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They promised to meet in four years...
He was there. Where was she?
Conor Delaney believed he and Shelby Brookes shared something special. Until the girl he’d loved since fourth grade was a no-show for what should have been the most romantic reunion of their lives. Two years and one shattered heart later, Shelby’s back in their California town—as the new chef at Conor’s family restaurant. The single mom has a reason for what she did...and a plan for winning back the guarded California lawman.
LYNNE MARSHALL used to worry she had a serious problem with daydreaming, and then she discovered she was supposed to write those stories down! A late bloomer, she came to fiction writing after her children were nearly grown. Now she battles the empty nest by writing romantic stories about life, love and happy endings. She’s a proud mother and grandmother who loves babies, dogs, books, music and traveling.
Also by Lynne Marshall
Soldier, Handyman, Family Man
Forever a Father
Her Perfect Proposal
A Doctor for Keeps
The Medic’s Homecoming
Courting His Favorite Nurse
Miracle for the Neurosurgeon
A Mother for His Adopted Son
200 Harley Street: American Surgeon in London
Her Baby’s Secret Father
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk
Reunited with the Sheriff
Lynne Marshall
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-07766-8
REUNITED WITH THE SHERIFF
© 2018 Janet Maarschalk
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk
Version: 2020-03-02
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Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Extract
About the Publisher
Prologue
Conor Delaney and Shelby Brookes strolled Sandpiper Beach at sunset while still euphoric from making love. Earlier that month, on a Fourth of July hike, they’d found an abandoned house on the cliffs with a spectacular view to watch fireworks. The Beacham House, the sign hanging lopsided from one chain link out front had said. Since that day, they’d met there just about every afternoon. Sex with a distant ocean view, well, there was nothing quite like it. On brisk evenings, like tonight, they’d even used the fireplace with the functioning chimney.
“What if we hadn’t run into each other?” He brought up something that had been on his mind since that first day.
Shelby glanced up at Conor, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes he’d come to live for, her long hair lifting with the breeze and riling up his insides all over again. “It’s an awfully small town, I think we were bound to.”
Without a doubt, he believed her. But even once they reunited, with him staying at The Drumcliffe Hotel under the ever-vigilant eyes of his grandfather, mother and father, and Shelby’s mother just back from a two-week Canadian Rockies trip, they’d needed a place to meet—alone. Then they took that hike and, well, the Fourth of July fireworks took on a whole new meaning. He tugged her closer to his side as she snuggled in, their steps in near-perfect unison thanks to him measuring his strides.
“Do you think it was meant to be?” she continued.
Now she’d started to sound like his grandfather, the man who thought everything happened for a reason. Like finding that house. But there was some merit to what she’d implied. Four years since they’d last seen each other after high school graduation, they’d both come home unplanned to Sandpiper Beach at the same time. He’d recently graduated with a criminal justice degree and had already completed the basic training for peace officers in California at the Police Academy. He’d come home to wait out the summer for results from background checks from the sheriff departments he’d applied to in three nearby counties. She’d come home because she’d lost her job, without further prospects back east.
“I did give you a promise ring before you left.” He’d carefully chosen a Claddagh ring when he’d found out her plans to go to culinary school in NYC. She was the first girl he’d fallen in love with way back in tenth grade. Maybe even since fourth grade, when they met playing tetherball.
“You haven’t exactly been courting me since then, though.”
True, they’d fallen far out of touch in four years.
“That’s a little hard when you’re in New York and I’m in California.” It was a defensive and lame response, because he also wondered why he hadn’t tried harder with her, kept in touch, let her know he still thought about her. Often.
“In fact, you’re the one who sent me away!”
Yes, he’d encouraged her to go, trying to be wise about waiting until they were older, and never wanting to give Shelby a reason to resent him for holding her back. That was the distinct sense he’d secretly held about his mother with his father, and her painting. His parents had gotten married right out of high school, then had a kid, and she never had the chance to study her craft. Her passion. Unlike his father, he’d never want to do that to someone he loved.
“You wanted to go, it was your dream.”
“I know, but still.” Was it hurt he saw in her questioning eyes?
After high school, Shelby had gone east and he’d begun his studies in San Diego. They both needed to find their way in the world before they could commit to more. Ever Mr. Practical, that was what he’d told himself back then. Do the right thing. Wait until you have something to offer her. “I didn’t want to be the reason you couldn’t go after what you wanted.”
She looked down, kicked some sand with her toes. “We both had dreams.”
“And look what we’ve achieved at twenty-three? Maybe running into each other was our reward.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” she said. “What are the odds that we’d both wind up home at the same time?”
They stopped for the moment, gazing into each other’s eyes. Their meeting up out of the blue was extraordinary when he thought about it. Or had Grandda planted a little thought in his head about “the word” being a certain someone was coming home? Padraig, Sandpiper’s own gadabout, always kept his hands on the pulse of their hometown.
For whatever reason, they’d found paradise at their secret hideaway for nearly four weeks. Like nothing he’d ever experienced with a woman before. As far as he was concerned, she was “the one” and he was so glad to find her again. The only way he knew how to show how he felt was to kiss her again, so he did.
* * *
Shelby welcomed Conor’s kiss.
They’d spent every day together for the past month, and everything had been wonderful.
After graduating high school, instead of going to college, Shelby had enrolled in culinary school and headed off to lower Manhattan. Completing the course in two years, she held a series of so-so jobs before getting her first challenge at one of NYC’s trendy new restaurants, but the business had gone under in less than two years. She wasn’t proud of giving up and coming home, so she called it “taking a breather.”
Finding Conor again, her first love and most trusted friend, had been nothing short of amazing. Especially after enduring the loneliness from being in NYC for so long, chasing her dreams, getting knocked down, refusing to give up. They’d picked right up like they’d never been apart. Friends. Lovers. Now it was their last night, and Conor’s kiss tasted bittersweet.
“This was a perfect summer,” he said, breaking away from her lips.
Though smiling demurely, she was totally aware of how much she’d opened his world. They’d both obviously been with other people, learned more about making love since their early, sometimes awkward times together. He’d delivered her first hickey in middle school. Later, in high school, they’d been virgins together. Though their natural chemistry had always been strong, something explosive had happened between them this summer. A quick flash of what they’d been doing a few short minutes earlier made her need to kiss him again.
Perfect summer, yes. But nothing stayed perfect for long. Just yesterday she’d gotten word that a forgotten job application as a sous-chef in an established and respected restaurant in New York City, had finally opened up. The job was hers for the taking, but she had to leave ASAP. Just when things were really heating up with Conor. The problem was, when she’d first applied for that job and several others, so desperate to work and prove herself as a chef, she would have given anything for the position. Now Conor, without trying, interfered with that perspective. Was she still bound and determined to prove herself? Or could a sexy distraction like Conor change her mind?
She couldn’t let all the training and work she’d put in for the past four years go to waste. It was still her dream, on her terms. But did he have to be so understanding about it?
It was bad timing. And definitely not part of their “meant to be” summer. Still, Conor refused to stand in the way. He’d used some corny explanation, “The Grandda” view, he’d called it. In other words, this, too, was probably meant to offer them more time to grow. After all, they were only a few years out of high school and he was just starting out on his law enforcement career. But one day they’d be ready and nothing would stop them, even if she had to beg him to move back east.
Thinking while kissing was never a good idea. Doubt tumbled over her: Why was he always so supportive of her leaving to pursue her dreams? Especially now, after their beautiful summer? Would he move if she asked him? Insecurity, like a tight net, held her stiff and still.
And Conor had noticed.
* * *
Midkiss, with the tumbling ocean as the backdrop, a crazy idea flew into Conor’s mind. He ended the kiss, sensing she’d tensed up.
“This was the best summer of my life,” Conor said, cupping Shelby’s face, confident about love, true love, and overlooking her questioning gaze. “Let’s make a promise.”
Normally practical-minded to a fault, tonight anything but, he’d stopped her under the second lifeguard station from The Drumcliffe Hotel. At dusk, with the low tide tickling the shore, the brisk summer breeze seeming to encircle them in their own world, Conor held Shelby’s shoulders, brushing her lips with his, working up the confidence to suggest more.
Letting Shelby go after he’d found her again was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t keep her from her dream to run her own top-notch kitchen. In her mind, New York was the best and only place in the States to get experience. Yet he couldn’t let her go without a promise, a real promise this time, not some corny Claddagh ring.
How long was he willing to wait for Shelby to build her career? How long could they be true to each other long distance? Only the test of time would tell...with the help of a promise.
“A promise?” Shelby’s deep brown eyes gazed into his, seeming to buy into any wild plan he concocted.
“Yes, let’s promise, no matter what—you do your thing, I’ll do mine—but let’s meet right here at sunset in four years.” He pulled out his phone and checked a future calendar for the date and day and repeated it to her. “Will you promise?”
Her gaze widened, the newly rising moon reflecting in her fawn-colored irises.
“I’ll have a question for you then,” he said, lifting a brow, teasing out the promise, “and we’ll see.” If our love is meant to be forever.
Her quivery smile, and the chill bumps appearing across her shoulders and chest gave him hope.
“Yes, I promise,” she said on a breath, sending his spirits soaring.
“Shelby Lyn Brookes, I love you,” he said.
“I love you,” she repeated, dreamy-looking and beautiful as the setting sun.
They sealed their plans with the kind of kiss they’d gotten especially good at that summer. Deep, drawn-out and filled with need. And this time, heated with a promise. Then they headed back to the Beacham House for their last night together in Sandpiper Beach.
Chapter One
Six years, seven months and nearly three weeks later...
Conor Delaney pulled his used muscle car into his designated parking spot at the family hotel, revved the engine, then turned the key. He liked old stuff, like this beat-up Camaro painted mostly with primer. And the old Beacham House, empty and begging for someone to buy it and bring it to life again, sitting far back on the cliffs above the Sandpiper beach dunes. That was a whole other story. He liked The Drumcliffe, too—the vintage hotel he’d grown up in and around, just footsteps from the beach. Thanks, Grandda, for thinking about the future way back in the 1960s and buying the land. Though Conor wasn’t exactly proud that at twenty-nine he still lived in the family hotel.
Tonight, he was especially glad he had the hotel restaurant at his fingertips. It had been a long Saturday, with several drunk and disorderly arrests at a local sports bar, no time for a lunch break, and, after the end of his shift, he was hungry. Really hungry. He thought about ordering room service so he could strip out of his deputy sheriff uniform and eat in his boxers and undershirt in front of the TV, but something nudged him to be sociable. A guy could only dodge his mother for so long before she came knocking on his hotel suite door—that was a major drawback of living at home at his age even if it was a noble cause to save money for that dream fixer-upper.
Again, another story.
Opening the car door, he stretched out his left leg, and thanks to the low-to-the-ground chassis, took his sweet time standing all the way up. They didn’t make cars like this with guys six foot three in mind. He straightened his shoulders, eyes on the prize—dinner!—no worries about needing reservations on a Saturday night because, well, this was The Drumcliffe Hotel Restaurant. The chef, Rita, was like a hundred or something, and the regulars were mostly senior citizens.
Conor’s brother Mark was taking over more and more responsibility with the hotel, now that Mom and Dad were on their countdown to retirement, and he had big plans, too. Or so it seemed. But since Mark had moved in with Laurel in the B&B across the street, and Conor had lost his last brother/roommate, he hadn’t caught up with all of Mark’s latest plans. He kind of missed their late-night catch-up talks, too. Now that he roomed with his first cousin from Ireland, Brian, the late-night conversations all centered around getting to know each other. A whole different thing.
Walking into the dark dining room, he saw more heads above the leather booths than usual, and something smelled great. Man, he was hungry.
The local high school girl playing hostess for the weekend smiled. “Hi, Mr. Delaney. Dining alone?”
He nodded.
Looking a little doe-eyed in the dim lighting, the long-haired brunette led the way to the family booth back in the far corner, then handed him the menu. Not the usual one, but a new narrow one-pager, in fuchsia. He perused the column of Today’s Specials written in a fancy font, and was surprised to see Rita had changed things up. Where was the pot roast, the meat loaf, the poached salmon?
Instead, he found a list of meals he’d never seen before, including beef tenderloin steaks on potato galettes with mustard sauce. What the hell was a potato galette? Organic farm-raised chicken breasts with fresh garlic and rosemary, sweet potato mash and kale. Who ate kale on purpose? Pan-seared tuna? Had Rita started smoking something besides her Virginia Slims?
When Abby, the long-term waitress, arrived to take his order, he lifted his brows and held out the menu. “What’s up?”
“New chef.”
“Rita retired and I didn’t hear about a party?”
“It’s next week.”
Maybe his crazy work schedule had finally caught up to him. “Okay, then.” He glanced at the menu again. “Well, what do you recommend?”
“I’m hearing great things about the beef tenderloins tonight. You’ll love those potatoes. Tried ’em myself earlier.”
Too hungry to think about heading up the street to the Bee Bop Diner for a burger, he ordered a beer from his grandfather’s adjacent pub and agreed to the beef dish. “Can a guy still get a green salad?”
“Of course, fresh baby greens—organic, of course,” Abby said before listing a series of weird new dressings.
With his hungry mind thoroughly boggled he shrugged. “Just... I’ll take the white wine and shallot one. Whatever.” What was going on?
He seriously worried about the fate of his family’s hotel if the restaurant went under. People in this small beach community didn’t like change, and many had been coming here for decades for inexpensive, traditional meals. That was another thing he’d noticed, a price hike for dinners. Not huge, but there nevertheless. He didn’t care because he didn’t have to pay, but what about the locals?
While he waited for food and drink, he thumbed through his phone wondering what a shallot was. Read a few lame tweets, checked his text messages and got sidetracked with an attached article in an email. His beer came, and shortly after, his salad arrived, which tasted better than any he’d ever had from Rita. Changing up the dressings turned out to be a great idea. Or maybe the improvement had something to do with using fresh spring greens other than iceberg and romaine?
When his main course arrived, plated like nothing he’d ever seen at The Drumcliffe before—the perfectly medium rare tenderloin was sliced and balanced on an oval mound of brown and crisp sliced potatoes, and topped with mustard sauce and fresh parsley—where had they found the new chef?
Half-starved, he dug right in, deciding to leave the questions for after dinner. Wow, was his mouth happy about that decision. Several times he sat straight, purposely slowing down his chewing to savor the flavors and tenderness of the meat. And Abby was right about the potatoes. They tasted like a little piece of starch-and-butter heaven, with a hint of cheese. They were so good they had to be bad for him.
“What do you think?” His mother appeared at his booth. She seemed to be primped up more than usual for the Saturday night crowd, her natural red hair cut just below her earlobes, parted on the side in a classic style, her green eyes sparkling like she had a big secret. Wearing beige slacks and a top nearly the same color as her eyes, Maureen Delaney slid into the booth across from him.
He shook his head, smiled with sealed lips because his cheeks were crammed full of the delicious food. He swallowed half of it. “Best meal I’ve ever had here. Ever had anywhere.”
Maureen grinned, seeming to enjoy watching him eat as if she’d cooked it herself. When his plate was scraped clean, he pushed it away.
“My compliments to the chef. That was, hands down, the best meal I’ve ever tasted.”
“Ever?” Obviously surprised, she gave a relieved smile.
“Ever. And you can tell whoever replaced Rita, I said so.”
Maureen sat still, weighing her thoughts. “Why don’t you tell her, yourself?”
He had thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and they’d obviously hired someone who knew what she was doing. With him being out of the loop and chronically busy with work, just like he’d missed Rita’s last day, he’d probably missed the new employee newsflash, too. Who read hotel memos, when he had to read hundreds a day at work?
He understood the value of a good chef and a compliment for a new and nervous cook would probably go far, so he agreed. “Okay.”
Conor finished his beer and headed for the hotel kitchen, aware his mother stayed behind at the booth. Grinning, and ready to do his good deed for the day, he barreled through the door to the busy and hectic kitchen. “That was the best dinner I’ve ever had. My compliments to the chef!”
He scanned the activity and zeroed in on the area of the stove, to a petite female in a double-breasted pink chef jacket with gray cuffs and a matching slate chef beret, her short light brown hair barely sticking out from beneath. At the sight, a sudden ball of emotion wound tight and rolled from his chest to his overly stuffed stomach, then dropped to his knees, locking them, and he came to a dead stop.
Shelby. Lyn. Brookes. Turned out the new chef was the woman who’d not only broken, but ripped out, stepped on and chucked his heart into the ocean exactly two years, seven months and three weeks ago. Not that he was counting.