“Your mother sounds like a smart woman.”
Morgan nodded. “She was.”
Cooper glanced at her sharply and felt like an idiot for not thinking before he spoke.
“We good?” he asked, watching her carefully.
If she was surprised at his question, she didn’t show it. She nodded and settled back.
Cooper headed out of town and sped along some of the most scenic coastline he’d ever seen. The sun was high, the temperature unseasonably warm, and he had Morgan to himself for an entire afternoon.
Life, as they say, was good. And right now, in this moment, with this woman who intrigued the hell out of him, that was about all he could ask for and probably more than he deserved.
But he was a Simon, and, selfish bastard that he was, he’d take it.
20
Morgan Campbell had lived most of her life in the state of Maine and had never visited a lighthouse. It was a bit of an oddity considering they were everywhere, it seemed, and in fact, her home stat
e was known for them. Several of the lighthouses that called this particular stretch of coastline home were famous. Some for their historical value. Others for their beauty. And some, like the current one she stared up at, because of the stories.
Haunted stories.
Crest Island Lighthouse sat on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. Built in the mid-1800s, it was Victorian in design and elegantly crafted, and considering its age, the darn thing had held up well. Cooper had arranged a helicopter lift to the 7000-acre island, and the view from above as they flew over had taken her breath away. It was desolate and beautiful and dangerous and exhilarating. She’d found herself leaning forward, hands and face against the glass so that she could see better.
It was something she’d remember. She glanced at Cooper. Something she’d keep for herself and cherish.
He was chatting with the groundskeeper, an elderly gentleman sporting a red-and-black-plaid scarf that nearly dwarfed his small frame. A smart-looking gray flat cap covered his head, though she could see thick, wiry hair curling madly around his ears. An old pea-green jacket fell to just above his knees, and dark gray rubber boots completed his outfit. The man’s hands moved—he was quite animated when he talked—and Cooper nodded at whatever it was he was saying.
They’d just finished the amazing lunch he’d picked up from Jess. Hot chowder. Fresh biscuits. Fish and chips with coleslaw. And all of it to enjoy near the edge of the bluff with the warm sun on their faces and the fresh air in their lungs. As they munched their way through the food, she’d settled back and squealed in delight when she’d spotted a pod of whales a few miles off the coast.
In that moment, she felt as if she could close her eyes and go back in time, to a place where nothing bad had happened to her.
If only, she thought as sea salt rode the wind that had picked up and whipped over the bluff to tug at her hair. She decided not to think about any of that and to just be content for once. To revel in the simple pleasure of being, well, happy. A foreign concept in her world these days, but right now, she’d damn well take it.
“Hey.”
Startled, Morgan jumped as Cooper came up behind her. He stood a few inches away, yet his scent drifted on the breeze, and she swore she could feel the heat of his body. Shivering, she hid the shudder that rolled over her body, inhaling another shot of air and taking him deeper into her lungs. Dressed in jeans and leather, with a hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his jaw and dark mirrored aviators, Cooper Simon looked dangerously hot.
He slid the glasses off his nose, and the breath caught in the back of her throat—because the look in his eyes was doing all kinds of weird things to her.
Suddenly nervous, she licked her lips. “I…” God. Wait for it. Here comes the word vomit.
“Did the groundskeeper—Mr. Delaney, I think is his name—did he tell you about the ghost that haunts this particular lighthouse? Because it’s a pretty interesting story. I mean, I suppose most ghost stories are, interesting, that is—”
Oh God, stop babbling.
“But this one, well, this one is particularly gory.”
She paused, drawing in a big gulp of air while a slow smile curved Cooper’s lip. And was that a… How in hell had she never noticed that particular dimple?
“He never said a thing.” Cooper’s voice was low and warm, and a fresh crop of goose bumps rolled across her flesh.
Mouth dry, she could barely continue. “Yes, well, supposedly there was a couple that lived here, in the groundskeeper’s house. The woman was from a well-to-do family in Boston, and they didn’t approve of the match. They cut her out of their lives and declared her dead to the family, and though it hurt her, she moved out to this island with her husband, thinking that love was enough.”
A dark cloud passed overhead, taking with it the sun, and she grabbed at the edge of her jacket, pulling it tighter.
“As it turns out, love wasn’t enough. She had a miscarriage that first winter.” Morgan’s gaze sought his. “Can you imagine? All alone out here in the dead of a New England winter, losing your child with no one to help you except your husband. She would have been so afraid of dying. Afraid of the pain, and I’m sure she wanted her mother.” Throat suddenly tight, she had to pause a few seconds before continuing. “By springtime, the young wife was pregnant again, but this time, she didn’t want to stay here. She didn’t want to be alone and afraid. She wanted to go back to her family. Her mother. Her husband refused, and they argued, and fearing for her safety, she fled to the bluff.” Morgan glanced to the edge. “Her husband followed her out, and in a fit of rage, he pushed her over the edge and she fell onto the rocks below.”