Army laughs, but I don’t as I leave the garage and grip the ring in my pocket.
Macon doesn’t make idle threats.
Macon sucks.
I’m cooking tonight. She doesn’t know, so I hope she doesn’t have anything planned, but I’m sure she doesn’t. She’s been so busy at work, and it’s kind of a double-edged sword to know what to think or feel when a funeral home is busy.
I mean, yeah, she’s able to support us as I wait for royalty checks from indie films and invest everything else I have in my first theater production at a playhouse in Miami next summer, but it also means people suffered, losing loved ones. I’m glad she’s doing well, though. The community trusts her, and Wind House has done well, taking her on as a partner.
I round the corner of the small market, searching for that wine she likes, but I see Mr. Collins standing in front of some canned goods, and I stop.
I take a step back, debating on trying to escape before he sees me.
But he twists his mouth to the side, looking unsure, and I don’t leave.
We get along and all, but we’re not usually alone together, either. Clay is better with the small talk.
“You look lost,” I say.
He jerks his eyes over to me, and then he chuckles, kind of laughing at himself. “I’m cooking dinner tonight,” he says. “For someone.” He looks back at his choices and then shakes his head. “I should just order takeout and act like I cooked it.”
Cooking for someone. Same as me.
I move to his side. “How about a…charcuterie board.” I reach over to the cheeses in the oblong cooler behind him, pulling a wedge of brie, some aged cheddar, and smoked gouda. “It’s easy and it looks really cultured and fancy, so I think you’ll pass with it. You can eat it outside or in front of a fire…”
He smiles and takes the stuff. “Anything low on carbs,” he murmurs his approval.
Yeah.
I pull him over to the produce, grabbing some crackers and French bread on the way. “Some tomatoes, grapes, cherries...” I dump the stuff into his basket. “Hit the deli and pick up some meats, and then some wine, and you should be good.”
He stares at his loot, looking impressed.
“It’s a really easy way to look like you know what you’re doing, and no cooking involved,” I tell him.
“Thanks.” But then a worried look crosses his face, and he looks around. “Oh, I need a board, right? I don’t have one.”
“Gigi does.”
His gaze darts to mine, and I swear he looks like it was some big secret, and no one knew he’s been dating his ex-wife.
Speechless for a moment, he finally just breathes out a laugh. “We were trying to keep it on the down-low,” he says. “Does Clay know?”
“Everyone knows.”
He rolls his eyes. “Awesome.”
And I laugh. I can understand. The divorce was hard on them. Clay saw the home her brother grew up in become unrecognizable.
But it wasn’t solely Mr. Collins’s fault either. Loss, abandonment, cheating…a lot of things happened to break up their marriage, but it didn’t break up their family. Gigi sold the house, bought a lovely cottage on the beach, and found herself. Clay’s closer to her parents apart than she was when they were together.
And now, after years, maybe he can make his ex-wife fall in love with him again. He’s certainly up for the challenge, because it will be one. She’s different now.
They were trying to keep it quiet, though. They didn’t want to get Clay’s hopes up until they knew it would last.
“This is a great idea,” he tells me, gesturing to the food. “Thank you, honey.”
“Anytime.”
I head over to the wine, picking up the sauv blanc and hoping the refrigerator in our little house has decided to work today, so it’ll be chilled by the time she gets home. I check my phone for a call, just in case Macon doesn’t finish with her car and I need to pick her up.
I drive to our home, loving to cross the tracks and loving that she’s on the wrong side of them with me now, St. Carmen’s little princess, a full-fledged swamp rat. I speed down the dirt road in an old Jeep I picked up a couple of years ago, my Ninja at Macon’s house.
The sea permeates the air, and I grab the groceries out of the back, tipping my head and looking up at the lighthouse. One of the many things on our list—and as funds allow—is to get the light functional again.
But first, dinner.
I open the old windows in the kitchen, spreading them wide and letting in the September air as I switch on the music and start making the gumbo.
I feel the dust on the floor grind under my shoes, and no matter how much we clean, there always seems to be more dirt. The lightkeeper’s house is a shithole, but it’s our shithole, and it’s better than any mansion across the tracks. The old wooden beams above me smell like years of hurricanes and wind, and everything here is ours. Our stove, our table, our food, our bed.
The fireplace works, and if it ever gets so cold enough that I can’t keep her warm, then a fire will.
We’re going to have so much fun renovating this place and making every inch of it ours. Of course, we have to keep a certain aesthetic to maintain the historical landmark status, but that’s no problem. We only want to make it comfortable and enhance what’s already here.
I cut the stems of the flowers I bought at the market, and stick them in a vase with water, placing it at the center of the table, and I spot headlights outside, just as the sun starts to set.
In a moment, the front door closes, and I feel arms slide around my waist.
“I have to talk to you,” she whispers in my ear.
I damn near shiver, tilting my head into her breath more.
“Let me set this to simmer,” I tell her. “Then we can ‘talk’.”
I know what she wants.
She reaches over to my side, flipping open the old tin box I found this morning.
She holds up the old snapshot. “Archie?”
“Yeah.” I nod, wiping off my hands. “Found it under a floorboard.”
She sifts through the box, looking at pictures of the previous inhabitants. The corgi, Archie, and his human, the old lightkeeper.
“It’s him.” She smiles, finding the picture of the man in a torn, cable-knit sweater and a beard.
“He looks just like I pictured,” I say. “An old sea dog.”
She searches through the pics in the box, looking again. “No girl, though.”
I come around her and kiss her ear. “Someone was taking the pictures of him.”
Her eyes light up, the mystery safe and sound that just maybe this cottage was a hideaway for two other lovers before us.
I hug her tight, determined to keep the tradition going.
I turn down the temp on the stove, and she takes my hand, but instead of leading me upstairs, she takes me outside.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
She remains silent, leading me over the dunes and down to the beach. I don’t ask questions and don’t ask permission when I sink to the sand and pull her down between my legs, holding her as we both look out to the endless horizon.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” I ask.
“Your car’s extended warranty.”
I bury my face in her neck, unable to not laugh. “Brat.”
“Beautiful,” she calls me, instead.
“Trouble,” I counter.
“My pearl.”
“Hellion,” I bite out in her ear.
She turns her head, whispering, “Sunshine.”
“Pain in my ass.”
I smile and kiss her. I kiss her for a long time, the wind in our hair as the last light leaves us.
“Do you love me?” I ask against her lips.
She meets my eyes. “So much, I’ll hurt if you don’t marry me.”
And before I know what’s happening, she’s slipping something on my ring finger, her gaze never leaving mine.
My heart stops a beat, and I can’t speak, everything inside me swelling so big, my body can’t contain it.
What?
I mean, yes. I…
I slam my mouth down on hers, trying to get the words out, but my voice is in my stomach, my heart is in my throat, and my head is somewhere twenty feet above my body.
God, I love her. I was ready to ask her, but she beat me to it.
“Mmmmm, wait,” she tells me, pulling away and taking out her phone. “Before you say yes, I just want to make sure… We can do this when we get married, right?”
But I growl, pulling her phone—and whatever kinky sexual position she wants to try now away—as she giggles and I roll over on top of her.
“Handful,” I grit out over her mouth right before I kiss her madly. “Hellion. Pain in my ass. Trouble.”
“You’re never going to get rid of me, you keep talking sweet like that.”
And I dive in, biting her neck and making her squeal.
THE END
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Book One.
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Erika
HE WON’T BE HERE.
There’d be no reason for him to show up at his brother’s farewell party, since they couldn’t stand each other, so…
No, he won’t be here.
Pushing up the sleeves of my lightweight sweater, I hurried through the front door of the Crist house and speed-walked across the foyer, heading straight for the stairs.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the butler rounding the corner, but I didn’t stop.
“Miss Fane!” he shouted after me. “You’re very late.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Mrs. Crist has been looking for you,” he pointed out.
I shot up my eyebrows and immediately stopped, turning around to peer at him over the railing.
“Has she really?” I eyed him with mock astonishment.
He thinned his lips, annoyed. “Well, she sent me to look for you.”
I broke out in a smile and leaned over the bannister, planting a quick kiss on his forehead.
“Well, I’m here,” I assured him. “You can get back to your important duties now.”
I turned and continued up the stairs, hearing the soft music coming from the party out on the terrace.
Yeah, I highly doubted Delia Crist, my mother’s best friend and the matriarch of Thunder Bay, our small East Coast community, was spending her precious time looking for me herself.
“Your dress is on your bed!” he called after me as I walked around the corner.
I exhaled an aggravated sigh and powered down the dimly lit hallway, grumbling under my breath, “Thank you, Edward.”
I didn’t need a new dress. I already had several I’d only worn once, and at nineteen, I could definitely pick out my own clothes. Not that he would be here to see it anyway, and if he was, he wouldn’t look at me.
No. I should be grateful. Mrs. Crist thought of me, and it was nice of her to make sure I’d have a dress to wear.
A light spatter of sand covered my legs and feet, and I reached down to grip the ends of my loose jean shorts, inventorying exactly how wet I’d gotten down at the beach. Would I need a shower?
No, I was already late. Screw it.
Diving into my room—the one the Crists’ let me have for when I stayed the night—I spotted a sexy, white cocktail dress lying on the bed, and I immediately began stripping.
The thin spaghetti straps did almost nothing to hold up my breasts, but it fit perfectly, molding to my body, and it made my skin look darker than it was. Mrs. Crist had awesome taste, and it was probably a good thing that she’d gotten me the dress, after all. I’d been too busy preparing to leave for school tomorrow to bother with what to wear tonight.
Dashing into the bathroom, I rinsed my calves and feet of the sand I’d picked up on my walk, and I quickly brushed out my long, blonde hair and applied a little lip gloss. I scurried back into the bedroom, grabbed the tan strappy heels she’d left by the dress, and ran back into the hallway and down the stairs.
Twelve hours to go.
My heart pumped harder and harder as I jogged through the foyer and toward the back of the house. This time tomorrow I’d be completely on my own—no mother, no Crists, no memories...
And most of all, I wouldn’t have to wonder, hope, or dread that I’d see him. Or teeter on the edges of elation and agony when I did. Nope. I’d be able to hold out my arms and spin in a circle and not touch a single person I knew. Heat flowed through my chest, and I didn’t know if it was fear or excitement, but I was ready.
Ready to leave it all behind. At least for a little while.
Veering to the right, I bypassed the kitchens—one for everyday use and another adjacent to it for caterers—as I headed for the solarium at the side of the large house. Opening the double doors, I stepped into the massive, ceramic-tiled garden room, the walls and ceiling made entirely of glass, and instantly felt the rise in temperature. The thick, wet heat soaked through the fabric of my dress, making it melt to my body.
Trees rose above and all around me in the quiet, dark room, lit only by the moonlight pouring in through the windows overhead. I inhaled the sweet smell of the palms, orchids, lilies, violets, and hibiscus, reminding me of my mother’s closet and all the perfumes from her coats and scarves blending together in one space.
I turned left, stopping at the glass doors leading to the terrace and slipped into my heels as I gazed out at the crowd.
Twelve hours.
And then I straightened, reaching up, grabbing a handful of hair, and bringing it over my shoulder to cover the left side of my neck. Unlike his brother, Trevor would definitely be here tonight, and he didn’t like to see my scar.
“Miss?” a waiter said as he stepped up with a tray.
I smiled, taking one of the highball glasses that I knew was a Tom Collins. “Thank you.”
The lemon-colored drink was Mr. and Mrs. Crist’s favorite, so they insisted that the servers circulate it.
The waiter disappeared, moving on to the many other guests, but I stayed rooted, letting my eyes drift around the party.
Leaves fluttered on their branches, the calm breeze still holding remnants of the day’s heat, and I surveyed the crowd, all dressed in their casual cocktail dresses and suit jackets.
So perfect. So clean.
The lights in the trees and the servers in their white waistcoats. The crystal-blue pool adorned with floating candles. The glittering jewels of the ladies’ rings and necklaces that caught the light.
Everything was so polished, and when I looked around at all the adults and families I grew up with, their money and designer clothes, I often saw a coat of paint that you apply when you’re trying to cover up rotting wood. There were dark deeds and bad seeds, but who cared if the house was falling apart as long as it was pretty, right?
The scent of the food lingered in the air accompanied by the soft music of the string quartet, and I wondered if I should find Mrs. Crist and let her know I’d arrived or find Trevor, since the party was in his honor, after all.
But instead I tightened my fingers around my glass, my pulse quickening as I tried to resist the urge to do what I really wanted to do. What I always wanted to do.
To look for him.
But no, he wouldn’t be here. He probably wouldn’t be here.
He might be here.
My heart started thumping, and my neck heated. And, against my own will, my eyes started to drift. Around the party and over the faces, searching…
Michael.
&n
bsp; I hadn’t seen him in months, but the pull was everywhere, especially in Thunder Bay. In the pictures his mother kept around this house, in his scent that drifted into the hallway from his old bedroom…
He might be here.
“Rika.”
I blinked, jerking my head to the left, hearing Trevor call my name.
He walked out of the crowd, his blond hair freshly cut close to the scalp, his dark blue eyes looking impatient, and his stride determined. “Hey, baby. I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
I hesitated, feeling my stomach tighten. But then I forced a smile as he stepped up to me in the doorway of the solarium.
Twelve hours.
He slipped a hand around the right side of my neck—never the left side—and rubbed his thumb across my cheek, his body flush with mine.
I turned my head, shifting uncomfortably. “Trevor—”
“I didn’t know what I was going to do if you didn’t show up tonight,” he cut in. “Throw rocks at your window, serenade you, maybe bring you flowers, candy, a new car…”
“I have a new car.”
“I mean a real car.” He finally grinned.
I rolled my eyes and pulled out of his hold. At least he was joking with me again, even if it was just to dis my brand new Tesla. Apparently electric cars weren’t real cars, but hey, I could take the dig if it meant he was finally over making me feel like shit about everything else.
Trevor Crist and I had been friends since birth, gone to school with each other our entire lives, and were always thrown together by our parents as if a relationship were inevitable. And last year, I finally gave in to it.
We dated almost our entire first year in college, attending Brown together—or actually, I applied to Brown, and he followed—but it ended in May.
Or I ended it in May.
It was my fault I didn’t love him. It was my fault I didn’t want to give it more time. It was my fault I decided to transfer schools to a city where he wouldn’t follow.
It was also my fault he gave in to his father’s demand to transfer, as well, and finally attend Annapolis, and it was my fault I was disrupting our families.
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