Copyright © 2021 by Emily McIntire and Sav R. Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For more information address: [email protected] This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Cat (TRC Designs)
Editing: Ellie McLove (My Brother’s Editor)
Proofreading: Rosa Sharon (My Brother’s Editor)
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7375083-9-7
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9851380-0-9
Hardback ISBN: 979-8-9851380-1-6
Created with Vellum
Contents
Author’s Note
Be Still My Heart Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Thank you for reading!
Also By Emily McIntire
Also by Sav R. Miller
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Author’s Note
Be Still My Heart is a Romantic Suspense with explicit sexual scenes, adult themes, and mature situations that may be triggering for some. Reader discretion is advised.
As always, trust the process.
And welcome to Skelm Island.
Be Still My Heart Playlist
Everything Has Changed - Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran
When We Were Young - Adele
When We Were Younger - You Me At Six
Idle Town - Conan Gray
Sweet Nothings - Neck Deep
Force of Nature - Bea Miller
Pompeii - Bastille
Iris - Goo Goo Dolls
To those who have lost.
May your waves of grief never be taller than your strength.
“Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.”
Guy de Maupassant
Chapter 1
“Why do you have to be such an asshole?”
My sister’s penetrating voice pierces the quiet of my bedroom, crackling from the speaker down the hall. Throwing an arm over my face, I roll onto my back and stare up at the sloped ceiling, muscle memory tracing the molding despite the thick darkness around me.
It’s the same routine every morning.
And night.
Tossing and turning, eyes burning with the need to sleep while my mind refuses to cooperate.
Curling my fists in my cotton sheets, I toss a quick glance at the corner of the room, brown eyes flashing back as Monet lifts his head. His ears twitch in the dull moonlight spilling in from the window, but when I don’t make a move to get up, he settles back into the plush of his bed.
“Seriously, Lincoln, pick up the damn phone. I know you’re awake. Don’t make me come over there and drag you to town.”
A snort vibrates in my throat at the thought of my barely hundred-ten pound sister dragging me anywhere; she would try, but no matter the amount of strength she managed to muster, I’d never budge. Mind or body.
Porter men are notoriously stubborn.
Still, I don’t really feel like dealing with her snark in person this early, so I turn over and shove back the comforter, pushing into a sitting position. Scrubbing my hands down my face, I try not to wince at the coarse texture of my jaw. When was the last time I shaved?
Slipping from the sheets, I pull aside the curtain and peek out the window across from the bed, admiring the moon as it reflects against the shore.
I soak it in, letting the still, silent air wrap around me like a wool blanket, before turning on my heel and heading down the hall. Monet scrambles to his feet, hot on my heels the second I step over the threshold.
My sister continues rambling as my hand finds the light switch on the wall, flipping it up while I rub the exhaustion from my eyes.
For a couple heartbeats, the kind I can taste in my throat, I stand in front of the wooden bench and stare down at the landline.
Worst decision ever.
All of the appeal of moving to this part of the island revolved around the lack of cell phone service, and yet I’d caved when my mother begged me not to cut myself off completely.
I should’ve known it’d be ringing off the hook.
Clenching my jaw, I reach out and push the speaker button, cutting my sister off mid-sentence. “What?”
Daisy scoffs. “Don’t ‘what’ me, like I’ve just torn you from your first wet dream.”
“Well, you are the queen of coitus interruptus.”
“One, ew. I walked in on you one time in high school, and I’ve worked very hard to erase the image of your bare ass from my brain.”
I smirk, crouching slightly to lean against the table. “Learned to knock after that, didn’t you?”
Monet whines, dropping his blond butt to the floor as he stares up at me.
“Two, please tell me you know what coitus interruptus actually is, and then please tell me you know it’s not an effective form of birth control. Ma will shit a brick if you knock up any of those bimbos you mess around with at Petey’s.”
My pulse flares to life behind my right eyebrow, and I massage the spot gently. “They’re not bimbos,” I say, a montage of pretty faces from over the years flashing across my vision.
Local girls who think they know my life story because of small-town gossip—my mother’s church group, particularly—and bury the desire to fix me beneath their sexual appetite. The kind who forget their quest to tame the troubled loner the second he makes them come.
“They’re not scientists.” Tiny babbles fill the background of the line, and then there’s some shuffling as she moves around. “But they’re easy, so I get it. I’m not judging.”
She is, but I don’t point it out. I also refrain from noting that it’s actually been so long since I sank inside anyone, bimbo or otherwise, that my dick is at risk of falling off from neglect. My palm just isn’t cutting it.
But if I mention that, then she’ll worry, and al
l she and our mother ever do is worry.
“Why are you awake, Daisy?” I ask instead.
I’m sure I already know the answer, but I want the conversation focused elsewhere.
“Like you’re the only one who’s allowed to be up at four in the morning? Maybe I just called to talk.”
“I’m up for work, and you never call just to talk.”
“Yeah?” Daisy asks, and I just know one of her dark brows is arched in a challenge. “What time did you go to sleep, then?”
Monet scoots forward, setting his chin on my knee. I reach down as more shuffling comes over the line, scratching between his big eyes as I wait. Muffled words reach my ears, even though I’m sure they aren’t intended for me; soothing, coaxing tones directed at my nephew as he begins fussing, right on schedule.
There’s a pause, and then the soft bubbling of infant content.
Finally, my sister returns, releasing a leaden breath. “Charlie hasn’t been sleeping the last few nights. I think he’s reverse cycling or something, and so rather than bother Ma, I’ve been taking him outside and rocking with him on the porch swing until he tires out.”
My jaw clenches again, irritation scratching at the back of my throat. I didn’t hear it before, but there’s a rasp to her voice, an undercurrent of exhaustion I know she’s trying to hide.
“Where’s Gabe?”
“I...” She inhales shakily. “Well, I was hoping with you? I haven’t seen him since he went to the station yesterday for his shift.”
The pulse behind my brow intensifies, throbbing so hard my eye closes instinctively as if trying to block the pain. Getting to my feet, I sidestep Monet and walk down the hall to the kitchen, flipping on lights as I go. Pausing in front of the sink, I peer out the window, searching the yard for signs of life.
“He’s not here,” I say, anger pouring down my spine like boiling water. It sears my flesh, twisting with my guilt until they’re practically speaking the same language and working together to wreak havoc on my insides.
Daisy doesn’t say anything for several minutes. I’d be convinced she’d hung up if not for the steady suckling of Charlie nursing, or the fact that she refuses to leave without the last word.
“Well,” she says finally. “I’m sure he’s fine. Probably just forgot to text saying he’d be late. He does that a lot, you know.”
I shift on my heels. “Yeah, he does.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” she repeats softly, a mantra she’s adopted in the years since becoming a police officer’s wife.
“If he’s dead, you’ll probably be the first to know.”
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, spilling from me like hot vomit, but there’s no way for me to reclaim them once they’re out. Gritting my teeth until my jaw feels like it might crack from the pressure, I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Monet barks from his position in front of the storm door, the white tip of his tail pointing over his head. My sister clears her throat. “Is that your cue?”
Walking over to the door, I force it open, watching as the dog leaps over the threshold and bounds down the dock, ready to go on our trawl.
His enthusiasm is almost contagious.
“Unfortunately, I do have a schedule to keep.”
My eyes scan the outline of the boat, its silhouette barely visible in the shadows afforded by the moonlight. My father’s lobster business isn’t exactly what I’d planned on my life revolving around at twenty-nine, but I suppose that’s what I get for trying to make plans.
“Right.” Charlie begins fussing again, his whimpers turning into full-fledged wails, and I turn the volume down on the speaker as I walk back down the hall. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from... work.”
The pause before the word work sends a ripple of annoyance through me, and I place one palm on the wall, curling my fingers over the polished log surface.
“Why do you always say it like that?”
“I’m not saying it like anything, Lincoln.”
My head vibrates, tension lancing into my skull, and spreading the throbbing sensation until it bleeds into my eyes. “Just because I’m not doing it the same way Pops did, doesn’t make it less legitimate.”
Though to be fair, I wouldn’t care if it was legitimate or not; I never wanted to take the reins in the first place. After aging out of my SEAL contract, I came back to Skelm Island hoping to take some time for myself and relax, maybe get back into the sketching I did when I was younger.
I joined the Navy right out of high school and transferred to the SEALs as soon as I could, so my entire adult life had been spent in constant motion. Running from my demons, some would say.
When I came back, all I wanted to do was drown in my nostalgia.
Then my father died, and suddenly I was the patriarch of the family. The lifeblood of Porter Lobster Co. Everything else just took a back seat, and it was up to me to figure out how to keep the business from driving straight into the ground.
Or bankruptcy.
My mother and sister weren’t exactly thrilled with the lengths I went to, but regardless, their asses weren’t on the line, so it doesn’t really matter.
“I didn’t say it did.” Daisy raises her voice, now having to speak over the baby, her heavy sigh washing over me. “I already know how this conversation is going to go, so I’ll let you get to it. I’ll see you Sunday at Ma’s, okay?”
Squeezing the wood until my nails feel like they might blister, I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Sure.”
She hangs up with a last goodbye, and I stare at a warped spot in the wood, the dial tone bleating against my ears. As with every conversation I have with my sister, I end it feeling like I’m spiraling, suspended in time with no support or direction.
A slave to my guilt, locked in a tiresome battle between not wanting to disappoint people and constantly feeling like a disappointment to myself.
But shame doesn’t pay the bills, so after a couple of seconds to regroup, I smash my finger down on the “end call” button and get ready for work.
I kick off my gray joggers and catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror; bed-tousled black hair, a myriad of tattoos covering the length of both arms and spreading inward to my chest—abstract patterns and random designs I’ve sketched over the years, inked into my skin the second my feet were permanently back on US soil.
Swiping my thumbs beneath my eyes, I attempt to erase the evidence of my insomnia, to no avail; the purpled slivers of skin contrast deeply against the green of my irises, making them glint in the overhead lighting.
Tugging on a Carhartt duck jacket and a knit cap, I lock up and head outside.
Most other lobstermen in the area have an entire crew going out on hauls—someone to steer, someone to trap, and someone to clean, measure, and release.
But the other lobstermen are dicks, and I’m not my father, so I venture out on the water alone. Less room for bullshit or error when I’m doing it all myself.
After I’ve geared up and done a quick maintenance check on the boat, I head down the dock.
I pause to strap Monet into his life jacket, swing open the gate, and ground the vessel with my foot so he can board. He plops down beneath the steering shelter, his pink tongue dangling from his mouth as he pants with excitement.
Our breath puffs visibly into the chilly air, swirling up like clouds above us.
The sky’s starting to lighten as the morning progresses, lifting the veil of gloom that seems to blanket Skelm Island every night.
Or maybe that’s just the area I live in, a log cabin nestled between thick forest and the endless Atlantic. My mother and realtor warned me against moving to such a lonesome spot, but I insisted, citing a prime location on the water.
The fact that it’s within sight of the island’s only lighthouse, inoperable for years, was just a bonus.
Tossing my oil pants on board first, I’m just stepping onto the platform when the door to the interi
or cabin bursts open, startling Monet into a barking fit.
Gabe exits, still dressed in half his police uniform, but with a white V-neck tucked in, rubbing his eyes as if he’s been here all night.
“What the fuck?” I snap, propelling myself onto the platform. Monet circles around me, his barking subsiding when I’m beside him. “Are you sleeping on my boat?”
Dragging a veiny hand through his sandy hair, he nods. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
I scowl. “Why are you here? You have a newborn baby at home sucking up all of my sister’s time.”
He walks over to a bench and drops down onto it, shaking his head. “I’m well aware of that fact, Porter. I got off work about an hour ago and just wasn’t ready to go home.” Glancing up at me, he shakes his head. “The baby doesn’t sleep, man. How does anyone put up with that? I need my full eight hours, or I’m absolutely useless.”
“Yeah, so is my sister.” I raise an eyebrow. “I just got done telling her you weren’t here.”
“So, don’t tell her you were wrong. I’ll go home eventually.”
Knowing better than to try and argue with him, and not wanting to involve myself in their messy homelife more than necessary, I move behind the steering column. Stepping into my hauling gear one leg at a time, I yank the orange rubber pants to my hips and secure them over my shoulders.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 1