07 It Had to Be You

by Jill Shalvis

  He was. Very funny. “It was nice of you,” Ali said, “not charging him.”

  Leah sighed. “All the firefighters have been fighting that bush fire out in Desolation Flats, and he’s coming off three long, hard, hot days. They need a pick-me-up.”

  “Or like you said, pretty face in a hot uniform.”

  “We’re just friends, have been forever. We went to high school together.”

  The door opened, and the bell jingled again. Both women turned to watch Luke walk in. He was in long cargo shorts, a surf shop T-shirt, and an opened button down, the very picture of a guy on vacay—except for his watchful, alert gaze. He smiled at Leah and then gave Ali the “come here” gesture.

  Ali moved toward him, brushing against him as he held the door open for her. Outside, she blinked at the bright sun. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  She wanted to ask if this was a social or business visit, but his face gave her the answer even before he spoke.

  “Talked to Sawyer,” he said. “He’s still working on getting the surveillance video from the gas station. Apparently the owner’s been on vacation, and the son—who was supposed to run the place in his absence—closed the place down and went fishing for a few days.”

  Ali wasn’t surprised. This was, after all, Lucky Harbor. Lucky Harbor had its own sense of time, and it rarely ticked along with the real world. “In the meantime,” Luke said, “I’ve got something else.” He pulled out his cell phone and brought up a photo. “You recognize this?”

  It was a close-up of the Silver Pine pencil pot she’d taken from Ted’s office. It’d been confiscated as evidence when the police had come to the house. “Yes,” she said, “of course.”

  “Do you have a signature for your pottery, something that identifies it as yours?”

  “I carve my initials into each piece.”

  “And then you add a star to the glaze?”

  “A star? No,” she said, confused. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Sawyer let me take a look at the evidence. Professional courtesy.” He zoomed in on the little pot. “See that?” he asked. “You’ve got a crack on the inside.”

  “Well, I made that pot months ago. It’s been manhandled and—”

  “I’m not questioning the quality of the pot, Ali. Look closer.” He zoomed in even further. “See it?”

  “Yeah, there’s something in the crack…” She squinted. It was a sliver of something blue with a tiny white star on it. “Huh.”

  “Odd, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Very. What’s a nail tip doing stuck in the crack of my ceramic pot?”

  Luke stared at her. “Nail tip?”

  “Looks like the tip of an acrylic fingernail to me. But I don’t have fake nails, and I never use fingernail polish because it chips so easily with the work I do.”

  Luke shook his head, and then shocked the hell out of her by leaning in and giving her a quick, hard kiss on the mouth. “Hot and smart.”

  She felt the glow from her toes to the roots of her hair, and in some very interesting spots in between. “You think whoever this nail tip belongs to was the one who put the bill wrapper in the jar?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “I don’t know anyone with blue fingernails with white stars,” she said.

  “How many people live in this town?”

  She shrugged. “We’ve grown to five thousand-ish, I think.”

  “And half of them are female…”

  “There’s only one beauty salon in town,” Ali said. “And it’s just two buildings down.” She went still. “Melissa runs it.”

  He nodded. “But her nails are green-and-white stripes right now.”

  She didn’t want to know how he knew that. Okay, so she did. She totally wanted to know. In fact, her immediate reaction was nearly to blurt out, “How do you know this?” but her brain reminded her that they weren’t “involved.” Which meant she had no business in his business, even though he had just kissed her in public outside the bakery. And given that she’d thought she and Teddy had been a thing when they obviously hadn’t been, she clearly wasn’t all that up on the rules of Defining Relationships 101. “Can you text me this pic?” she finally asked. “I want to send it to Zach.”

  “I’ll send it to him.”

  “Okay, but I still want it.” She wanted to go see Melissa herself.

  Evening was coming. Dusk at the base of the Olympic Mountains was fickle as hell. Though the day had been warm, with the drop of the sun came a drop in temperature, and Ali wrapped her arms around herself.

  Luke pulled off his outer shirt and held it out for her. She gratefully slid her arms into the soft cotton and hugged it close to hold in his lingering body heat.

  “I’ll send you the pic,” Luke said quietly, “but I don’t want you showing it around.” He met her gaze, his own very serious. “I want you to trust me to do it.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I know that this is your life, and you like to handle things yourself. I get that. I respect that,” he said. “But say that you’re sleeping with a bunch of women who don’t know about each other. And then one of those women discovers that you’re also sticking it to half the town. What do you do?”

  Ali stared at him. “Sneak into his office and take back a gift?” she joked weakly. But her humor faded fast. “Or…steal the cash in his possession to make him look really bad.” She sighed shakily. “Damn. I really walked right into this.”

  “You got in the middle of someone’s plan,” Luke agreed. “And that someone has fifty big ones under their mattress and is feeling pretty damn safe right now—at least until you start stirring shit up, shifting the blame from you to them.” He met her gaze, his own very serious. “I’m going to let Sawyer know that the star isn’t your signature and the fingernail should be run through forensics with the other evidence. And you…”

  “You want me to be careful,” she said softly.

  He leaned in and gave her a kiss, right there on the sidewalk. “Very careful.”

  She nodded and then smiled because she could see the fierce determination in his eyes. To get to the bottom of this mess. To protect her. And seeing it, she felt her own fierce determination too. Along with something new.

  Hope.

  Chapter 17

  Normally, Luke’s favorite time of day was the opposite of what his grandma’s had been—dawn’s first light. But not on the days after he stayed up until two in the morning to catch the two knuckleheads closing up their uncle’s bowling alley and skimming from the top of the day’s take.

  Luke didn’t have to knock their heads together. As it turned out, they ratted on each other, and Luke was confident he scared the shit out of them and that their skimming days were over.

  He finally fell gratefully into bed, but was woken only a few hours later at the ass crack of dawn by the buzz on his phone as an email came in from his commander.

  Time’s up, Hanover. Be here by this weekend to prepare for Monday’s review.

  Well, hell. Today was Wednesday, and his gut clenched at the thought of leaving now. He hadn’t finished painting the house. Or repairing the beach stairs. Okay, so he hadn’t even started the stairs, but he’d planned on it. And he wanted to see Ben. Luke had hoped he’d be back by now. He didn’t want to leave without seeing him. Nor did he want to go before Ali’s case was resolved.

  Hell, he didn’t want to leave. Period.

  Pushing out of bed, he slipped into swim trunks and got on the water before the sun came up. He’d get to that painting, and also fix the cranky plumbing so there’d be no problems after he left, but first this. He paddleboarded through the silent water, watching the sky burst into light. The wind was at his back, and beneath him the water was so clear and deep that he could see schools of fish speed through the current, racing him.

  It was the closest thing to a religion he’d ever had. The church of the wind and surf.
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br />   He paddled until his arms were quaking with exhaustion and then headed back. At the dock, he pulled his board out of the water and came to a stop.

  His grandfather was sitting on the dock, feet dangling as he smoked a cigar, watching Luke through a ring of smoke.

  Luke leaned the paddleboard against the dock, glanced at the stairs up to the still-dark house. “Early for you, isn’t it?”

  Edward shrugged.

  Fine. Not up to bashing his head up against the blank wall of his grandfather’s stubbornness—hell, he still had a concussion from the last time—Luke started to pick up his board and go. But he stopped, blew out a breath, and turned back. “Thanks for making me think about the surveillance tapes.”

  “Guess you’re not an island all unto yourself then, huh?”

  Luke thought of the nice, hot shower he’d intended to take and the omelet he’d been hoping to talk his pretty tenant into fixing him. Instead he voiced what had been bothering him for ten years. “You still blame me?”

  Edward took a long drag on the cigar and contemplated the orange glow of ash on the tip. “That was never the question.”

  “No?” Luke thought of his grandma Fay’s funeral and the family gathering afterward, right here on the beach in fact. Fay had been widely beloved. Everyone had come, milling around, crying, telling stories, laughing…just wanting to be together to commiserate about the loss of a woman they’d all cared about.

  Luke would never forget how Edward had stood on this very dock, his back to the crowd, staring out at the water.

  Silent.

  Luke could remember the heaviness in his gut looking at his grandfather’s proud, stiff shoulders and the tightening in his own chest when he’d walked up to him, until they were standing side by side.

  All of Luke’s life, Edward had been a rock. A hard-ass, tough, rugged rock, with little to no softness. Even so, Luke had never so much as seen the man lose his temper. Not once. He’d certainly never seen him brought to his knees by grief. But that’s what had happened, and on that day when Luke had lifted his own head, there’d been tears streaming down Edward’s face.

  The sorrow had nearly choked Luke, sorrow and regret and guilt, but he’d somehow managed to speak. “It was my fault.” He could remember saying those four words clearly, quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Just as he could remember Edward’s response.

  Or lack of.

  Because Edward had said nothing at all, not a single word. He’d simply given one sharp shake of his head and walked off.

  Away from the house.

  Away from Luke.

  He’d vanished for a few days, which wasn’t unusual for Edward. He went off on trips all the time. Back then, he’d still been working as a fish and game warden, so his disappearance had been considered normal. Everyone knew he and Fay had been separated for decades. Just as everyone knew that it hadn’t mattered. He’d still been head over heels in love with her, and clearly devastated by her death.

  A week later, Edward had resurfaced, but by then Luke had gone back to San Francisco. Sara had still been in jail, and when Luke had gone for his weekly visit with her, he’d told her everything.

  Sara, always the mediator, had tried to soothe Luke by telling him to stop with the guilt. In no way did anyone, especially their grandpa—a man who’d hurt Fay himself—blame Luke for Fay’s death. Just like no one blamed him for Sara being in prison.

  But Luke knew she was wrong. Because he blamed himself for both of those things.

  Water continued to slap up against the pylons of the dock and the shore. The air was scented with pine, wet sand, and cigar and filled with the roar of the high tide hitting the rocky shore.

  Edward took another long drag on his cigar.

  “You know those things’ll kill you,” Luke said.

  “They haven’t yet.”

  Luke waited but Edward didn’t say anything else, just sat there taking in the view. And yet Luke knew damn well he wasn’t here for the view. He waited some more and got nothing, so he stretched out on the dock, leaned back on his elbows, and let the morning rays dry and warm him.

  “You’re finally claiming the house,” Edward eventually said.

  Ah. There it was. Luke threw an arm over his eyes to block the bright sun. “You’re still pissed off she left me this place,” he said.

  “I was never pissed off that she left you this place.”

  “No?”

  “No. Christ,” Edward grumbled, “how can someone so smart be so stupid?”

  Luke assumed that was a rhetorical question and kept his silence.

  “I was pissed that you let her memory go to waste,” Edward said. “That you left here without looking back. That you stayed away. That you don’t give a shit about anything or anyone.” He paused. “That you forgot about her. Us.”

  Luke sat back up, fury and grief fighting for space in his throat. “No. Hell no. You don’t get to say that to me.”

  “Just did, boy-o.”

  “I’ve forgotten exactly nothing,” Luke said. “I live in San Francisco. My job’s there.”

  “And what, that job’s kept you busy twenty-four seven for ten years? Is that what I’m supposed to believe?”

  “Yeah, actually. The job’s pretty demanding, which you damn-well know.”

  Edward nodded. He’d worked in law enforcement. He did know. “So you’re here now because why? The going got rough?”

  Luke stared at him. “You think that’s what I do? I just walk away when the going gets rough?”

  Edward shrugged. “If the shoe fits…”

  Luke pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but nope, nothing was going to take care of the new headache brutally kicking in behind his lids. “Fuck it,” he muttered, and pushed to his feet. “Fuck this.” He grabbed the T-shirt he’d left on the railing, shoved it over his head, and was striding away when he heard his grandfather mutter, “Walking away again.”

  Luke whipped back, his emotions far too close to the surface now. But he’d started this, he’d damn well finish it. “I didn’t walk away from her. She died.”

  Edward got to his feet, a slow painful movement that had Luke feeling yet a new stab of guilt. When had his grandfather gotten old?

  “You walked away from me,” Edward said. “From the town that loved you. You closed yourself off and never looked back. That’s walking away. That’s what you do.”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  “For how long? Until something bad happens?”

  “No, until I have to go back to my life.”

  Edward just shrugged and turned away, dismissing him. Luke did the same, striding up the stairs to the deck and shoving the back door open.

  Ali, standing at the stove, gave a startled squeak and whirled around, wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon. When she saw him, she sagged, a hand to her heart. “Jesus, Luke.”

  He headed straight through the kitchen, intending to put a lot of space between the two of them so that he didn’t scare her into next week with his bad attitude.

  “Made you an omelet,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I’m good.”

  “I left out anything green.”

  Well, shit. The scent of her cooking was making his mouth water, and right on cue, his stomach rumbled. He turned back to face her and found her eating up the sight of him.

  His body, already revved up on adrenaline, reacted predictably, but he didn’t move toward her. Refused to touch her when he felt so out of control. “I can’t do this right now, Ali.”

  “Do what?”

  “Be civil.”

  “How about eating. Can you eat?” She pointed to a kitchen chair, and Luke had no idea why, but he sat.

  Face creased into an expression of adorable concentration, she flipped the big, fluffy omelet onto a plate and pushed it his way. She poured him an orange juice and then repeated the whole thing for herself. As if realizing he needed some space, she hoisted herself up on the far sid
e of the counter, her legs folded beneath her, eating with him in companionable silence.

  “Thanks,” he said when he’d finished.

  She nodded, hopped off the counter, and went to pass by him. With no idea what he was doing, he snagged her wrist.

  She turned to him, a question in her eyes. Then with a soft smile, she stepped between his legs and cupped his jaw. “Maybe I can help make you feel a little better,” she said quietly, and bent and gave a gentle kiss to one corner of his mouth.

  He closed his eyes against the assault of emotions that battered him. “Ali.”

  She simply kissed the other corner of his mouth.

  So sweet, he thought. So warm. “Ali, I can’t—”

  “Be civil. I know.” She straddled him. “So don’t. Be you, Luke. And let me be whatever you need.”

  He was staggered. “I won’t use you.”

  “I wouldn’t let you,” she said simply, and pulled off her tank top, leaving her in a pink bra and gauzy skirt. She unhooked her bra and let it fall away.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but it didn’t matter. His body didn’t need to see her, she was already imprinted on his brain. “I’m leaving in a couple of days,” he said. “I have to be back in San Francisco this weekend.”

  “Okay.”

  Beautiful, satiny, smooth skin, sweet curves…His hands came up and cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the tips.

  She sighed in pleasure, and he figured it was a good thing he was sitting down, because she knocked the wind from him, every time he was with her. “Be sure, Ali.”

  Pulling back, she smiled into his gaze, eyes calm and direct. No sign of the nerves that suddenly lived in his gut.

  “Don’t worry.” Her lips were close enough to brush over his with every word. “I know what this is.”

  Oh, thank Christ she knew. Because he sure as hell didn’t.

  Very gently, she pulled his shirt up and off, humming her approval as her hands slid over his chest. Her hips rocked, the core of her pressing down on his erection. He groaned and leaned in, pressing his face to her heart.

  “I also know what this isn’t,” she murmured, her hands sliding into his hair to hold him at her breast.