by A. S. Green
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more New Adult titles from Entangled Embrace… Cinderella and the Geek
The Backup Plan
Straight Up Irish
Leaving Everest
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by A. S. Green. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Karen Grove
Cover design by Fiona Jayde
Cover photography by
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ISBN 978-1-64063-566-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition June 2018
For Kristin, whose record collection is downright enviable
Chapter One
Jackson Sparke
Late August
New Porte, Minnesota
Lake Superior
I’ve got to be crazy, putting my life in the hands of strangers. The two cars that were ahead of me in line are now onboard the ferry. Some guy in a blue uniform shirt is curling his fingers at me. It’s my turn, but I don’t take my foot off the brake. Yeah, I’ve done my research, buddy.
The Little Bear Island ferry weighs one hundred tons, even without the dozen or so cars it can carry. The island crossing is two-point-five miles. Lake Superior is over thirteen hundred feet deep. Not to mention thirty-nine degrees if I get down a couple hundred feet.
Don’t think about the water, Jax.
“Shut up, Charlie.” Always with his incessant voice in my head. It’s been like this ever since Afghanistan, and I don’t need it today.
The ferry guy isn’t curling his fingers at me anymore. Now he’s making a full scooping motion with his arm. I take my foot off the brake and let my Escalade (not to mention a quarter million dollars’ worth of equipment) roll up the ramp and onto this iron death barge. It barely looks seaworthy.
Don’t think about the water.
“Life is just subtraction, subtraction, subtraction, asshole.” I damn well better think about the water.
Christ, I never should have taken this job. If I hadn’t already been scheduled for a trip to the Midwest, I would have delegated it to Murray. Still should have. I wipe the sweat off my upper lip.
The guy who’s directing me onto the ferry points left, and I turn my wheel, inching forward. He’s packing us on here like sardines. Keep coming, keep coming, keep coming. He flexes his hands. Stop! I hit the brake hard.
He slaps his palms down on the hood of my car, then squeezes along the rail to come take my ticket. My window is already down. It’s always down. Best to be prepared for a quick escape.
“First timer?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He nods. “What brings you to the island?”
I’m guessing he’s been instructed to ask that question of everyone who makes the crossing today, particularly those cars that don’t have a kayak or camping gear strapped to the roof.
“Wedding.”
“On the list?” He clenches the edge of my open window frame and takes on a protective air. I almost expect him to say, “You. Shall. Not. Pass.”
“Jackson Sparke. Sparke Investigations. Some of my team should have arrived a few hours ago.”
The guy narrows his eyes at me. “Still going to have to see some credentials. We’re expecting a lot of gate-crashers.”
I approve of his suspicion—a first line of defense is always appreciated—and hand him my card. Then I take off my sunglasses and toss them on the dash.
“I’m supposed to meet the wedding planner at the landing,” I say. “Her name’s Katherine…” I can’t recall her last name, so I shuffle through a file folder, looking for the email I printed off.
The guy reaches through my open window to shake my hand, so apparently I’ve said enough to convince him. “I’m Bennet. Katherine’s husband. You must be the professional badass I hear the bride’s been going on and on about.”
I grimace at his description, but he looks like he had a lot of fun repeating it.
He releases my hand, then he bends over and folds his forearms so they’re resting on my window frame. He looks down the side of my Escalade, appraising it. “You drive all the way here from New York? Long haul.”
I get his interest. A guy like him: married, likely with kids; steady job; small town. Probably never lived anywhere else but this tiny island. He’s all about setting down roots and staying put, and I’m guessing it’s in his genes. Guys like him come from guys like him.
Guys like me, on the other hand…
The late-morning sun glints off my side mirror, and I catch sight of another crew member just as he flips the thick lines off the iron cleats, casting us from the pier. There’s a sudden groaning noise as the engines throttle up. Water churns. And then, slowly, we inch away from the dock. My stomach turns.
I take a little comfort in the fact that my life insurance policy is paid up. If I go down, my business is named as the beneficiary. That’ll be a nice influx of cash. Murray can collect on the personal property insurance, too. He’ll probably use the money for that employee retreat he’s always going on about.
“Twenty minutes to cross?” I ask, hoping the article I read had over
exaggerated.
“On the nose.” He glances up at something or someone in the bridge, then he gets back to business. “All right. Once we dock, everyone else will be directed to the right. Don’t follow them to the main street right away. Head straight forward, up to the ticket booth. Katherine won’t be there, but her assistant will. Name’s Natalie. She’s agreed to meet you and get you where you need to go.”
I give him a chin nod and say thanks. He pushes off my door and gets back to work. His feet are steady under him as he moves through the cars to collect the rest of the tickets, even when the ferry lurches and breaks through the waves.
I distract my mind from our future sinking by flipping to the next sheet of loose paper in my folder. Tonight’s security detail is for a celebrity wedding. The couple wanted to be off the grid when they got hitched—no paparazzi, no Hollywood Reporter.
I glance up and judge the distance that still extends between the ferry and the island. Looks like mission accomplished for getting off the grid. I don’t know how they picked this place, but Little Bear Island has got to be the tiniest, most unremarkable place in the continental US. Not even Google turns up anything more than a map, a short essay on the history of the lighthouse, and a couple photos of record-breaking fish.
According to the notes I received from the party planner, she’s arranged for the wedding and reception to take place at one location on the island, which helps with logistics, plus the spot is high on a hill, surrounded by trees, and can only be reached by a single dirt road. Given all the natural barriers, I only sent a team of four on ahead of me. They should have the surveillance cameras set up by now.
By the time I look up from my notes, the island has come into closer view. A half dozen seagulls are squawking and circling a fishing boat headed into the marina. Music pumps off someone’s lakeside deck. There’s the smell of burgers cooking on a grill.
The ferry engines shift downward, and we slow to a crawl. It occurs to me that it will be dark when I make the crossing tonight. I flick the interior cab lights to make sure they work.
My chest relaxes when the bulbs light. Come tomorrow, I’ll be out of here. Fat paycheck in my pocket. Two more jobs on the road, then back to New York.
Easy.
Chapter Two
Natalie O’Brien
Little Bear Island
Lake Superior
Captain Doyle’s coffee is a tragedy of epic proportion. I can’t figure out if it’s his own special poison or if it’s the cup he serves it in. Right now he’s sitting opposite me at the tiny table inside the shack that serves as the island’s ferry office. He’s going through yesterday’s passenger receipts with his arthritic fingers and spitting tobacco into an empty cup. So gross.
I distract myself by giving Kate and Bennet’s new puppy, Delilah—another Newfoundland—a little scratch behind the ears. I take care of her twice a week, so she’s used to me, and it’s nice that Doyle doesn’t mind having her in the ferry office while Bennet’s on his shift.
She adjusts in my lap, kneading my thighs with her black paws as she circles.
“Who’s the good girl? Are you a good girl?” I kiss the top of her head, wishing I could stay and play, but I’m here to help Kate. Her fledgling party-planning business has done great locally since she started it a year ago, but now she’s gone and landed her first high-profile gig, thanks to Bennet’s music contacts in Nashville. She’s all calm and businesslike on the outside, but I know the girl is freaking on the inside. She doesn’t think she’s ready. I know that she is.
I’m primarily serving as hostess for the reception, but the bride’s chosen head of security is supposedly crossing now, and I agreed to meet him and show him where to go.
Delilah jumps down, and I take another nose-wrinkling swig of coffee. I cross my legs and sense how my miniskirt has gotten a little tighter since last summer. It’s too rock-and-roll to toss in the Goodwill bin. I figure all I need to do is give up nachos and beer for a couple weeks and it should fit fine. I’ll get right on that once summer is over.
I glance up at the clock. Nearly eleven bells. Kate’s probably fit to be tied.
The bride and groom arrived late last night, and Kate was so nervous she made me come with her to the final planning meeting. Seriously, being in the presence of actual famous people is a little intimidating, and usually nothing rattles me. That’s why Kate insisted I come along.
But—good Lord—when someone like me (who’s barely left the island in all my twenty-four years) has to watch a man I’ve only seen on the big screen lay a big, fat, wet one on a woman I’ve only seen on an album cover…I mean, come on. I rattled like a maraca!
I haven’t been kissed like that in a long, long time. Six years, to be exact. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Elise hadn’t got pregnant. If I’d stayed out on the road, would I still be getting kissed like that? The way that man made my head spin and my body practically levitate…
A lump rises in my throat and lodges there. As often as the memories come to me, you’d think I’d be better at pushing them down.
“Jesus, Nat. Did you swallow a bug?” Doyle sounds partly alarmed, partly disgusted.
I look up. “What?”
“That look on your face,” he says, scowling at me.
“Oh. Sorry. Just remembering something.” Yeah, like five solid weeks with the man who had captured my heart, the only man who would ever have my heart. Not to mention how the man forgot all about me as soon as I was out of sight, out of mind. The happy-sad memories always hit me at the most inopportune times.
Doyle grunts, then goes back to his receipts.
The grinding sound of an engine causes me to turn my head toward the grimy office window. Doyle checks his watch. The ferry’s on time. It’s always on time. The women on Little Bear joke that a late ferry is as unsettling as a late period.
A few minutes later, the ferry makes its groaning, squealing arrival and docks. I don’t get up from my chair right away. It’ll take a few minutes for Bennet and the rest of the crew to tie it off and then for the wide ramp to lower for the cars to disembark.
I lean back in my chair and watch the whole routine through the window. Bennet is directing the cars off the ferry. He points them to the right, but he stops a shiny black SUV with tinted windows. Then he points to the ferry office.
I can’t see the driver, but his hand sticks out of his window and gives Bennet a two-fingered salute.
Doyle stands. “Here comes your last security guard.”
“I don’t know,” I say, dragging out the last word and mocking the suspicion I would have normally expected of Doyle. “Could be a creepy pervert with those tinted windows.”
Doyle’s eyes cut from the SUV to me. “You watch too much television.”
He’s not wrong. “I live on Little Bear Island. Hardly the entertainment mecca of the Midwest.”
“And what are you talking about?” he says, suddenly realizing what I’ve said. “I have tinted windows, and I’m not creepy.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Weren’t you the one dressed as a clown at this year’s Summer Fest? I knew Kate’s circus theme was a risk; every kid on this island is terrified of you.”
“Well,” he says, placing his hands wide apart on the table and leaning toward me, “if Katherine wants to get rid of any gawkin’ kiddies at this fancy shindig she’s throwin’ tonight…or if she wants someone to make balloon animals, for that matter…you know where to find me.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I swear I will never get a steady bead on Doyle. He pushes off the table and goes to stand in the doorway.
Delilah wags her tail so hard she stumbles sideways, trips over her oversize paws, then does a nose-plant on the floor. When I laugh, she tips her head up, and I swear she looks embarrassed.
“Aw, honey,” I say, scooping her up. I glance toward the doorway and watch the SUV approach. “Just keep trying, baby. Life can be g
ood.” I kiss the top of her head. “If you let it.”
Chapter Three
Jackson
I drive off the ferry, making a slow crunching sound through the gravel landing before stopping in front of a little red shack.
An old man approaches my window. “Can I help you?”
“I’m supposed to meet someone here,” I tell him. “She’s supposed to get me up to the wedding site.”
The old man makes a hawking noise, then spits tobacco on the ground. He yells over his shoulder, “Nat!”
A female voice calls out from inside the shadowed doorway. “Is it the security dude or a pervert?” My head jerks toward the sound, and something niggles at my brain.
“Dunno,” the man says, his eyes cutting to me. “Can you make a poodle outta a balloon?”
I turn my attention back to him. “Negative.” Fuck, I miss New York.
“He’s security,” the man yells back to the woman, who still hasn’t come outside.
“Are you sure you don’t want to see my credentials?” I ask. He needs to get used to asking for them. At least for the next twenty-four hours.
He waves me off like he couldn’t care less. “Rookie send you over to us?” he asks.
“Excuse me?” I hand him my card, and he pockets it without even looking.
“Guy on the ferry. He tell you to come to the office to find your escort?” The old guy narrows his eyes, and his nostrils flare, exposing some bristly gray hairs.
He must be talking about the party planner’s husband, though the guy didn’t strike me as much of a rookie. “That’s right.”
The old man gives me a grunt of affirmation. “Rookie is good enough credentials for me.” Then he looks over his shoulder toward the shack. “Nat! Get your ass out here.”
“Just putting Delilah in her crate. Hold on to your panties, Doyle.”
That voice. The niggling at my brain now feels like a kick in the gut. But why?
I flip up the sun visor as a stunning redhead emerges from the doorway. She’s dressed in a Foo Fighters concert tee and tons of silver bracelets. Her black miniskirt is stretched tight across her tanned thighs. Fuck. She used to be exactly my type. Back when I had one, that is. Totally rock-and-roll. Like that redheaded ’80s chick from the Whitesnake video.