Up close, the subtle scent of jasmine surrounded him . . . invaded his pores . . . and made him want much, much more than this simple kiss.
Before he succumbed to the temptation to dip lower and claim her mouth, he forced himself to pull back.
Her wide eyes, hazy with yearning, told him she wanted more as much as he did.
Oh, man.
If she kept looking at him like that, his good intentions were going to be swept away as fast as a beach umbrella during one of Oregon’s legendary storms.
But one of them needed to be sensible. To keep their emotions under control.
And Marci wasn’t the best candidate for that.
He released her hand and backed up. “Thank you . . .” His voice scraped, and he cleared his throat. “Thank you for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.” She was as breathless as if she’d run a hundred-yard sprint. “Drive safe.”
Only after he descended the steps from her porch did he turn.
Marci’s tunic top had slipped down her shoulder again, and she was holding on to the doorframe as if she needed it for support.
He could relate.
With a wave, he continued toward Skip’s truck, her final comment ringing in his ears.
Driving safe wasn’t a problem.
But exploring the new territory they’d entered today?
Not so safe.
And until he could figure out how the sparks between them could—and should—play out, he was going to have to be as careful and cautious as those elusive mole crabs he’d never managed to catch during the summers of his youth here in Hope Harbor.
15
“I think that’s a wrap.” Marci skimmed her sheet of notes again, then surveyed the eight people sitting around her at the table in the Grace Christian conference room. “Let me sum up where we are to verify I got everything. Eric, you’re going to handle the legalities of setting up a nonprofit foundation that would own and manage the lighthouse.”
The attorney nodded. “Correct. I’ll take care of all the paperwork, so we can make it happen fast once we pull the trigger.”
“Excellent. Rose, you’re going to continue to solicit support from the garden club and also get in touch with the clubs in Bandon and Coos Bay to see if they’ll lend a hand until we have the foundation up and running.”
“Yes. I know some of the members, and I expect they’ll be happy to supplement our ranks on a short-term basis.”
“That would be much appreciated.” Marci moved to the next item on her list. “Michael, you’ve agreed to contact everyone on the Helping Hands call list about the project and ask them to contribute their time and expertise to the lighthouse as part of the charitable work they do for your organization.”
“The town’s organization. I’m only the director.” He hitched up one side of his mouth. “And yes, I’ll email everyone the flyer you designed with the ‘See the Light’ logo.”
“Actually, Greg designed it.” She smiled at the younger man. “In fact, we can thank him for all of the support materials—along with the bulk of the ideas we’re pursuing.”
He doodled on the pad of paper in front of him, a slight flush tinting his cheeks. “Charley did the drawing on the flyer.”
“True—but my artwork alone won’t save the lighthouse.” The taco-making painter folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “That will take an organized campaign and a coordinated effort. The whole town will have to get behind it . . . and your ideas will help make that happen.”
“I agree.” Marci continued down her list, shifting the limelight off Greg. “BJ, I’m planning to run a feature article in this week’s Herald, asking for volunteers to help with the physical work of restoration. May I have them contact you directly?”
“Yes. I’ll keep a running list and coordinate with any volunteers Michael rounds up through Helping Hands. I’m also going to call several of my suppliers this week and see if I can convince them to donate materials in exchange for some free, positive PR.”
“Which I’ll be happy to provide.” Marci gave her a thumbs-up.
She concluded with Father Murphy and Brent, who’d agreed to investigate potential private grants and government funding.
After checking off the last item on her list, she set down her pen and paper. “I think we have a strong start here. I hate to pull you all in to too many meetings, but given our short timeframe, I think we should regroup on Wednesday, if that works for everyone.”
“I’m in,” Charley said. “We need to keep this moving. I’ll even provide tacos for dinner that night if it will help convince everyone to give up a weeknight to work on this.”
Following a chorus of assents, she linked her fingers on the table. “Everything we’ve discussed today is important, but two big issues remain. How will we come up with the purchase price—and how will we fund ongoing maintenance?”
“I like the ideas Greg mentioned at the town meeting.” Charley smiled at the younger man.
“I do too. I think all of them are worth further discussion. If everyone agrees—including you, Greg”—Marci refocused on the younger man—“I’d like for the two of us to huddle on this and bring some suggestions forward on Wednesday. And of course, additional input from anyone else is welcome . . . especially on how we might raise funds to cover the purchase price.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Charley closed the small notebook on the table in front of him and pocketed his pen. “Does that about wrap it up for today? My muse is calling.”
“The painting muse or the taco muse?” Marci grinned at him.
“Thank you for recognizing that cooking and painting are both creative endeavors.” He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “In this case, it’s the painting muse.”
“You’re going to have some disappointed folks who want a tasty treat on a Sunday afternoon.” Father Murphy stood and stretched. “Including me.”
“I thought you were having dinner with Reverend Baker?”
“I am—but I could use a snack to tide me over.” He tipped his head. “How did you know about my dinner plans?”
“Would you believe me if I said
