Things We Never Said: A Hart's Boardwalk Novel

by Samantha Young

  “Cooper and I are leaving,” Vaughn said, attempting to placate the nurse. “Can’t you let the ladies stay? They’re like sisters to Dahlia.”

  “Two of them can stay or all three if the detective leaves.”

  Michael tensed at my side, and I glanced up at him as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  Yeah, he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

  “I could leave,” Emery offered.

  Vaughn gave her a slight shake of his head and then turned to the nurse. “Mabel, is it?” He flashed her a rare but beautiful smile. “Surely you won’t deny them their chance to visit? Their best friend was shot, and they’re scared. They need some reassurance.”

  Mabel exhaled heavily under his potent stare. “Fine. They can stay. But keep it down. Ms. McGuire needs her rest.”

  Cooper clapped Vaughn on the back and then leaned over to give his wife a quick kiss. His eyes came to me. “I’ll see you soon, Wonder Woman.”

  I rolled my eyes but nodded.

  Vaughn surprised me by coming over to the bed to press a kiss to my forehead. “Glad you’re okay. I don’t know what she’d do without you.” He nodded at Bailey.

  I gave him a fond smile of thanks.

  Once the men—with the exception of Michael, of course—had departed, the girls pulled up seats around my bed. Once they had reassurances from me that I was okay, they chatted about the events of the last twenty-four hours. Their voices washed over me like a soothing bubble bath, and the comfort of having all my soul mates in the same room drew me into a healing sleep.

  * * *

  Whispers filtered into my subconscious, tugging me upward and out of the dark until my eyelids fluttered against the light.

  My vision cleared and I took in the hospital room, remembering that Freddie Jackson had shot me.

  Last time I’d been awake, the girls and Michael had been in the room with me.

  Now I was surrounded.

  I guess Mabel had lost her battle against the force of the McGuires.

  An ache flared in my shoulder, but despite it, I smiled to see my family.

  Dad occupied the chair Michael had when I’d first woken up, and he was whispering across the bed to Darragh, leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed. Davina was in the seat next to Dad, curled up with her knees to her chest, her head on her hand as she slept.

  Dermot was sprawled across a chair on the other side of my bed, his head hanging back, his mouth open while he snored.

  “How is anyone supposed to recover from a gunshot wound around here with that kind of racket going on?” I grumbled.

  “Dahlia!” Dad was louder than I knew he meant to be as he pushed out of the chair to press his cheek to mine. “God, Bluebell, you scared me to death.”

  “I’m okay, Dad.” I patted his back.

  Awake now, Dermot and Davina took turns hugging me gingerly after Darragh let go.

  “Krista’s with the boys in the cafeteria,” Darragh said. “They’ll be right back.”

  “Astrid is out of town,” Davina added. “But she’s flying out here today.”

  “I, uh … I told Mom,” Dermot hesitated to say. “She’s … she’s not coming.”

  Even though I wasn’t surprised, it stung. My mother’s desertion would always be a wound buried deep in my chest.

  “And I’m fuckin’ done with her,” Darragh bit out.

  I flinched, not wanting that. “Dar, don’t.”

  “No, Dahlia. Your kid gets shot, you get your ass on a plane to make sure she’s all right. I don’t want anything to do with her anymore.”

  “Dar …” My dad shook his head. “Let Dahlia rest.”

  My brother heaved an exasperated sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry, kiddo.”

  “It’s okay.” The subject hurt too much. Instead, my eyes went to Dad. “Where’s Michael?”

  Dad pressed my hand to his cheek, and I felt as well as saw him smile. “I forced him to go home for a shower. That was ten minutes ago, so my guess is he’ll be back in another ten.”

  It was selfish, but I was glad. I wanted him with me. “I’m sorry I scared you all.”

  “You did,” Dad agreed. “But I can hardly be mad about it when you saved a woman’s life and helped the cops apprehend a killer.”

  The tips of my ears grew hot. “When you say it like that, it’s very cool.”

  They laughed, and Davina nudged my leg. “I always said you had a hero complex.”

  I let my family’s banter wash over me. Not too long later, we had to call for a nurse because I was in pain. She allowed my family to stay, and she didn’t say a word when Michael returned, adding to the numbers. He kissed me on the lips in front of everyone and didn’t even seem to care that I had hospital breath.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  I was. A little.

  Michael fed me spoonfuls of Jell-O, and I grinned between every bite, making him chuckle. Despite the pain, it was pretty great. I didn’t feel mad about the gunshot wound so much anymore.

  I was alive.

  I had my family with me.

  I was in love.

  And I felt strong, infused with the power of forgiveness and devotion.

  Three Months Later

  The soft sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains Dahlia had hung over the bedroom window. It spilled down over their bed, and Michael rested his chin on his arm as he watched Dahlia sleep.

  Her sling had come off yesterday, and it was the first time in three months he’d seen her look relaxed in her sleep. There was still some pain. She’d been lucky—there had been no bone damage—but Michael thought she wouldn’t be fully healed for another few months yet.

  Her long lashes fluttered in her sleep and contentment washed over him.

  She was beautiful. She didn’t need a scrap of makeup to be beautiful. It shone out of her. Even more so since she’d charged to Ivy Green’s rescue and helped him apprehend Freddie Jackson.

  Nothing could ever have prepared Michael for the almost paralyzing fear that rushed over him when he saw Dahlia being wheeled out of her apartment building on a stretcher. To sit with her in the ambulance as she lay unconscious, chalk white …

  Shot.

  He knew then he’d been wrong when he said he could exist without her, but he couldn’t live without her. Michael knew he couldn’t even exist in a world where she was no more.

  And he didn’t give a fuck if that made him weak.

  He reached out and trailed the back of his knuckles down her arm. They were a pair, him and her. The halves of one whole. Neither of them made sense without the other. Living together was proof of that. Michael had moved in with her during her recovery so he could take care of her. He’d helped her shower, he’d held her when she woke up, sweating with nightmares that were typical signs of trauma in a GSW victim, and he talked her through her fears since she didn’t want to go back to seeing a therapist.

  The nightmares eventually stopped.

  But Michael never left.

  She made him promise not to go.

  The easiest fuckin’ promise he’d ever made.

  She shifted in her sleep, and he saw her nose crinkle in a little flinch. He scowled at her shoulder. She was sleeping on it.

  Gently moving her, Michael rolled her to her back, and she moaned in her sleep.

  He felt that moan in his gut and cursed himself.

  In spite of her wound, Dahlia insisted on feeling him up every chance she got, the goddamn vixen. Michael grinned on a groan and fell onto his back. She’d talked him into fooling around about six weeks after she’d been shot and he’d given in because she was the hardest woman on the planet to resist.

  But no sex.

  That had pissed her off, but it was for her own good. There was no way to do it without jarring her shoulder.

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes. It wasn’t easy waiting to be with her again.

  Feeling the heat gather in his lower spine and cock, Michael forced his thoughts elsewher
e.

  He had to be up for work soon. So did Dahlia. The height of the season had kicked in now that summer was upon Hartwell, and Dahlia’s shop needed to open. Michael knew it was best for her to be at work, to get on with life as normally as possible, but he’d also asked her to hire someone to help her out at the shop for a while.

  A seventeen-year-old artist whose wealthy family owned a summer house in the Glades had jumped at the chance to work with Dahlia. Dahlia was enjoying teaching the girl about metalsmithing, so it was a win-win.

  As for Hartwell itself, it was trying to find its feet again. Freddie Jackson couldn’t make bail, so he was in jail awaiting his trial. As for the Devlins … it looked like those fuckers might get away clean. Freddie had confessed to sharing confidential information with the Devlins and harassing certain members of the public upon Ian Devlin’s request. Devlin had been arrested, but they had to let him go on the grounds of insufficient evidence.

  The fuck.

  There was nothing substantial to tie Freddie’s story to Devlin’s. He said he panicked when Michael arrived, afraid he would lose everything, and he’d gone to Stu for help. He said Stu told him it wouldn’t be a problem anymore, that the cops would find Freddie’s apartment filled with enough coke to put him away, so he wouldn’t be around to fuck everything up for the Devlin family. When Freddie tried to reason with him, Stu kept saying he didn’t know what Freddie was talking about, laughing all the time, like it was a joke.

  Freddie lost his temper.

  Stu came at him as if to attack him, and Freddie shot him.

  The Devlins had gone quiet for now. But Michael was determined to bring Ian Devlin down. He’d find a way. It helped that the media furor that had sprung up after Freddie had shot Dahlia had died down. Ivy Green’s involvement was too exciting for the media, so Hartwell had been in the news for weeks.

  A breathy little moan brought Michael’s head around, and he watched as Dahlia blinked against the light.

  Eyes the color of bluebells, ringed by the darkest lashes, gazed sleepily into his. She gave him a cute little smile, her dimple playing peek-a-boo with him. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey yourself.” He rolled onto his side. “How’s your shoulder?”

  She pushed up to sitting and grimaced. “A little sore.”

  “You slept on it. I had to nudge you onto your back.”

  Dahlia shot him a saucy look. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

  He groaned in frustration. “Don’t start.”

  She turned toward him, and he recognized the mischievous glint in her expression. Oh God, save him from this fuckin’ temptress.

  Then God did.

  Dahlia blinked, her face clouding over. “I just remembered my dream. Ugh. It was not good.” She shot him a filthy look.

  Michael sat up, pushing his pillow against the headboard. “I’m guessing I did not behave well in this dream.”

  She narrowed her eyes as they dipped down over his naked torso and back up again. “You were on the boardwalk with your ex-wife. I kept calling your name, but this little boy appeared that looked like you and you took his hand and hers and walked away.”

  That was a dose of heavy he had not been expecting. “Hey.” He reached for her hand and pulled her gently into him. She rested her head against the headboard, her eyes on their entwined hands. Michael placed his fingers beneath her chin and nudged, forcing her to make eye contact.

  “We’ve been through so much shit. You cannot tell me after all of that, you’ve got insecurities about Kiersten.”

  Dahlia shook her head. “I didn’t think so. Maybe the dream was more about the kid.” She seemed to hedge and then took a deep breath. It sounded shaky, which made him nervous. “Do you still want kids? With me?”

  Honestly, it was something he hadn’t thought about in a long time. But it wasn’t something he needed to deliberate over. The answer was clear. And the thought filled him with so much anticipation, he almost couldn’t stand it. “I want that.” His voice was thick with emotion.

  Her smile was slow and a little wobbly. “I gave up on that dream a long time ago because I never wanted marriage and kids unless it was with you. I’m not saying we have to rush into it … I just wanted to know that it’s an option for us.”

  He kissed her hard, leaning his forehead against hers. “It’s definitely an option for us.”

  They were silent a moment, drinking in the idea of that beautiful future.

  Then she whispered, “Do you hear from her? Kiersten? Ever?”

  “Nope.” He answered. “When she said she wanted out, she meant completely.”

  “Is that not weird for you? Even a little? You did spend four years with her.”

  Michael thought about it, knowing his answer mattered more than he wished it did. Finally, he said, “It feels like a weird dream or another life. Nothing feels as real as you.”

  I knew my dream about Michael’s ex-wife was only a stupid dream. After the traumas we’d been through, his ex-wife would not be another. But subconsciously, I must’ve worried if it was as easy for Michael to let go of that relationship as he’d let on.

  Maybe it was callous of me, but I was glad he’d let Kiersten go as easily as he had. After spending three months living with him, knowing the joy of it—even when he irritated me with his neatness and healthy eating—I was possessive of this knowledge. I hated that another woman had it.

  I wanted to erase her from his memory, and that was selfish and Neanderthal-like—and I didn’t care one iota.

  His sweet words of assurance melted through me, as did the knowledge that one day we’d have kids. That stoked a fire in me that was unexpected, but welcome. I rose over him, swinging my leg across his opposite hip to straddle him. I ignored the twinge in my shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Michael’s voice was hoarse as he gripped my waist.

  Schooling my expression, I lifted my T-shirt over my head and stoically avoided flinching at a bite of pain in my shoulder. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so I was good to go.

  Michael’s hot eyes fell on my breasts, and his hands flexed against my waist. “Dahlia,” he said, “fooling around only.”

  I shook my head, so ready to have him inside me, I couldn’t even stand it. “The bases are wonderful. Phenomenal even. But I’m ready for that home run.” Slipping my hands between us, I pushed at the sheets around his waist.

  Michael grabbed my hands to halt me. “Your shoulder.”

  “Is much better.” I leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his gorgeous mouth. He’d shaved off his beard three days ago, and I couldn’t decide whether I missed it or loved seeing all of his handsome face again. “I’ll ride you. Gently. Slowly.”

  He hardened beneath my lap. “Dahlia …”

  I kissed him deeply, hungrily, and as he lost himself in the sexy kisses, I pushed down my underwear, only breaking the kiss to flick them off completely.

  “We should wait,” Michael murmured, his eyes devouring me.

  Yeah, he didn’t sound too sure about that.

  Shoving down the sheets, I tugged his pajama pants down over his erection.

  “Let me take them off,” he grunted.

  “No.” I was almost drooling at the sight of him straining and hot and hard. “I can’t wait.” Then without preamble, I straddled him, guided him between my legs, and sank down with a pleasurable sigh.

  It didn’t take long.

  For either of us.

  We came together, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, my inner muscles pulsing in little aftershocks around Michael every time he murmured the words “I love you” against my skin.

  Striding into the sheriff’s department, Michael was in a good mood. Beyond good. Phenomenal. Memories of that morning kept playing over and over in his head, and he knew he was sporting a stupid-ass smile on his face.

  When Bridget told him Jeff wanted to see him first thing, her expression grim, he inwardly cursed.

  Something was up.


  Dammit.

  It was always when you were in a tremendous fuckin’ mood.

  Sighing, Michael nodded to his colleagues who were in the office and made his way to Jeff’s. Everything between him and his boss was settled. There had been a bit of tension when Michael moved in with Dahlia, but Jeff was a solid guy. Seeing how happy Dahlia was, he let it go. Not surprisingly, he let it go enough to pursue a friendship outside of work. Michael considered Jeff a good friend now.

  If he was calling him into his office first thing, that wasn’t a good sign.

  Before he could get there, Jeff appeared in the corridor. He nodded at Michael as he approached, his whole countenance heavy with gravity.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I need you in Interview Room One.” Jeff kept his voice lowered. “We had a walk-in this morning. A confession of murder.”

  Michael’s lips parted in shock. “Stu Devlin?”

  Jeff shook his head. “No, Freddie’s confession still stands.” He motioned for Michael to follow him. As they crossed to the interview room, Michael’s mind raced. No murders in Hartwell in twelve years and now there were two? So much for the quiet life.

  Jeff led him into the interview room, and Michael’s eyes alighted on the person sitting alone at the table.

  A young woman.

  He and Jeff took their seats opposite her, and she looked at them with big blue-gray eyes. Her dark blond hair was cut short, skimming her narrow jawline. Michael studied her. Pretty, but much too thin. Her cheekbones were prominent, her eyes hollow. She looked like a stiff wind would blow her over.

  Her expression was nothing short of haunted.

  Michael felt uneasiness settle in his gut.

  “Rebecca, this is Detective Michael Sullivan. He’ll be sitting in on the interview.”

  She flicked a nervous glance at Michael and squeezed her small hands together in front of her. She nodded.

  Jeff switched on a digital recorder and placed it in the middle of the table.

  “Please state your name for the record,” Jeff said.

  She licked her dry, chapped lips. “I’m Rebecca Rosalie Devlin.”

  Surprise rooted Michael to the spot. What the fuck?