Slow Burn by Starlight

One It would be no exaggeration to say that Ruthie Malone had been dreaming of this moment her entire conscious life. Obviously as a newborn she hadn’t been pining after Ralphie Reed. But by the time toddlerhood rolled around, she’d generally toddled in the direction of her angelic blond playmate. Family legend held that her first word had been “Waa-fee.” R’s were difficult for a six-month-old, but everyone knew who she was crying for. In fact, she’d even claimed the nickname “Ruthie” because it sounded so much like “Ralphie.” Now it was too late to ditch it, especially here in Lost Harbor, where everyone knew her as Ruthie and probably always would. In New York, where she’d just finished graduate school, no one called her that. In New York, she’d ditched a lot of things. Her nickname, her shyness, her awkwardness, her social anxiety—well, mostly—and her boring wardrobe. Not her crush on Ralphie, though. Not a chance. “Ruthie, where do you want this?” She startled at the arrival of Chrissie Yates, who was carrying a large bottle of wildcrafted yarrow ale into the lighthouse—the perfect setting for this birthday dinner. “Right here.” Ruthie pointed to the intimate round bar table she’d carried in here earlier and carefully positioned next to the lighthouse’s angled windows. The lighthouse—long-decommissioned—was her realm. Chrissie had hired her as the director of the newly established Lost Harbor Museum of Homestead Life and Alaskan Oddities. At first, she’d been worried about coming back to Lost Harbor. The last thing she wanted was to backslide into the shyness that had crippled her as a child. But now she saw it as an opportunity to present the new, vastly improved, grown-up Ruthie to her hometown. And most especially to Ralphie Reed. Today was his birthday. Not only that, but he’d just gotten back to Lost Harbor after a long fishing trip. She’d jumped at the chance to lure him to the lighthouse for some of his favorite foods. A completely updated list, by the way. Research was her thing, after all. She’d never met a question she couldn’t answer with enough research. If grad school had offered a class on Ralphie Reed 101, she would have aced it. Chrissie set the bottle and a couple of glass tumblers on the table and gave a whistle as she surveyed the scene. Ruthie had set the table with a sunny bouquet of late-summer wildflowers, with several lottery tickets nestled in with the calendula. From her research, she’d learned that Ralphie was obsessed with winning the lottery. “Ralphie won’t know what hit him,” Chrissie said. “You think he’ll like it?” Ruthie twisted her hands together anxiously. “Has he changed a lot in the last eight years?” “Ralphie never changes,” Chrissie assured her, flicking her blond ponytail over her shoulder. Her blue eyes sparkled as she took in the rest of Ruthie’s preparations. An Igloo cooler next to the table, stocked with backup beers—Bud Light in case the home-brewed ale didn’t hit right. An iPod played a channel of ’80s pop music, Ralphie’s favorite. A scented candle flickered in the evening light, even though the sun wouldn’t be down for a few more hours yet. Chrissie sniffed. “What’s that smell?” “It’s the candle. Can you believe I found a candle scented with saltwater taffy? It’s Ralphie’s favorite.” “I’m sensing a theme,” Chrissie said dryly. “Well, it’s the first chance I’ve had to see Ralphie since I got back.” Ruthie’s defensiveness kicked in automatically. “You know we played together a lot when we were kids.” “Ralphie does love to play.” Chrissie said that under her breath, but Ruthie caught it anyway. She knew perfectly well what Ralphie’s reputation was. He was…well, pick your word. Player. Lady-killer. Manwhore. He flirted with everyone. Tourists, locals, single women, married women, even the occasional man. It was his nature. He loved to make women—and the occasional man—happy. “I know you disapprove of…all this.” Ruthie waved at the table. She’d had to shove a few glass display cases to the side to make room for it. But she was the museum director, after all. Over the past few weeks, she’d filled the space with displays of native narwhal scrimshaw art, pioneer-era willow snowshoes, and the pouches the early trappers wore against their chests to prevent the precious sourdough inside from freezing. In one corner she’d set up a playback booth where people would listen to stories from old-timers told in their own voices. She couldn’t wait to start those interviews. Chrissie threw up a hand. “I didn’t say that. Obviously, you and Ralphie have a history. Anyway, I like Ralphie. Who doesn’t? I just…I mean…I hope you don’t…” “I’m not picking out my wedding bouquet,” Ruthie said dryly. “I get it.” She tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “It’s just…I want him to see the grown-up me, you know? I was always so shy when I lived here before.” “You don’t need to explain a thing to me, I promise.” Chrissie gave her a sympathetic squeeze on her shoulder. “He’ll be blown away, I have no doubt. I just want you to have fun. I’m sure Ralphie’s good for that.” Ruthie lifted her eyebrows, since that sounded a little like a slam. “You deserve some fun,” Chrissie continued. “You’ve been working your ass off getting this museum open. I’m so grateful you took this job. If you wanted to wine and dine a raccoon in here, I’d support you.” Still sounded like a slam. But Ruthie didn’t care. Obviously, Chrissie didn’t know what it was like to go on a date with the man who’d been her fantasy since childhood. In New York, as she’d developed her own style, figured out how to deal with her curly red hair, and worked hard on her social anxiety, she’d dreamed about the moment that Ralphie Reed saw the new Ruthie Malone. Goodbye, boring old Ruthie with the crooked glasses, the temporary back brace from when she’d tripped in front of her dad’s truck, and the acne that had tormented her from middle school onward. Hello, semi-glam Ruthie with the waves of less-carroty hair and a smile she’d been told could be “bewitching.” Also, Ruthie with the master’s degree and the experience of living in lower Manhattan. Would that count for anything with Ralphie Reed? She had no idea, since she didn’t know what the adult Ralphie was like, other than his reputation. Chrissie hurried away, back to the ten million details that went with managing the property she’d inherited from her grandfather. Ruthie adjusted the lottery tickets in the vase to make sure they could be seen at first glance. She tended to be obsessive about details like that, which was one reason why she was such a good researcher, and also one reason why she drove people crazy. Like Alastair Dougal, for instance, who tapped on the door just then. He held a tray filled with some of his famous appetizers. She knew for a fact that Ralphie liked them because she’d double-checked with his mother. And then triple-checked with Toni Del Rey, who’d been friends with Ralphie for years. Alastair’s hazel-green eyes held their usual hint of something between amusement or irritation, but she was used to it by now. He was the chef in charge of food at the new Lighthouse Brewery, while her job was to transform the lighthouse itself into a museum. One would think that with two such different areas of expertise, they’d stay out of each other’s way. Nope. They’d gone from clashing over every little thing to accepting each other’s boundaries, and now she considered him a close friend. They actually joked about being each other’s “work spouse.” Since her pay at the museum was so low, she worked a few shifts a week as his sous-chef. Alastair could be a grouch sometimes, mostly when he was in chef mode. Also, he had a tragic past, which she’d learned about in bits and pieces. But once she’d gotten past his reserve, she’d discovered him to be wry, funny, and best of all, accepting of her neuroses. “Are you planning to propose to this bloke?” he asked with that Scottish burr that all the women gushed over. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” When he raised his eyebrows, she explained, “We were six. There was a green twisty. I’m sure he doesn’t remember.” Alastair stepped inside, letting the heavy door thud closed behind him. The lighthouse was perched on a granite bluff and constructed to withstand countless Alaskan winter storms. Nonetheless, she fretted about her artifacts. “Why do you always drop the door like that? My partial orca skeleton gets jostled every time.” She came toward him and took the tray of appetizers. Alastair glanced up at the skeleton suspended overhead. “Looks fine to me. Very romantic. Not surprised you want to have a date in here.” She caught his dry tone and made a little face at him. “Ralphie likes skeletons as much as I do. We found the remains of a baby otter once on the beach.” “When you were little kids,” he pointed out. “Yes, but he was really excited and we tried to recreate its skeletal structure as much as we could, before his dog decided to bury it.” “Sounds to me like the dog had more sense than both of you.” “Whatever. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a Ruthie-and-Ralphie thing.” She took the tray over to the table and carefully unloaded the plates of potstickers, sushi rolls, and bacon-wrapped shrimp. “A Ruthie-and-Ralphie thing, is it? I can’t decide if that sounds more like a brand of hipster messenger bags or goat milk soap.” Hands in his pockets, he ambled past the table to the angled glass windows, which offered a stunning view of Misty Bay and the mountains of Lost Souls Wilderness. “Now this is the kind of view I’d prefer on a date.” “I guess it’s good that you and I aren’t on a date, then,” she said cheerfully. “Ralphie sees this kind of thing all the time. He’s a fisherman and he knows the Gulf of Alaska like his own backyard.” “I do know the bloke.” Again, that hint of irritation. “You don’t have to keep filling me in on the glories of Ralphie Reed.” “You don’t have to be jealous.” She came up next to him and pinched him on the cheek the way her grandmother had always done to her. “You’re still my one and only work husband.” He glared down at her, and a mighty frown it was, too, with all of that black hair and evening stubble. His Highland warrior roots were showing. “I’d better be, at that. I don’t approve of cheating on a spouse, even a work spouse.” “Then we’d have to have a work divorce and that could get ugly. Good thing we have that never-nuptial agreement.” She gave him a cheeky smile and went back to fussing over the table. “Ruthie, if you don’t mind me asking, how many dates have you been on?” “That’s a funny question. Why do you ask?” “Well, I know Ralphie, and he seems like a casual bloke. The kind who’d be just as happy with a beer and chips as a plate of potstickers.” “These aren’t your ordinary potstickers. These are Alastair Dougal creations. You really ought to give yourself more credit. I believe I saw someone propose over a plateful the other night.” “Ahh, so that’s your plan. Soften Ralphie up with some potstickers and pounce.” “Would you stop with that? There will be no proposals tonight. I simply haven’t spent any time with Ralphie since I left for college, and this seems like a good opportunity.” “So you got him flowers. And what are those?” He leaned forward to peer at the lottery tickets. She moved in front of him to block his view. He c****d his head to listen to the music floating from the iPod. “Ralphie loves The Bangles?” “They’re so underrated.” Firmly, he planted his hands on her shoulders and fixed her with his green-eyed gaze. Honestly, if she weren’t so obsessed with Ralphie, she’d find Alastair very attractive. Even more honestly, she did find him attractive. But that was the unwritten rule of being a work wife—don’t acknowledge the attraction. “Ruthie, I feel obligated as your friend and your work husband to point out that you’re going a little overboard. You don’t want to scare him off, do you?” “You think he’s afraid of The Bangles? His mother told me he still has a poster of them in his bedroom.” “His mother told you that, or you found out yourself when you snuck in?” A guilty flush crept up her cheeks. “Sneak is a very loaded word. His mother let me go into his room to leave him my invitation.” “I knew it.” The grin that split his face looked almost piratical in the middle of all that dark scruff. “Intervention time.” He tried to step around her, but she followed his movement and blocked his path. “What are you doing?” “Intervening.” “How? Why? You have no right—” He managed to dodge around her and she chased after him, grabbing the back of his sweater. “If you do anything to mess up my plans, I swear I’ll— I’ll—” “You’ll what? Reorganize my grains again? Alphabetize my spices?” Both of those good deeds from the early days of their acquaintance were still huge sore points with Alastair. “If you’d just give my methods a chance, I guarantee you’d find them more efficient. They’re based on careful research.” “Efficient, like the way you set up the drinks station? That kind of efficient?” Another sore point. She’d arranged all the liquids at the self-service drinks table according to their nutritional benefit. Her logic had been sound, in her opinion. If a drink was harder to reach, people would be less likely to go for it. Why not put the pitcher of ice water in the front and the soda cans as far back as possible? Was it her fault that people kept knocking over the water? Finally, Alastair and Toni had gotten sick of mopping the floor and banned her from instituting any more brilliant ideas without a vote. “You really don’t need to keep bringing up the same old complaints,” she grumbled. Finally freeing his sweater from her grip, he snatched up her iPod. “Hey, what are you doing?” “Changing the channel.” She danced behind him, trying to grab for it, but his big body kept getting in the way. Alastair was a solid, compact hunk of muscle, it seemed, and he had no trouble fending her off. She’d never been at all athletic, which was one thing she worried about when it came to Ralphie. He was a fisherman, after all, and extremely fit. Probably even more so than Alastair, who’d spent an entire month hiking in Lost Souls Wilderness. The sound of The Bangles singing about manic Mondays ended abruptly and Al Green came on, singing “Let’s Get it On.” “How is this better?” she demanded. “Now he’s going to think I want to have s*x with him.” “I’m assuming you do, nae? It’s all you’ve talked about since he returned to port.” “I wasn’t talking about having s*x with him,” Ruthie hissed. “Our connection is so much deeper than that. Clearly it’s beyond your…ken.” He glanced down at her, amusement in his deep-set eyes. “I do love it when you throw a bit of Scottish into your ridiculous statements. The only thing Ralphie Reed has a deeper connection with is his own mirror.” She swatted him on the arm and tried to grab the iPod again. He held it out of her reach—not exactly hard when he was almost a foot taller than her—and used his thumb to search for something else. “Is this a bit better?” he finally asked as a new sound flowed from the iPod. She stilled and c****d her head. The music he’d found was weirdly great, kind of vaguely Irish with an electronic beat and an otherworldly sound to it. It fit this beautiful spot—the lighthouse perched on a bluff with a top-of-the-world kind of vibe—to perfection. “That’s not bad.” She half closed her eyes and let the ethereal sounds transport her. “Good intervention.” “You’re welcome.” His husky voice, with its quirky burr, added to the hypnotic flow of the sounds filling the lighthouse. A ray of the setting sun struck the westernmost-facing window and infused the entire space with a rich golden haze. Her breath caught and she felt as if the moment had cast a spell on her. The sun. The music. The lemony scent of the cleanser she used for the lighthouse interior. The more male scent of Alastair Dougal, who always smelled like a fir forest. Local legend said the lighthouse had once been a secret spot for lovers. At this moment, she believed it. “Am I interrupting something?” She ripped herself away from Alastair, stumbling over her own feet. She would have fallen if not for Alastair’s quick action. “Ralphie!” “Hey, Ruthie. ’Sup?” God, he was beyond beautiful. The blond ringlets that had made him such an angelic child were cropped short now, framing a face that belonged on movie screens. Technically, his eyes were blue. But blue was such a bland word that didn’t nearly describe them properly. Those eyes could make you feel like you were paragliding on a cloudless midsummer day without any fear of falling. She gave a long sigh, oblivious to where she was and what she was doing. Vaguely, she became aware of Alastair setting her on her feet and then releasing her. She must have grabbed on to his sweater at some point because she still clung to it. “Hey, man,” he greeted Ralphie. “Scottish dude. What’s shaking?” “Not much. I was just leaving.” “You should stay,” Ralphie said easily. He wore a soft blue t-shirt that made his eyes even more dazzling than she remembered. “So long as you don’t mind a lot of old stories about blanket forts.” Ruthie let out a ridiculous sound that was part glee, part surprise. He remembered the blanket forts. That was significant, right? Out of all the women Ralphie had dated, she’d bet that none of them had built blanket forts with him. “That’s all right. I still have some cleanup to do back in the kitchen. You kids have fun.” Alastair c****d an eyebrow down at Ruthie and gently tugged his sweater free. “You okay?” he mouthed. She nodded, then shook her head. Weirdly, she didn’t want him to go. All this buildup to her first adult encounter with Ralphie and now she was terrified. What if she couldn’t manage to get any more words out? All she’d said so far was “Ralphie.” Damn it! This was why she’d struck out on her own and gone to New York, so she could work herself out of this paralyzing shyness. If her friendship with Alastair was any indication, it had worked. If she wasn’t shy with Alastair, why would she be with Ralphie? You can do this, Ruthie. She read the same message in Alastair’s eyes and drew strength from it. If Alastair thought she could do it, she could. He was a smart man and a great work husband. Squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine, she faced her childhood dreamboat. Just be normal. As if he’s someone here for a tour. “Welcome to the Lost Harbor Museum of Homestead Life and Alaskan Oddities. It’s thoroughly delightful to see you again.” Good Lord, was that a British accent she’d suddenly acquired for no reason? Sigh.