by Karina Halle
From the rough sound of his voice, I’d swear he’s making innuendo.
And then he dips his long forefinger into the frosting and pops it in his mouth, sucking on the finger briefly. I can see his tongue roll inside against his cheek, and my entire body flushes, warm and fizzy from head to toe.
My god. That is innuendo.
I can’t see his eyes. I can only see my reflection in his sunglasses, and my mouth is open.
I abruptly close it.
“This your mum’s cake?” he asks.
Okay, and the moment has passed.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. It’s actually pretty good.”
“Icing could use some work,” he comments, delicately smacking his lips together and looking off. It’s like watching a sommelier tackle some old Bordeaux, but in this case it’s my mom’s take on Betty Crocker. “Too much sugar. Definitely not the right consistency.”
I fold my arms across my chest, feeling defensive. “Please tell me you were a past judge on The Great British Bake Off.”
“Oh, that show is rubbish,” he says. “None of it’s real, you know.”
I give a mock gasp. “You could get kicked out of Britain with that opinion.”
“Good thing I’m not there, then,” he says, slicing the tip of the cake with his fork. “So you’re just going to stand there and watch me eat cake, is that it?” He nods up at the house. “Shouldn’t you be up there?”
“You mean watching over my mom?” I ask uneasily. My eyes narrow.
“I mean conversing with the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax.” He pops the forkful of cake in his mouth.
“We’ve done a lot of conversing,” I tell him, wondering if he’s trying to get me to leave him alone. If so, I’m being purposely obstinate. “Guess I felt like doing a nice thing.”
He chews, and I can feel him watching me as he does so. I stare right back at my reflection. I know what I see in them, but I wonder what he sees.
“I appreciate it.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “May I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you leave that guy at the altar?”
I stare at him a moment as he has another bite of cake. On the one hand, I didn’t think he’d bring it up again. On the other hand, how could anyone not want to know what happened?
“That guy was my ex, Joey,” I tell him with a heavy sigh. “And, as was the case with all the guys I dated, he was an asshole.”
“You couldn’t tell that from his name?”
I laugh, though Harrison looks totally serious. “I should have known. And I should have known given my track record. But I didn’t, because I’m an idiot. And I went for the emotionally unavailable type because that’s what I do, and I looked the other way far too many times, until I found out he slept with another woman on the night of his bachelor party.”
Harrison stops chewing.
“Anyway, I didn’t find out until my wedding day. Just as I was getting my hair done. A friend of mine texted me and told me what she’d heard. My poor hairdresser, she was trying to do this elaborate updo while I was crying and texting and calling everyone I knew, everyone who was supposed to be at the wedding in a few hours. They all confirmed it. There are a lot of secrets on this island, but that one came to light at the eleventh hour.”
“Shit,” Harrison swears. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “I had no choice. I had to call off the wedding. And what that Amy chick, the barista, what she said wasn’t true. I didn’t technically leave him hanging at the altar. I told his family I was calling it off. They told me I was being irrational. They’re one of these families that have been on the island for decades and decades, amassed a lot of land, a lot of friends, and a lot of power. They didn’t want to lose face by calling it off. I thought they would have shut it all down, so I left. Turns out they all proceeded like I was supposed to walk down the aisle. Those assholes made me look like the bad one. Obviously to this day, people still think that, still talk about it.”
“They must know what he did. Gossip travels fast in small towns.”
“They know,” I tell him in a huff. “They know, and they don’t care. Easier to vilify me. Me, who keeps to herself, who doesn’t quite fit in. I’m the one who gets the blame, not their golden boy.”
“Golden boy with a blowhole,” he comments.
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s the name of his pub. It’s the only pub in town, so if you want to go out for a fun night, you have no choice. Then his shitty band plays shitty songs and you’re trapped.”
“So I take it you won’t be going to his show next Friday,” he says.
“Absolutely not,” I say. Then pause. “Unless you care to come with me.”
Another small smile flits across his mouth. “You boldly assume I have Friday nights off.”
“Do you get any nights off?”
“My job is round-the-clock,” he says, bringing his attention back to the water. I suppose I have been distracting him with my cake nonsense.
Still. “What if I asked Monica to give you the night off?”
“Don’t you dare,” he says sharply.
“She seems pretty understanding,” I goad him, “and you just said you have even more people coming to help.”
“I’m not taking any time off, not to go to some Blowhole pub with apparently shit music.”
I nod, pursing my lips. “Ah, I see. It’s because you have nothing to wear. Only suits. Tell me, what do you sleep in? I bet it’s pajamas with a breast pocket and a handkerchief you never use.”
He frowns, and I know his eyes must be blazing. I really need to stop getting such joy out of pissing him off.
“It would be inappropriate if I told you what I slept in,” he says. “And I’d rather not go, because if I did, I’m pretty sure I’d end up breaking your ex-boyfriend’s nose.”
Whoa.
Did . . . Harrison just get all macho possessive on me, or . . . ?
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says. “I have a low tolerance for wankers. What he did to you means he deserves at least a jab in his face. And the last thing I need is to get in trouble outside of my job.”
I should keep my mouth shut. Turn around and go. But I can’t help it.
“You’d get in trouble for me?”
“I’d rather not.”
Then he jerks his chin behind me. “You better go back. Been out here long enough.”
He’s back to being the Harrison I know.
Though, come to think of it, I know nothing about this man at all.
Other than the fact that he wants to punch my ex in the face.
Which is, well, actually kind of sweet.
“Okay,” I tell him.
I turn around and walk down the dock, my heart beating fast for no reason at all.
“Thanks for the cake,” he says. I look over my shoulder at him, and he’s raising the plate in the air. “Tell your mother she did good.”
I give him a soft smile and continue on my way back to the house.
That giddiness threatens to rise up inside me, but I squash it down once again.
Nine
It rained last night. The air is sweet, and sparkling water droplets sit in the curved bow of the hostas like stick-on rhinestones. The sun barely makes it through the overlap of the hemlock and fir, just enough to make everything glitter.
I knew my mother would need a few days of rest after the hullabaloo over at the royals’, so I’m in her garden, weeding. I hate it. I hate how it hurts my back, I hate how tedious it is, I especially hate how blackberry bushes seem to take over when you’re not looking. But the work is rewarding. At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m picking thorns out of my fingers.
The last few days have been pretty easy. With my mom on her downward spiral and
keeping to her bedroom, I’ve been able to clean the house, record a podcast on a paranormal romance I’ve been reading (bear shifters are all the rage right now, and I’m not complaining), do lots of cooking, and . . .
That’s about it.
Even though I told Monica it was fine that we have to deal with the media, I still didn’t leave the house until late last night to do a grocery run. I didn’t see any media, but I did see a black SUV parked on the side of the road, and I have to wonder if it was Harrison in there or the new person who supposedly came in from England. Either way, it’s kept the media away for now.
In keeping to myself I haven’t seen anyone but my mother since the dinner the other night. I thought maybe they’d drop by or send a text, but nothing. It probably means nothing at all, just that they’re busy, but I can’t help but wonder if there was something I did wrong. Maybe they discovered my mother and I are too nutty to have as neighbors. Maybe Harrison told Monica I was being distracting and inappropriate. After all, I brought him cake when he was on duty.
But he was the one who ate that cake like it was foreplay, I remind myself.
Unless I’m only seeing what I want to see, which has always been the case with me. It’s how I’ve ended up with my heart broken every single time.
And why am I even thinking like this?
I shake the thought out of my head and get prepared to yank out the final weeds when I feel a presence behind me.
I whirl around and see Harrison.
Three guesses as to what he’s wearing?
“What are you doing there, you creeper?” I cry out, getting to my feet.
“Sorry, I thought I was being loud,” he says, looking slightly embarrassed.
I roll my eyes. “If that’s your loud, I can’t imagine what you’re like when you’re really trying to sneak up on someone.”
“I’m not a secret agent, you know,” he says wryly.
Well, at least he finds me amusing this morning.
“How would I know? You said you wore many hats.”
His brows come together, and I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or the garden. “Let me guess, you’re a gardening expert too?” I ask.
He takes a few steps forward, until he’s right in front of me, and then reaches out for my face. I try not to flinch as he runs his finger lightly along my cheekbone.
“You have dirt on your face,” he says in a low, gruff voice, before he takes his finger away.
My heart is pounding so loudly in my chest, I’m afraid my ribs aren’t enough of a barrier.
“Oh,” I manage to eke out, and then quickly rub my forearm along my face.
“And those are blue angel hostas. They get bigger every year. In a couple of years, these two will compete for space.”
I give him a steady look, even though my skin is still tingling from where he touched me. Man, I really need to get laid or something, because I should not be feeling this way from a simple touch.
I clear my throat, hoping to appear normal. “Did you come here to nitpick my gardening skills?”
“Actually, no,” he says. “I was wondering if you knew someone who had a boat.”
“A boat. We’re on an island. Nearly everyone has a boat. Why? You have a giant one docked right over there.”
“Eddie wants to get away from the house, but they aren’t comfortable going into town yet. They thought getting out on the water might be good. However, they don’t want to go out on their boat either. People will recognize it.”
“You came all the way here to ask me that? Monica could have texted me.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Guess I came by to distract you.”
“Well, unfortunately for you, I’m done weeding for the day. And yes, I know someone with a boat. Bert has one. I’m sure he’d be more than willing to lend it to you.”
“Please contact him and see.”
I sigh and shrug. “Sure.”
I mean, I’m not friends with Bert; it’s not like I often call up the head cop and ask him how he is. But I’ll do it for the royals.
Not for Mr. Bossy Pants.
“Thank you,” Harrison says, and then he turns and leaves, walking back down the driveway, as silent as a mouse.
“Weirdo,” I mutter under my breath. But the moment I say the word, I feel my face flush and a strange fluttering feeling in my gut. Oh great. Seems not only do I like to annoy him, but I like it when he annoys me.
* * *
This is a first.
Despite growing up by the ocean, my experience with boats has been limited. I know, I should be banished from the Pacific Northwest forever. But boats are expensive, and we never had a lot of money, even when my father was around.
That said, since I know the area, and I’ve had experience driving thanks to going out on Joey’s parents’ speedboat a few times, I’ve been delegated as captain.
Bert was more than happy to lend us his vessel and was vocally disappointed that he couldn’t take time off work to accompany us on our little adventure. I think he should have, since he was the one who drove his boat all the way to the royals’ dock, getting a ride into town after with the royals’ driver, but I suppose there was some drum circle in the middle of town that he had to go break up.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Harrison asks me.
I turn around and smile at him. “I’m fine,” I say, giving Monica and Eddie a reassuring look. They don’t actually look all that worried, though; they’re both grinning into the wind and pointing at the scenery as we head down Long Harbour.
But Harrison is watching me like a hawk.
Not that that’s unusual. However, today he’s not wearing his sunglasses, which makes me feel like I’m getting a rare glimpse at a secret side of him.
“I’m fine,” I tell him again, but my hands momentarily slip from the wheel, and the boat starts to nose in toward the shore.
I whip around and grip the wheel hard, straightening the boat.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
I nod and keep my eyes on the water ahead, though I can feel him smirking behind me.
Harrison did offer to command the small speedboat—I suppose PPOs have to know how to drive everything, just like James Bond does—but since I’m the only one who knows where we’re going, I figured it was best this way.
That said, I don’t have much of a plan. Long Harbour is aptly named, a narrow inlet that stretches past a ferry terminal and yacht clubs, all the way to a lagoon at the back I nicknamed Creepy Lagoon for obvious reasons.
I decide to take them all the way back there, the water so narrow and shallow in one passage that cedar branches scrape the side of the boat and you can see crabs scuttling along the green-blue bottom.
Monica and Eddie ooh and aah at the sights, waving at people who are sitting on their docks and enjoying the sunshine, probably having no idea just who is passing by. The last thing locals would expect is to actually see the royal couple out and about.
While Monica has always had a smile on her face, both she and Eddie seem to be at peace for the first time since I’ve met them. I guess it helps that they’re exploring like tourists, not royals, and not confined to their house. No matter how nice their house is, it must feel like a prison sometimes.
Finally, after we tour the lagoon and go past some of the nicer houses along the water, I take them back toward the opening of the harbor, stopping at an island in the middle, near the ferry terminal.
“I love coming here,” I tell them as I try to pilot the boat toward the shore. Joey and I used to come here a lot (we also had sex on this island, but that’s neither here nor there). “Makes me feel like I have my own private hideaway, like I’m Robinson Crusoe. Or Tom Hanks from Castaway. Minus the volleyball.”
“You can’t get enough of one island, you have
to come to another?” Harrison asks wryly, leaning over the side and observing the bottom as the water gets shallow. “Watch out for that rock.”
He’s pointing to the left, so I swing the boat to the right and accidently gun the engine. Everyone is thrown back with a collective “Whoa!” and I manage to get the nose of the boat right onto a patch of white shell beach and kill the engine.
“Sorry!” I exclaim, turning around to give everyone a sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry.”
Harrison is just shaking his head, but Monica is laughing.
“Woo, that’s the most excitement I’ve had in a long time,” she says, pressing her hand against her belly. She’s been wearing long and flowy shirts and dresses every time I’ve seen her, though now that I’m staring at the small bump on her stomach, I’m starting to realize why.
I look to Eddie and notice him staring at me in concern.
I quickly turn around, blinking.
My god.
Is Monica . . . pregnant?
Or is that just a food baby? Because lord knows I get that after I eat a bunch of cheese (doesn’t stop me from eating cheese, of course, nothing will ever stop me).
I decide to mind my own business. If she’s pregnant or bloated, it’s never anyone’s place to ask, and I’m sure if she’s the former, it will come out in due time.
“Okay, let’s get out,” I say, trying to ignore it. I go to the bow and attempt to climb over it onto the shore, but Harrison has already jumped off the boat, narrowly missing the water, and he’s standing below me, holding out his hand.
“Here,” he offers.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, trying to push his hand away. I wish my legs weren’t so short, because this looks like quite the leap. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.
But Harrison has his own plans. He reaches over and grabs me by the waist and literally hoists me in the air like I weigh the same as a bag of feathers instead of a sack of potatoes.
He gently places me on the ground, and there’s a brief moment when I’m up against him and he’s staring down at me and I swear there’s a glint of something fiery in his eyes, a tic along his jaw. Then he quickly looks away and steps back, clearing his throat.