The Fish House is a small restaurant that sits on pilings overlooking the harbor. It has a rustic charm with wooden floors, shiplap walls, and long, communal, cedar tables. Large windows wrap the perimeter of the building, creating an outdoor feel while safe from the elements indoors. Soft bluegrass music plays in the background, barely audible due to the roar of laughter and voices coming from inside.
“Good,” Jace says from behind the bar as he places several pint glasses of draft beer on top the counter. “You all are here.”
“Looks busy this evening,” I say with a smile. Jace is the owner of the Fish House. He took it over a few years ago and has turned it into the place to be. I would never admit this out loud, but he sort of reminds me of Billie Armstrong, without the eyeliner.
“Are you going to grace us with your musical talents?” Hilary asks, moving behind the bar and tying an apron around her waist. Jace is a local musician and often plays at open mic night here at the Fish House. He’s got a substantial following from the locals and has even played some small venues down in Seattle.
Jace looks toward me with a smile, leaning his body over the bar top. “You guys going to get to work or just keep standing around?” He’s playful in nature, but the glimmer of exhaustion behind his eyes tells me he could use less talking and more working.
“On it,” I grab my apron off the hook and wrap it around my waist, pulling my hair up into a high ponytail.
I make the rounds through the crowded pub, clearing glasses and taking orders. It’s always easy to tell who’s local and who’s visiting from out of town. One could say they have a look about themselves––at least that’s how I’ve heard the locals explain it. I’m not sure what it is as I haven’t seemed to master the look of “local myself”. It’s a combination of attitude and the air people have about themselves and I’m not certain I’ll ever attain it.
For instance, the guy sitting in the corner booth with a ripped-up t-shirt and holed up pants, Hank, he’s a local. He’s pretty well-off financially as he owns most of the tourism industry in town. One would never know it by looking at him, and I think people here like the anonymity. The guy sitting by the window in a clean shirt and distressed jeans, his hair disheveled from the rain and wind… he’s an out-of-towner.
Normally, I’m tipped off by the footwear. If I see someone wearing a pair of Xtratuf’s, those god awful, ugly, brown rain boots with a yellowy-brown trim around the rubber sole, they are most certainly a local. Stylish? Absolutely not, but the locals here love them because they withstand the harsh weather and rugged terrain.
With all this said, I’m one of the few “betweeners”. Yes, this is a self-acclaimed title. It means I’m not a tourist, but I’m not really considered a local either. Most older townspeople don’t seem to mind the intrusion, especially since they themselves came to Smuggler’s Cove on a whim some time ago and decided never to leave. However, those closer to my age have taken issue with it.
“Alan, good to see you again.” I smile at him as he falls into the high-top bar stool, looking a bit muddled.
“Cammie, love. Can you”—hiccup—“pour me another?” he asks knowing full well he’s already been overserved here tonight.
“Let me see what I can do.” I grab his glass and pour him a blank, meaning that he has all the flavors but no alcohol. He looks to be a bit gone and likely won’t even notice. “There you go,” I say as I place the drink in front of him.
He looks up at me and smiles weakly, his eyes glossed over. “Thanks, m’dear,” he says with a cheers.
I make the rounds and see if any other patrons are in need of refills or food. The grill closes at eight, and we are about ten minutes from it. It’ll be another hour or two before my favorite time of night—closing time.
“Excuse me,” I hear a familiar voice and turn around to see Ryan standing there. His bright, friendly face brings a smile to mine. For someone I once identified as a rugged, indestructible giant, he’s always been kind to me. Ryan’s an Alaska Native man with rich, tan skin that crinkles around his darkened eyes with every smile.
“Ryan,” I grin, taking note of Jake standing beside him. “What can I do for you?”
Ryan searches the bar before returning his gaze to mine, but his eyes are searching past me on a quest to find Hilary “We’d like to get a few pints.”
“She’s out back. She’ll be back in a second.” I pat Ryan on the shoulder as I squeeze past him to grab two beers.
Ryan’s been in love with Hilary since I moved here. In actuality, he’s been in love with her his entire life and Hilary seems to be the only one who either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I pull the pints from the draft just as Hilary walks back in, carrying a keg. I turn around to place them on the counter and notice Jake leaning across the bar top, elbows locked in to the wooden counter, his rough working hands folded into one another. He’s still wearing his clothes from earlier, having left his baseball cap on eliciting the ends of his hair to flip up around the rim.
“Here you go,” I say as I push the beers toward his general direction in a desperate attempt to avoid his gaze.
“Thanks,” he says, reluctantly grabbing them and taking a sip off the top. A layer of foam catches on his upper lip. “Any close encounters with death today?”
“Just the one.” I take a breath and place my hands to my hips.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” He continues to play dumb. “What happened?”
The stupid foam mustache stayed in place. My cheeks flush as I fight the urge to show any ounce of enjoyment within our conversation.
“Well, we were out in our kayaks and some boat nearly ran over the top of us. Can you believe it?” I lean forward and feel our arms brush against one another. The contact sends a bolt of electricity racing through my body. I pull away, desperate to create separation between him and I. “Didn’t even apologize when we confronted them later at the dock.”
“See, that’s a shame. That kind of hospitality just doesn’t suit us here in Smuggler’s Cove” He takes another sip, his eyes locked on mine. “Must’ve not been from around here.”
He smiles, one measly smile and my cold, weak, exterior melts into a puddle.
“That’s the odd thing,” I say, leaning back, swiping a towel across the bar and continuing to play into his game of charades. “The guys were locals.”
“Well,” He drains the rest of his beer. “We should track them down. Let them know if they continue to disrespect the women here in Smuggler’s Cove, we will have no other choice but to use them as crab bait.” He smiles and his eyes burn with mischief.
An easy laugh escapes my chest but I conceal it with a cough.
“Anything else I can do for you Jacob?” I ask in my phoniest customer service voice.
“I’m sure there is, but let me think on it,” he says. “You can start by calling me Jake.”
“Jake,” I say as I wipe down the bar, ignoring his outstretched hand, knowing that another touch of his skin against mine would send me into a spiral. “I’ve got to get back to work, so if there’s nothing else you need right now, I’m going to go.”
Ryan’s abrupt entrance interrupts Jake’s stare off. “Hey, Cammie, can we get some samplers of the fish and chips and a bowl of chowder?”
I look at my watch; it’s eight fifteen. “Kitchen closed fifteen minutes ago. Sorry,” I say with an it-is-what-it-is shrug. This happens all the time, people wanting to come in late and still order food despite the kitchen being closed down.
“Oh, come on.” Ryan walks around the back of the bar top, his voice mimicking that of an elementary-school-aged child. “Tell Jace it’s for Jake. That he just got back to town.”
Jake’s eyes light up, and his jaw clicks with confidence. I have a feeling he already knows he’s going to get what he wants. I’m just not entirely sure what all it is he needs.
I run around back and ask Jace if we can make an exception.
“Wait, Jake…
Jake Davis?” he asks as he breaks down a cardboard box.
“Yeah.”
Jace shakes his head with a laugh and heads out front, leaving me to trail behind him like a lost puppy. “Jake, my man!” He greets Jake with a handshake before pulling him into a bro-hug. The ones where they sort of hug but pat each other on the back because God forbid someone show another guy physical affection.
Jake laughs and takes his hat off, his sandy-brown hair curling up around the edges where it had been constricted all day by his cap. “How you been, Jace? It’s good to see you.”
“I’ve been good. Just running this place and working on my music.”
“That’s great to hear.”
“I’m going to get your guys’ food. It’s on the house.” Jace scurries off toward the kitchen before calling over his shoulder, “Welcome home.”
At that, Jake raises his beer. “It’s good to be home.”
His eyes catch mine at the sentiment. If Jake Davis gets everything he wants, I’ll need to be sure to keep my distance.
Four
Cammie
It’s nearing closing time. Alan is still at the bar, his head nodding off as he struggles to keep himself awake.
“Want another?” I ask but he waves me off. I wonder if somewhere in the night he realized we were no longer serving him alcohol.
Ryan and Jake have found a table where they are now surrounded by the young bachelorettes of Smuggler’s Cove—Samantha Simmons being one of them.
Samantha was one of the locals who became unwelcoming after my move here. We had been friends in the beginning but somewhere along the way she turned spiteful. We’ve never managed to get past the initial hurt, and by the continual cold shoulder and occasional death-glare, I can confidently say we never will.
I call out, “Last round.” Everything in Smuggler’s Cove closes earlier than it would back in the city.
“Looks like we ought to be going,” Jake says, glancing at his watch.
“Noooo,” Samantha whines, wrapping her tentacles around his waist and pressing her cheek to his chest.
“Stay for one more.” She pulls at his arm and tugs it toward her lap.
The table is loud with laughter of women vying for the hearts of Ryan and Jake. Like southern belles, our equivalent is wicked shrews. These women have grown up here and have a legacy to protect, one which includes a well-off, locally bred, bloke.
Everyone appears to be in agreement for one final round. Their desperation seeps into the air like the odor of intoxicating perfume and suddenly, I need some air.
“What’s that all about?” I gesture toward the table as Hilary and I start cleaning up.
Hilary looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes with disinterest. “I told you, they are some of the good ones. They’re good looking, successful, and their hearts are in the right place.”
“Why have you never gone after Ryan, if he’s so great and all?” I ask while I dry off some glasses.
Hilary is silent for a while she considers this, “I’m not sure. He’s always been in my life. He was there for me when my dad died in that fishing accident. I guess I just felt like we were supposed to be friends.”
I look over at Hilary and she appears to be somewhere else inside her mind.
Her dad died nearly ten years ago when he was caught out in a storm and his boat capsized. He was an experienced fisherman, but the sea doesn’t seem to discriminate. It takes whomever it wants when it feels the time is right. Tends to take the life of one of the locals every couple of years.
“He was nice to me. He will always have a special place in my heart…but it’s Ryan, you know? He isn’t exactly the stable, settle-down kind of guy. He’s someone who is fun. I’m not sure he could ever be more than that, not for me,” she says, and although I disagree, I know it isn’t worth the argument.
I clear glasses from the last table of stragglers in hopes they take the hint and move on with their evening. I reach between Samantha and Jake, which is a difficult task seeing as how Samantha has nearly taken over Jake’s lap.
“Excuse me,” I say as I reach between them.
“Ugh,” Samantha grunts as if I have ruined her entire night by my mere existence. “You should call me sometime, Jake. It would be great to… catch up.” She looks at him, drool practically dripping from her mouth.
Samantha is beautiful. Her small, slender shoulders remind me of a child’s as she curls up next to Jake. Dirty-blonde hair sweeps across her shoulders and curves around her face, framing rich, brown eyes and her flawless complexion. She’s perfect and unblemished and a total bitch.
I quietly snicker at the sound of Samantha trying to extend her time with Jake into something more.
“Can I help you?” she asks with an edge to her tone.
“Just trying to clean up so we can head out for the evening.” I return to the bar as I hear my name brought into conversation at the table behind me. I approach Hilary who looks exhausted.
“Why don’t you head home?” I turn to face Hilary.
“Are you sure?” She looks at me with concern across her face.
“Yeah, it’s just the devil herself and all her minions,” I say with a wicked grin as I reference Samantha. Hilary snorts and starts to undo her apron.
“Looks like they’re heading out now, anyway,” she says as she pulls me in for a hug. “Thanks. I’ll see you at home later.”
With that, Hilary turns and leaves as Samantha and her friends approach the bar to close out their tabs. Ryan looks around for Hilary, seeing that she is nowhere to be found.
“She just left,” I say apologetically, noticing how Ryan tries to play off the fact that his entire body deflated at the notion.
“How are you getting home if she took the car?” Ryan asks curiously.
“I just walk. It’s not that far,” I try to reassure him.
“You shouldn’t be walking home alone. It’s late and nearly dark outside,” Jake interjects.
“I’ll be fine. I do it all the time,” I say as I put the last pint glass away and close out the till. “You guys have a good night.”
I see an argument forming on Jake’s lips, but he stops himself. He and Ryan thank me and turn to leave for the evening.
Disappointment emerges as I think of why I volunteered to walk rather than see what Jake was going to offer. Why do I even care? Samantha has staked her claim and I want no part of it.
I finish closing out the till and lock up for the evening. Once outside, I turn to secure the front door just as the last bit of light in the sky drifts toward darkness.
“I’m going to walk you home,” I hear a deep voice assert itself next to me. I nearly jump out of my skin at the sight of Jacob propped against the siding.
“Jeez.” I place a hand to my chest, trying to ease my racing heart. “You scared me to death, you know.”
He chuckles. “You mean to tell me I’ve nearly killed you twice in one day? I ought to be more careful.” His smile captivates me and causes one to dance across my lips.
“You know…” He inches closer to me. “You can’t trust many of these townies. I wouldn’t feel right letting you walk home by yourself.” The only thing I can’t trust is the wildlife as bears tend to meander around the street, looking for food this time of night.
“Is that so?” I ask skeptically as I turn to head up the dock toward home. Jake jogs to keep up with my fervent pace.
“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.” I turn to my right and see that Jake has slid in beside me, matching my stride.
“I don’t necessarily think that’s accurate.” I try to ignore the frantic beats of my heart as his arm brushes against mine. I bite hard against my lower lip in an attempt to distract myself from the marginal contact between us.
“No?” He smirks mischievously. “Well, that’s a relief.” We walk along the dock, passing brightly lit harbors against the darkening backdrop.
Dim lights allow for the abundance of stars to sh
ow in the night sky. The only sounds are those of the breeze as it dances through the spruce and hemlock trees and the waves crashing underneath the dock pilings. A relaxed smile finds its way across my face.
“You are incredibly intriguing,” he says softly as he looks toward the sky.
“How so?” I ask, slightly taken aback.
He smiles and shakes his head, shoving his hands into his pockets and continuing to stride alongside me.
“Since arriving at home, I’ve run into you a number of times.”
“More like run over…” I add, rewarded by Jake’s hardy jolt of laughter. I don’t want to understand what captures Jake’s attention. I want to create any void of separation and distance I can muster and keep it that way.
“Tell me about yourself, Camille.” Ugh, no one ever uses my full name.
“Ryan,” I hiss under my breath. “I’m not sure where I would start, Jacob,” I quip.
He smiles over at me with an easy laugh. “What brought you to Smuggler’s Cove?”
I hesitate as I rack my brain for an answer to his question. If I’m honest, will he see me as some dejected woman? Will this information be the missing piece to the puzzle he’s trying to work out in that gorgeous head of his? That I’m not actually intriguing, I’m abandoned. That I’m so not special my own father didn’t find me worth sticking around for.
As if sensing my hesitation he speaks once more. “Alright, easier question. Where did you move from?”
“Denver.”
“Ah, city woman, huh?” he asks, a wide tooth grin plastered across his face. “What did you do there?”
“I worked in the tech industry. Big data nerd.” I giggle at how far away my life in Denver feels from where I am now.
“I can’t even imagine someone like you in a tech job.” He says the word with such disdain.
“Why?” I ask defensively.
He looks over at me and catches my scowl, “Because you seem so alive. Free.” He cocks his lips up on one side. “I can’t imagine you sitting behind a computer screen all day, working a nine-to-five.”
Every Step of the Way: (Smugglers Cove #1) Page 3