.

Escaping to her family's summer house on Heron Harbor, a small Delaware barrier island, was supposed to make her feel better and shield her from the pain that had clung like toilet paper under her heel for the last six months. But now that she was here, the dull ache still lodged deep beneath her rib cage.

The cell rang and Raven's picture flashed on the screen.

On a sigh, Wren answered. I told you I'm fine.

No, you're wallowing. The asshole's not worth it. He's taken enough from you already.

Wren's heart stabbed at the reminder of all she'd lost. I know. The non-refundable down payment on the reception, the dress she couldn't return, the airfare and deposit on the all-inclusive Caribbean resort. Oh yeah, and the happily-ever-after with her fiancé who was supposed to love her forever.

The cheating, thieving bastard.

So, what are you going to do about it? Hide at the beach house shoveling ice cream down your throat all week? Raven asked.

No, Wren answered, a little too quickly.

You expect me to believe you didn't buy at least three pints of ice cream at the Publix? As the second sister, Raven had a funny way of acting like the oldest.

I bought a few things. Wren eyed the plastic grocery bags on the counter and the four pints nestled inside, along with the potato chips, aerosol cheese-in-a-can, and carton of chocolate glazed donuts. It wasn't the menu she'd selected for her wedding night, but it would do.

You don't need to spend the week eating crap. You need a distraction.

I've got my Rosetta Stone tapes. I'll be speaking Italian in no time.

Raven whimpered. That's the saddest thing I've ever heard. You don't need to learn to speak a foreign language. You need a man. A big, strong, deliciously screwable man who'll clear your mind of that jerkoff for good.

Wren forced a weary laugh. Easy for her to say.

Raven was a corporate executive vice president who molded the world to her liking. She switched her feelings on and off on a whim, but Wren didn't have that skill. She didn't love Pierce Warrington anymore, not since she'd discovered his cheating, but she was still wounded by his betrayal, and hadn't found a way to shake the lingering pain. Or the knowledge that somehow, despite her superior legal training and analytical mind, she hadn't noticed Pierce had been screwing her first-year associate, Lolita. Her name alone should have been a clue. But because Wren missed it, and a thousand other tiny hints, she was alone with four pints of ice cream while Pierce and Little Ms. Hot Pants were en route to Jamaica.

None of that mattered now that Wren had sworn off relationships for good. Love was something that happened to other people who had good judgement and made smart relationship choices. Wren's record proved she wasn't one of them. Pierce-the-douche was just the last in a line of jerks who'd destroyed her trust and shattered her heart into a thousand tiny pieces. Which proved her heart-o-meter was seriously off. It was time to admit she was better off on her own, focus on her career, and forget the impossible dream of sharing her life with a soul mate.

Chances were, even if there was such a thing, she'd pass him right by for another traitorous asshole.

But there was no explaining any of that to Raven, who'd long ago sworn off anything more than quick rolls in the hay. To her, Wren's grief was a giant waste of time and resources better spent elsewhere.

So rather than try, she stuck with a more practical reason for hibernating in the beach house for the week. There's one problem with your diabolical plan. Heron Harbor isn't exactly teeming with deliciously screwable men.

Granted, the off-season crowd is pretty thin, but there's got to be at least one non-elderly, available bachelor on that island. And if you can't find one, drive out to the mainland, pick a bar and let someone buy you a drink. Then bring him home and boink his brains out, Raven said.

When you put it that way it sounds so romantic, Wren deadpanned.

Look, you need to get back to the old you. You've tried everything else. Might as well give this a try. It could be fun.

Wren leaned against the counter and sunk her head in her hands. Will you hang up if I say I'll think about it?

She wouldn't think about it, not in a million years. Because even a casual fling could lead to something more, and her misguided heart couldn't detect Mr. Right from Mr. Wrong.

Wren imagined Raven's raised, skeptical eyebrow which was confirmed by the sound of her sister's weary sigh. You won't. But you should. Seriously. Lark and I are concerned.

When was the last time you heard from our baby sister? She hasn't posted to our chat in a while, Wren asked. Lark lived in an artist colony in Vermont and spent part of the year traveling in her RV visiting art festivals and teaching workshops. She hadn’t been back to Heron Harbor in years but she still kept up with the island’s gossip through Raven and Wren.

About a week ago. She was on her way to some art fair in San Francisco. Or maybe it was San Diego. Still, she cares. So do I.

I know you do. And I appreciate it. I just need this week to get my head straight so I can walk back into that firm without ripping Pierce and Lolita's heads off.

Raven laughed. "Fine. But if you find yourself in a situation where you're wondering whether to suck a guy's face or not, let my voice be the one in your head saying go for it."

Wren rolled her eyes. Okay. Will do. Won't.

She hung up and put the groceries away, stacking the ice cream pints in the freezer in alphabetical order, then arranging the dry goods in the pantry, lining them up by size. She wasn't obsessive or compulsive, just neat and organized. It was just one of the reasons she was an excellent attorney.

A rumble rolled her stomach, a reminder she hadn't eaten since the protein bar at breakfast.

Wren stared into the pantry.

The red and white soup cans stared back.

Tomato soup didn't sound completely horrible, especially paired with cheddar-ish cheese spray. She snatched a can from the shelf, set a pan on the stove top, and reached for the can opener. Then froze.

Tomato soup was horrible. And the condensed version was especially pathetic. She hadn't even sprung for the good kind that didn't need to be reconstituted with water. And the liquid cheese product, an abomination of nature, was evidence of just how far into despair she'd sunk.

Hot tears welled behind Wren's eyes. These were not the kinds of food a woman should eat on her wedding night, even if that wedding had been cancelled because of a stupid, selfish prick. She owed it to herself not to settle for this kind of slop. She needed, no deserved, something delicious to nurture her wounded soul from the inside out.

Then an idea struck like a clap of thunder. Of course. It was so obvious. How did she not think of it earlier?

Setting the can on the counter, Wren turned away from the stove and headed for the front door, and the one person who could give her what she needed.

Smith Connors whisked the last of the butter into the béarnaise sauce, then seasoned it with a dash of salt. He dipped a spoon into the simmering yellow mixture and dotted the tip against his tongue. Sharp. Creamy. Perfect. Just the way he'd learned at the Culinary Institute of America. It'd taken a year to master the mother sauces of French haute cuisine, but it was worth it.

Because, damn, this shit was good.

A teaspoon of chopped tarragon completed the masterpiece before he drizzled it over the grilled swordfish filet on a bed of wilted arugula and long grain and wild rice.

Juan, his head waiter and all-around right-hand man entered the kitchen. Order up, boss?

Smith slid the swordfish across the warming shelf next to the brick chicken and lobster ravioli à la rosé. Just now. How's the dining room? He wiped his hands on the dish cloth on the counter.

Quiet. I think the worst of the dinner rush is over. Weather's been threatening all day, Juan said as he balanced two of the dishes in his left hand.

That's all right. Slow nights are good. Gives us time to breathe.

Juan let out a short laugh. You're telling me. He grabbed the swordfish plate then wheeled back toward the dining room.

Harbor's Edge was the island's most popular restaurant, drawing both locals and tourists from the mainland. In the high season the reservations book was filled and walk-ups happily waited hours for a table. It was a chef's dream come true. Rave reviews and a full house.

In some ways, the off-season was even more special. Fewer customers meant time to mingle with the regulars who came each week no matter the weather, as well as the chance to experiment with new menu items. And, thanks to the recent break up with his scheming business partner, the off-season was the perfect time to re-evaluate his expansion plans.

Harbor's Edge was built on Smith's sweat equity and stubborn dedication. He'd willed it into existence because it was literally his only career option. He'd be damned if he'd let anyone try to take advantage of him again, even an ex-best friend who should have known better than to exploit his weakness. But that was Smith's fault, too. He should have kept his bullshit problems to himself in the first place. Lesson learned.

The bell on the restaurant's old stained-glass door chimed. Out of habit, Smith turned to look through the pass-through window that separated the kitchen from the dining room to see who'd come in.

Holy shit.

It couldn't be.

Stepping out from behind the prep counter, he peered at the host stand. His heart beat a drum in his chest.

It was her.

Wren Donovan, the singular object of his teenage dreams, was in his restaurant.

The gorgeous, smart, assertive girl who'd left him tongue tied every summer of his youth and fumbling to prove he was worthy of more than just her friendship. He'd never succeeded, mostly because he was too intimidated to try, but his heartsick, teenaged-self had held out hope that one day he'd lose the baby face, fill out his scrawny frame, and overcome enough of his insecurities to confess his true feelings.

By the time he'd grown and gotten most of his shit together, Wren had long since stopped coming to the island with any regularity. And when she did pop up, it was usually with some asshat in a pastel polo with an upturned collar and plaid shorts.

But now she was here. Alone. Like some kind of miracle.

No way would he blow this chance.

Smith bolted from the kitchen. Ignoring the calls from the regulars seated at the bar, he headed straight for where Wren was staring off into the newly renovated side dining room. Swallowing his breath, he took a moment to take her in. Big green eyes, wavy brown hair that framed her oval face, and bow-shaped lips that begged to be kissed. Not to mention the spectacular curves beneath her snug jeans and pale blue sweater.

She looked as good as ever. No, better. Older, more confident, and if it was possible, even more beautiful than he remembered. How long had it been since he'd last caught a glimpse of her walking down Main Street on her way to one of the boutiques? Three years, more? Hell, it felt like forever.

But that was the past. This was the present and he resolved to make the most of it.

Wren Donovan. Long time no see. Calm and cool, just like she was a regular customer and not the ideal against whom he measured all other women.

She started and whipped her head around to him. For a split second, her beautiful eyes conveyed a hint of sorrow, or maybe it was a stab of pain, but the emotion cleared the moment she dialed into him.

Oh! Smith. Hi. She beamed. And damn but that smile was just as nice as he remembered. Her fingers fluttered up to her cheek. I'm sorry, I was in my head there for a second. A soft, almost sad chuckle rolled past her lips and twisted his heart.

A sudden urge swelled to make whatever was bothering her go away. He leaned forward slightly. Don't be. I surprised you.

Wren nodded. "It's a nice surprise. I didn't expect to see you. I mean, I knew you might be here—it is your restaurant. She laughed. But I figured you'd be in the kitchen. I know how busy this place gets."

Interesting. She knew about the restaurant's success. His success. This was promising.

You're in luck. It's a slow night and I've got a table just for you. Unless...someone else will be joining you? He reached for the menus and braced himself for the answer he didn't want to hear.

She let out an exhale. No. It's just me.

Halle-fucking-lujah. He barely contained the grin that spread across his face. Follow me.

Winding through the side dining room that overlooked the wraparound porch, he led her to a cozy corner banquette. She slid into her seat and took the menu from his hand.

Can I start you off with a drink?

You don't need to fuss over me. I can wait for the waiter, she said as her eyes flicked toward Juan clearing the dishes from a party that had just left. I'm sure you've got plenty of chef stuff to do.

Pouring on the charm, he ducked toward her and pitched his brow. "Chef stuff includes serving my guests, especially the special ones."

A blush rose on her perfect cheeks. "I