Bold, brash, Irish--Brodie Monaghan's been breaking hearts ever since he arrived in Maine to rebuild the family business. Still, there's one woman he just can't wow. Grace Maddox claims she's now part owner of Monaghan Shipbuilders, and she has her own dreams for the weathered dockside buildings. Tiny Blueberry Cove has a way of welcoming strangers with wide open arms, but is the sleepy coastal village ready for the fireworks these two spark? DIY is so much better with two. . . Includes an easy do-it-yourself restoration project! "Humor, heart, and characters you wish lived next door." –Mariah Stewart Donna Kauffman  is the  USA Today  and  Wall Street Journal  bestselling author of over 70 novels, translated and sold in more than 26 countries around the world. She is the recipient of multiple  RT  Book Awards, a RITA® finalist, a National Readers’ Choice Award-winner, and a PRISM Award-winner. Born into the maelstrom of Washington, D.C.’s politics, she now lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia surrounded by a completely different kind of wildlife. A contributing blogger for USAToday.com, she is also a DIYer, a baker, a gardener, and a volunteer transporter for the Wildlife Center of Virginia and Rockfish Sanctuary. Please visit her online at www.DonnaKauffman.com. Half Moon Harbor By DONNA KAUFFMAN KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2014 Donna Kauffman All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4201-3694-4 CHAPTER 1 The morning of Brodie Monaghan's one-year anniversary as a resident in Blueberry Cove, Maine began with a hard-on and a surprise visitor. Unfortunately for him, those events occurred in exactly that order. Living right on the wharf in Half Moon Harbor, he loved waking to the sounds of herring gulls and the guillemots calling back and forth as the tide eased up past its peak and began its rapid descent. The sun gloriously making its way over the horizon in the wee early hours, accompanied by the low, reverberating thrum of Blue's lobster boats chugging out toward Pelican Bay, was the best alarm clock known to man. Brodie stretched fully, not minding as the linen sheets and his grandmother's old, faded quilt slid to the hand- hewn cypress floorboards in a tangle. Restless night. Again. He let the chilly May morning air ripple over his heated, bare skin, but it did little to calm down his body's morning state of affairs. He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the scratch of his morning beard, knew it was a match to the shaggy condition of his hair, then glanced down through barely open eyes. "Aye, yes, I know. I've been neglectin' ye, I have." The part of his anatomy to which he'd directed the comment twitched as if in response, making Brodie grin, even as he sank his head back into his goose-down pillow and let his eyes drift shut. He was considering taking matters into his own hand — a poor substitute, but he was a man who believed in taking gratification where and when he could — when a loud clatter on the docks below brought the rest of his body upright, as well. Grunting, he rolled out of his bed, which was located in the newly added loft of his converted boathouse. Well, one of his boathouses. All of which happened to be situated on his docks. His privately owned docks. Probably the ruddy pelican again, getting his claws caught up in the frayed old ropes still piled out on the back piers. Damn bird apparently hadn't found a mate this go-round so had chosen to make a summer bachelor pad out of the small boat shed at the end of the central pier. Been making a noisy nuisance out of himself since. "That's likely why the rest of yer flock gave ye the heave-ho," Brodie muttered. "Of course, we'd both likely be in better spirits if we could get ourselves well and truly laid." Still, he didn't want the great winged beast getting hurt. He'd meant to get the old ropes hauled out the previous fall, before they'd frozen into miniature piles of ice as winter descended, but that season happened earlier in Maine than he'd realized, and then hung around quite a bit longer. It was well into spring with summer just around the bend, but the mornings still had quite the nip to them, and the water was downright frigid. However, in recent weeks the sun had returned consistently enough to fully defrost his happy little patch, and he made a mental note to give Owen a call down at the hardware store and see who might be available to help with removing the old, half-rotted heaps. Before he could cross the narrow space to spy out the porthole window and see exactly what had happened on the docks below, there was a louder thud, followed by some very inventive swearing. As far as Brodie knew, Auld Eán, as he'd taken to calling the pelican, could grumble like an old man, but hadn't as yet managed that particular feat His grin returned. Partly because, as an Irishman, he respected anyone who was as passionate in their cussing as he was, but more so because he was fairly certain the colorful curse