by Amy Olle
Filling the glass past halfway, Luke drank the contents in a long, deep swallow. The liquid burned a path down his throat to his gut. He refilled and drank until he gasped for breath. Then he gripped the bottle by the neck and crossed the darkened room to the patio doors.
With his elbow, he slid the screen open and stepped out onto the balcony. It’d be some time before he settled down enough for sleep, and he wouldn’t be able to do it at all without the whiskey.
The apartment complex, an old factory converted into studio lofts, sat overlooking the harbor on the island’s sunrise coast. Sparse, tiny lights winked at him from the mainland across the lake. He dropped into the wrecked recliner, its leather cracked and duct taped in several places.
He sat in the dark, taking nips of whiskey, the way one might chat with an old friend. When the first fingers of dawn peeked over the horizon, he stared into the light, daring the sun finally show itself. His eyes burned but he didn’t look away. The pain felt good. It was all he had to remind himself he still lived.
He threw back the Jack in his tumbler and poured the last remaining trickle of liquid from the bottle, both frightened and relieved to see the bottle run dry.
Only then would he sleep.
Chapter Two
The sun threw light across the room and Emily rolled to her side to escape its harsh glare. It was well past noon, and the nagging voice inside her head badgered.
Get up.
I don’t want to.
You have to.
Why?
You haven’t bathed in two days.
So?
Get up.
No. Go away.
What would your mom think if she could see you like this?
Emily got up.
The hardwood floors were cool beneath her feet as she trudged across the bedroom. In the bathroom, she turned on the shower and brushed her teeth while steam filled the room.
In the week since she’d arrived at her new home, she’d fallen into one of her now-familiar funks. They’d happened every so often since her mom died. Periods of gloom that often lasted several days, or sometimes, weeks. Unable to muster the will to eat or get out of bed, she’d sleep more hours than she’d spend awake, yet exhaustion never left her body.
After her shower, she rummaged through her suitcase for a clean pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She tugged a comb through the long mass of her tangled hair, but the humidity coaxed waves into her normally straight, fine locks and she soon gave up the fight and ventured out of her suite of private rooms.
Located off the home’s gourmet kitchen at the back of the house, the cozy suite boasted a living area, a bedroom with an en suite bath, and a wall of French doors through which she enjoyed the same expansive views of Lake Michigan as the rest of the house.
Not that the seven-bedroom, seven-thousand-square-foot Winslow mansion wasn’t cozy. It was lovely. Lovely and massive. Cavernous, really. Which only exacerbated Emily’s utter distaste for living alone.
Nothing a houseguest or two couldn’t help fix.
She started a pot of coffee brewing and distracted herself from her melancholy with thoughts about the inn.
Despite Luke Nolan’s lack of enthusiasm, the hour-long drive from the airport had given her some reason for optimism about her business venture, spurred by sweeping views of the lake, charming coastal communities, and an abundance of road signs directing traffic to nearby wineries and antique shops.
No doubt, the tourists weren’t far away. All she had to do was lure them onto the island. Located a short ferry ride from the mainland between Traverse City and Ludington, two of Michigan’s most popular tourist destinations, how hard could it be?
When the coffee’s aroma filled the spacious kitchen, she filled a to-go mug and scooped her purse and keys off the kitchen counter on her way out the back door. She shoved a pair of dark sunglasses over her eyes to shield against the intense sunlight. In the rented sedan, she traveled south along the island’s western coastline.
The lake appeared a brilliant blue-green color she couldn’t ever before recall seeing. At the southern point, she rounded the bend and soon turned up the drive to the old stone church. She parked atop the gentle hill overlooking the graveyard and snagged the watering can off the backseat.
Since she’d buried her mom here a year ago, the church sign had changed from St. Patrick’s Catholic Church to Little Stone Church, a name that perfectly described the building.
Her mom’s tombstone rested at the edge of an ancient oak tree’s shadow. As she filled the watering can at the spigot, a bird chirped in the tree overhead and a warm, freshwater-scented breeze gusted off the lake to kiss her skin and lift her hair off her shoulders.
At Audrey’s resting place, Emily tipped the can and water trickled over the pink geraniums. When she’d first learned of her mom’s wish to be buried in Michigan, she’d been shocked. Audrey had brought Emily to visit Thief Island a few times when Emily was young, but never thereafter and Emily had assumed her mother felt no love lost for the town where she grew up.
Just one more thing she wished she’d thought to ask Audrey before her death. Who was her first love? Was her heart ever broken? What subject did she enjoy most in school? What was Audrey’s favorite thing about the island? The breathtaking views? The smell?
In the end, they’d run out of time.
As Emily descended the hillside, a seagull screeched above her head.
So very many questions, and she’d never know the answers to any of them.
Luke dragged a hand through his wet hair and pushed open the door to the station.
The rookie officer, Dominic Newberry, hunched over a file on his desk. “Chief’s looking for you.”
Luke grunted. He was late to work, and while he hated disappointing Chief Brown, he couldn’t muster the will to give a shit about the recent string of write-ups filling his personnel file.
Dominic looked up from his paperwork. “They’ve posted the position.”
Weariness clawed at Luke.
The kid snuck a glance over his shoulder before his gaze slid back to Luke. “Sloane’s applying for it.”
The hairs on Luke’s neck lifted and he rolled his shoulders. “Is that right?”
A figure took shape out of the corner of his eye. “Welcome back, Detective.”
Luke turned toward the sound of the chief’s voice. “Good to be back.”
Cynthia’s chocolate-chip-brown eyes studied him over the rim of her glasses for one long, uncomfortable moment. “Come talk with me.”
A heavy sigh rattled through him and he followed her into her office. He remained standing beside the chair positioned before her desk while she rounded the oversized faux-mahogany bureau.
“How was your weekend?” She dropped into the vinyl-covered chair.
His weekend consisted of a three-day confinement at a farmhouse somewhere in the backwoods of Georgia, where he’d been forced to talk about his feelings with a crotchety bunch of maimed, disturbed, and, for all he could tell, utterly broken men.
Needless to say, his weekend sucked balls. Definitely not his idea of a good time. Not his idea at all, but Cynthia’s. Somehow, she’d gotten it into her head Luke was suffering from post-traumatic stress or some such shit.
“Glad I went,” Luke lied. “I hear the position’s been posted.”
Best part of his weekend was that little mishap at the airport. He bit back a smile when he recalled her small face with huge, horror-struck brown eyes. He’d never forgotten a girl before. What was her name? Amy? Emma?
“Are you interested?”
Luke corralled his meandering thoughts. “Is Sloane up for it?”
Cynthia appeared to measure her words. “He expressed an interest, yes. Does that impact your decision?”
“Not at all.” He fabricated a wicked smile. “Just scouting the competition.”
Cynthia made a noise that Luke recognized as the closest she came to laughter. “So, tell me about the
retreat.”
“I’d love to.” He took a small step back and his heel caught on a chair leg. His hand shot out to grip the chair back. “But I’m buried in paperwork. How about we chat later?”
Her gaze strayed from his face to his hand on the chair. “Come find me when you’ve caught up.”
At his desk, he attacked the stack of files he’d been shifting around for months. Words swam before his eyes, as they’d done since that day six months ago.
He shoved the paperwork into a corner of the steel desk and, rather than seeking out Cynthia, careened toward the front door. In the parking lot, the sun-warmed asphalt radiated heat. He climbed into his SUV with the Thief Island Police logo and cranked the air-conditioning.
Pulling out onto Main Street, he thrust a hand through his hair, as if he might soothe his agitated mind.
He didn’t need therapy. Therapy wouldn’t bring Anthony back.
He pumped the brake when the island’s lone stoplight caught him with a red signal.
Therapy couldn’t fix what was broken. Therapy would only reopen the wounds, but he didn’t want to revisit them. He wanted to forget, and to forget, he had everything he needed—women, workouts, and whiskey.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t indulge in any of those things while on duty.
Before him, a royal-blue Jetta passed through the intersection. Through the windshield, the driver’s strawberry-blonde hair shone in the sunlight.
A smile tipped up one corner of his mouth.
Whatshername would have to do.
Emily peered through the windshield to read the name on the street sign. Brandywine? She collapsed back in the seat. She was officially lost.
Thinking to learn the layout of the island, she’d taken a different route home from the cemetery. She’d even managed to confuse the GPS, which kept guiding her around the same loop. At a stop sign, she pulled a paper map from the car’s glove compartment and laid it across the steering wheel while she studied it. A bead of sweat broke out on her brow and she lowered the car window.
With a plan in mind, she eased through the stop sign. Just then, a sudden strong breeze kicked up, snatching the map from her fingers and sucking it through the car window. In her rearview mirror, she watched the map dance in the wind.
A curse shot from her. Leaning forward in her seat, she squinted to read the road signs as she passed by, hoping one of them might ring familiar. Absorbed in her crisis, she failed to heed the lights flashing in her rearview mirror until the police siren’s sharp chirp punched the air.
Emily groaned as she eased off the accelerator and maneuvered the car to the side of the road. The white police vehicle drew up snug behind her.
In her side mirror, she watched the officer unfold from the SUV and amble up alongside her car. The navy-blue uniform hugged his lean, well-muscled frame.
A niggle of unease chased up her spine. She reached through the window opening and adjusted the driver-side mirror so that she could see his face.
Her heart plummeted to her stomach.
Mirrored sunglasses obscured his eyes and the white stick of a sucker dangled from his pouty mouth, but he was instantly recognizable.
Luke withdrew the sucker from his mouth, leaving a kiss of moisture on his lips. “License and registration.”
She started out of her dumbstruck state. Stretching, she popped open the glove compartment and rummaged around until she located the vehicle’s registration. She handed it over.
He pushed the sunglasses on top of his head and green eyes pierced her. Her mouth went dry.
“Your license?”
She snatched her purse off the passenger seat, dug out her wallet, and slid the State of Arizona driver’s license from the laminated holder.
He studied the documents. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
She licked her dry lips. “Twenty-seven, I think.”
“I clocked you at twenty-six.”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
Sea-green eyes landed on her face with the force of a tidal wave. “Speed limit is twenty-five, Ms. Cole.”
Ms. Cole?
He flipped open a notepad. “I’m afraid I'm going to have to issue you a ticket.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re going to w-w-write m-me a ticket? For going o-one mile over the speed limit?”
He pointed at something in the distance. “This is a school zone, Ms. Cole.”
“A single mile per hour?”
“You could’ve hit a child.”
“It’s Sunday.”
He sliced her with a look. “Safety doesn’t take a day off.”
Laughter burst from her.
Which he quelled with a look.
“You’re kidding.” She searched for signs of humor on his face. “Aren’t you?”
“It says here you’re five feet four inches tall.” He looked at her beneath lowered lashes; their length so long they tangled at the corners. “That seems awfully generous.”
She floundered for words while he scribbled something in his notepad. Then he tore the sheet from the tablet with a flourish. He held out the ticket, along with her license and registration.
She reached for the papers, but at the last moment, he pulled back and she missed.
He leaned close and the scent of soap and sun-warmed skin teased her senses. A soft light shimmered in his eyes.
She swallowed.
“Unless…” His tone, deep and penetrating, sloped through her. “You’d like me to get you off?”
The seductive smile on his flawless face set off a series of alarm bells inside her skull. An image of his long fingers cradled around a pink vibrator came screaming to life in her mind.
Her face flushed with furious heat. “Is this about BOB?”
His brows snapped together. “Who’s Bob?”
“Y-you haven’t confiscated him, h-have y-y-you? I didn’t think they were illegal.”
“Are we talking about your vibrator? No, no, vibrators definitely aren’t illegal.” He frowned. “Though it probably depends what you’re doing with it.”
“I’m sure it was an oversight. If you’ll kindly return him to me—”
“It wasn’t an oversight.” A knowing light danced in Luke’s bright eyes. “I thought I could make you come for it later.”
She gasped.
His lips parted and the red sucker disappeared inside his mouth.
She stuck out her hand. “I’ll take the ticket.”
Two days later, as Luke made his way along Lakeshore Drive, the familiar tension built in his shoulders. He tilted his head from side to side, trying to loosen the corded tightness in his neck muscles, and exhaled a few sharp breaths—part of a relaxation technique they’d taught at last weekend’s retreat.
Then he spotted the royal-blue Jetta. His racing heart skidded to a stop at the cliff’s edge when he recalled her bowtie mouth moving in wordless frustration. If he weren’t a seasoned professional, he might feel a twinge of pity for her.
It wasn’t his fault—or at least, that’s what he told himself—it was his job, and he took his job very seriously.
A cop and all-around good guy, he pledged to keep the quiet, sleepy island community quiet and sleepy. No drama. No shocks or surprises. No tragedies.
Never again.
To that end, it was his job to know, with intimate detail, what was going on in the private lives of the citizens living on the island. Each and every one of them. What mattered to them most? Who were they sleeping with, and who or what did they ache to possess? He needed to know their weaknesses. Their vices. The thing they could not live without.
It was his duty to keep his eye on Emily Cole.
The thought delivered a smile to his lips.
He cranked the steering wheel and swung the SUV around to follow her. What the hell, he was already late to work. He flipped on his police lights.
She spotted him immediately and eased the sedan over to the curb. He approached her windo
w, surprised by the effort it took to keep his stride slow and measured.
Once again, she wore a shapeless gray sweatshirt and her red hair drawn back from her face in a tangled mass. She looked as though she were coming from a particularly grueling session at the gym. Or, after a long day, was on her way to bed. To sleep.
Her deep scowl as she glared up at him was so severe it came off as insincere.
He bit the inside of his cheek. “City ordinance forbids frowning at an officer of the law.”
“That’s a lie.” A thread of uncertainty tinged her assertion.
“License and registration.”
“Is there a reason y-you p-p-pulled m-m-me over?”
“I was concerned by your erratic driving. You were clearly distracted with something.”
She flushed an attractive shade of pink. “I wasn’t.”
God, this was fun. She was fun.
He tapped a finger against the corner of his mouth. “You got a little something right here.”
Her pink tongue darted out to lick the smudge of ketchup.
A punch of lust hit him like a kick to the nuts.
She handed him her documents. He took a moment pretending to study her vehicle registration while he grappled with his confused lust. What the fuck was that, anyway?
“Are you aware you have ninety days to apply for a state-issued driver’s license before you are in violation of the law?”
Her throat worked and she gave a curt nod.
With an exaggerated motion, he pulled the notepad from his breast pocket, licked his index finger, and flipped it open. He paused with pen poised above the pad. “Have you applied for a new license?”
The sound originating in the back of her throat sounded suspiciously like a growl.
He started to write.
Her mouth opened, as though she might argue, but then snapped shut again.
He ripped the top sheet from the pad with a large sweep of his arm. “This will just serve as a little reminder. When you have your license, take it to the clerk’s office and the violation will be dismissed.”