Page 11 of Escape to Lighthouse Cove

“Yes, but I didn’t look.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “Scout’s honor.” Not that he’d ever been a Scout.

“And then didn’t put any clothes on me,” she pointed out a little sharply, her eyes now narrowing.

“Ah, but if I was going to dress you when you were unconscious, then Iwouldhave had to look,” he replied, his hand still pressed to his heart. “It was altruistically intended, I assure you. Not even one little peek.”

She gave a little shake of her head as she looked away, seeming to dismiss his attempt at banter, and Noah dropped his hand from his chest. He had taken on the persona of his former self, he realized—unthinkingly, out of instinct, the way he’d always used to make people like him. Here he was, the charmingly ironical and just slightly rakish venture capitalist, who never took anything too seriously, who turned everything into a gently mocking joke, even something as serious as this.

The realization filled him with shame. He thought he’d learned, but what he’d learned, of course, was that he couldn’t trust himself to be different.

“Of course you can see him,” he told Grace quietly. “Your clothes are drying, but I can find something else for you to wear.”

“Thank you,” she replied, still without looking at him.

Feeling both chastised and humbled, Noah silently slipped from the room to get her some clothes.

The house had been pretty much cleared out of all his family’s personal possessions twenty years ago when they’d shuttered the place up, which left Noah with only his current personal effects to choose from, and he didn’t have many of those. He’d come to Grayhaven with a single suitcase and a boatload of grief.

He rifled through his drawers, managing to come up with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of navy sweatpants, both freshly washed, thanks to Isaiah. His assistant really did far too much for him, Noah acknowledged with an uneasy pang of guilt. He could manage his own laundry, for heaven’s sake. He should be able to manage a lot of things.

He checked on Grace’s clothes, spread out in front of the fire in his study where he’d left Jacob, who was still playing both sides of the chessboard with a focused intensity. He really did remind him of Jem, Noah thought. The realization was painful.

The cashmere sweater and designer jeans Grace had been wearing were still wet, but her bra and underwear—lacy things in ivory silk from some upscale boutique—were dry and Noah took them along with the t-shirt and sweatpants, hoping he didn’t come across as creepy for the whole thing with her clothes. He couldn’t have left her freezing to death in soaking wet clothes, he told himself. And he really hadn’t peeked.

He glanced at Jacob, who was frowning down at the board. “Hey, your mom has woken up, and she wants to see you,” he said, keeping his voice gentle and relaxed. “She should be here in a minute or two.”

Jacob looked up at him, his dark gaze solemn and unblinking underneath his rumpled dark hair, still damp from their encounter with the tide. He didn’t acknowledge what Noah had said with so much as a nod, but from the slight relaxing of his little shoulders, he still had the sense the boy had heard and understood. He hadn’t made a sound since Noah had rescued him; he supposed he really was shy.

Just like Jem.

Pushing the thought away, he headed back to Grace.

“Here you are. I just checked on Jacob, and he’s still playing chess.”

Grace’s head jerked up as the man—she still didn’t know his name—came into the room with some clothes draped over her arm, including, she saw with a flush of embarrassment, her underwear. The thought that he’d had to peel her bra and underpants from her wet body while she was unconscious sent a ripple of pure horror going through her, and she found she couldn’t look him in the eye.

She hadn’t appreciated his little joke about not peeking, although she suspected he had been trying to reassure her. She’d spent far too much of her adult life feeling at a disadvantage, and while she was very grateful to this man that he’d rescued her and Jacob, she didn’t like feeling that way now.

“I realized I don’t even know your name,” she said as she took the clothes he extended.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” A faint blush touched his cheeks, and Grace found she was glad. So perhaps he wasn’t as arrogant as she’d first thought. Maybe it was simply because he reminded her of her ex-husband—that same air of careless charm, the good looks that were so obvious as to be obnoxious. Although, to be fair, this man didn’tpreenthe way Brad had. He wore his handsomeness unconsciously, and yet she couldn’t deny he was very handsome, indeed.

Rumpled dark hair left a little longer than most men, deep blue eyes, blade-like cheekbones and a cleft in his chin. Plus broad shoulders, long legs, a lean yet powerful physique, although his clothes—a worn wool sweater and faded jeans—didn’t showcase it the way one of Brad’s designer suits would have.

Maybe she was being unfair to compare this man to Brad in any respect.

He introduced himself. “I’m Noah.”

“Noah Lawrence?” she guessed.

His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

Why hadn’t he wanted to admit that? Whatwasit about the Lawrence family? “I’m Grace Wyatt,” she said, “but maybe you knew that?”

He inclined his head. “I guessed.”

She nodded slowly and for a second they simply stared at each other, the moment feeling strangely charged. Then Noah gave an ironically gentlemanly bow, sweeping his hand in front of him in a courtly gesture that annoyed Grace, just a little. It almost felt like he was making fun of her. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, and with a lopsided smile, like he knew she was just that little bit irritated, he turned and left.