There went that twist to her lips again. “It’s a difficult concept to grasp, I know, but I’ll use the small words. It’s pigeons. That race.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and slammed her mouth shut as soon as the words were out of her mouth, as if she couldn’t believe that she’d said something so snarky in the first place. Yep, the fact that when they were together, the filter between her quick-witted brain and that tempting mouth of hers shrank to almost nothing was definitely his favorite thing about this godforsaken island. Oh, Lady Lemons, I like it when you forget yourself. She opened her mouth, no doubt to say something that had to do with a sir, and he jumped in before she could.
“You know,” he said, “we think of those as sky rats where I’m from.”
“Don’t let Phillip hear you say that,” the burly man on the other side of Daisy said and nodded at Nick. “Riley McCann, local forest ranger.”
The men shook hands, Riley squeezing Nick’s knuckles together in a viselike grip. Raising an eyebrow, Nick slid his gaze to Daisy. There was the squeeze again. He made the same glance toward Brooke. Nothing. Ahh. He gave the territorial guy a subtle chin nod that translated to “Gotcha, no worries” without having to say a thing.
“Nick Vane, general lounge about.”
He rested his forearms on the bar and pivoted to get a good look at Brooke. There was no missing that she would not be thwarted. Lady Lemons was gearing up to say something. The straight set to her shoulders and the way she was shredding her bottom lip between her teeth totally gave her away.
“I shouldn’t have said that to you or used that tone of voice,” she said, her voice thick with self-incrimination. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vane.”
“What shouldn’t you have said?” Really, it could be a million things with her. That smart mouth of hers always seemed to be warring with her quick brain.
r /> “About the pigeon racing,” she said, glancing at the bartender making his way over to their end of the bar.
Okay, maybe it was the jet leg making his head fuzzy, but he wasn’t following. “That’s not what pigeon racing is?” he teased.
Two matching pink splotches appeared on her cheeks. “It is, but—”
“Oh, you’re interested in pigeon racing?” the bartender interrupted as he rubbed his hands together in barely controlled glee. “Phillip Chapman-Powell, Daisy and Brooke’s dad. Welcome to Bowhaven. I can show you my racers if you’d fancy a look.”
Yeah, he could see the family resemblance. All three Chapman-Powells had the same bright-blue eyes and blond hair the color of butter spread on homemade biscuits.
“I don’t know if I’ll be here long enough to get a look around. I’m trying to head back home as soon as possible.” With any luck, he wouldn’t be.
“Not that talk again,” said Daisy, who must have been following the conversation by watching everyone’s lips in the mirror behind the bar. “You’ve been village-napped, remember?”
“What?” Brooke’s eyes got even larger than her sister’s.
Riley grumbled something Nick’s Virginia ears couldn’t catch on to and Phillip just shook his head as he took off his already spotless glasses and began to clean them with the bar towel. For her part, Daisy—bold as brass—just jutted up her chin.
“According to your baby sister here,” Nick said, “I can’t leave even if I wanted to—which I do.”
“I didn’t say that exactly,” Daisy said.
“Darn close to it,” he replied with a chuckle.
She shrugged. “I’m English; we’re eccentric.”
“No, we’re n-not,” Brooke sputtered. “We’re stalwart and steady.”
Yeah. That little disagreement probably explained the sisters’ obviously loving but totally opposite personalities, judging by the look to the heavens their dad just did.
“Can’t you be both Monty Python and the whole Keep Calm thing?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t understand; you’re American,” Brooke said dismissively before she slapped her hand over her mouth, then sighed and lowered it. “I’m sorry. Again.”
“Why do you keep apologizing for things that are true? I am American, but if you talk slowly again, I might be able to follow along when you explain why in the world everyone wants me to stay.”
Brooke clasped her hands together, squeezing hard enough that her knuckles on one hand turned white. “You’re the earl’s heir whether you want to be or not, and I’ve been tasked with teaching you how to be a proper earl. And the way to do that is not by acting improperly myself.”
How he managed not to burst out laughing, he wasn’t sure. “That’s not going to happen. I’m not going to be the next earl.”
He’d be back out on his lake within forty-eight hours figuring out how to fix the nervous doggie collar and prototyping an escape-proof kennel that would leave the Houdini Three Thousand in the dust where it belonged. What could he say, he ground a few millimeters off his molars every time he saw shoddy workmanship. He was lazy about a lot, but not that.