Summers on Nantucket (The Lobster Shack #3)

1. June

JUNE

Curled up on the couch, staring at his ruined shirt (when did I start crying?), I pull at the blanket over my shoulders self-consciously. He seems to think my pathetic shuffling means that I’m cold, and hugs me tighter—a fair accomplishment considering I’m now practically sitting on his lap.

“Okay, fine. You don’t want me investing as your boyfriend,” he says placatingly, like I’m somehow inconveniencing him by not letting him solve all my problems with his money.

Not that it would do much for my Mom, whose dementia diagnosis is still ringing in my ears.

Or my Dad, whose suicide note is now forever ingrained in my psyche.

Or my pride, that’s still reeling from the fact Richard was right all along—the Shack is a money pit, destined to fail.

Or my sister, who’s had to play Switzerland between me and Meredith since the start of the summer.

If money could solve any of that, I’d take up his offer in a heartbeat.

As it stands, the only thing he could truly help is the Shack. But I’m not about to allow my boyfriend of six weeks to throw his money on a pipe dream.

But then he’s leaning closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath against my mouth.

“Then marry me,” he says, smooth as a dare. “Problem solved.”

I blink at him.

I actually blink at him like I’ve forgotten how to use my body.

And then I burst out laughing, half-hysterical. “Ashton, you are insane.”

“Maybe,” he agrees easily.

I shove at his shoulder, but he catches my hand, intertwining our fingers. I stare at them, wondering if I might have accidentally fallen asleep at some point—but his touch is too real for that.

“What did you just say about doing things at my pace?”

He has the decency to look a little sheepish. “Oops?”

“Don’t say things like that,” I admonish as I pull away from him. “It’s not nice.”

I barely get the chance to draw back an arm’s length before he follows me.

“I’m being serious, June. You want Nantucket?

You want the Shack? Then let’s build it together.

We’ll hire someone to run the damn Shack so you can still run the gallery.

We’ll wake up every morning to the sunrise over the water, and I’ll slowly convince you to let me buy the lighthouse.

You could paint, run your businesses, boss me around—” he grins, “—and I’ll make sure you have everything you need. Here. Home.”

And it’s such a pretty picture. And it’s everything I always wanted.

And the problem with perfect things is that if they sound too good to be true, it usually means they are.

And yet…

And yet…

He squeezes my hand, and it feels like an anchor and a lifeline all at once.

“You don’t have to marry me,” Ashton says more gently. “I’ll help you either way. Because I love you. Because I believe in you. But if marrying me makes it easier for you to say yes... just say the word.”

The room tilts around me.

This time. Please.

“Marry me, June,” he says again, softer this time.

And this time, there’s no laughter left in me.

And for the first time in my life, I have no idea what to say.

Except.

“This is insane,” because it is, because it’s the only thought in my head.

I stare into those grey eyes, the ones that are only just starting to feel familiar.

Reach up to pull a hand through his dirty blond hair, still getting used to its surprising softness.

Rake those same fingers down the planes of his cheeks, the scruff of his beard that I’ve never seen him without.

Run a fingertip across the mouth I’ve only just begun to discover.

Searching for a lie. Searching for an answer.

Is this the beginning or the end?

The cost, either way, is my happiness.

If this is forever (please, this time, please), then why not start treating it like it?

If it’s not… It’s only more pain. That, at least, is familiar.

It’s like I’m sitting at the bottom of a pit with Ashton reaching a hand down to help me out. But instead of taking it, I’m sitting here wondering if I’d prefer to just stay where I am. Which…

Doesn’t make much sense, actually.

He could drop you. But what if he doesn’t? He could let you fall. But what if…

What if he looks at me like that?

“June?”

Like I’m the only person on the entire planet. Like his entire universe rests on my answer.

I swallow, lost.

But knowing exactly where I am: wrapped up in a man who is threatening to save me.

“Usually what happens when someone proposes is that they ask a question, and the other person… well, they answer.”

And could I really do this with someone who’s so very, very annoying?

Even if he is cute. And smart. And wonderful to me. And so devoted. And likes all the things I like. And matches my anger beat for beat. And holds me close when he thinks I’m cold. And has wiggled his way so close to my heart.

To the point that I can’t look at him without it beating erratically.

And right now, you could probably see it pounding out of my chest, like one of those old cartoons we used to watch on a Saturday morning.

“Insane,” I manage to whisper again.

Ashton smirks. Smirks. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes, either.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s…” My mouth goes dry, my eyes dart between his because he’s just that close now. “It… depends on how long the prenup is. I don’t have the patience to read through more than?—”

He kisses me.

Right on my dry, flailing mouth. Not caring for anything other than?—

“So that’s a yes?”

Murmured against lips. Between hearts and souls. Between lovers without a care in the world except where bodies touch and cling and mold.

“It’s a yes.”

August 2025

The federal holding facility in Manhattan doesn’t feel like I’ve been dropped, or even fallen into a pit. It feels like I’ve been pushed.

Manhandled. Zip-tied. Forcibly flown across state lines. Relieved of personal artefacts. Redressed in a gray jumpsuit.

Stuck in a holding cell with eight other women that, if lined up, could make a convincing visual chart of the decline of sanity.

Starting with a smiling, white, fifty-something leaning up against the metal door, chatting airily with the officer outside, and ending with the kid barely scraping the age requirement for adult incarceration currently rocking (and screaming periodically) in the middle of the floor.

Where I sit on that scale, I’m not entirely sure.

Where I sit currently is a metal bench, uncomfortably close to another woman who smells suspiciously like… well…

I wonder what I’ve done to deserve this.

I wonder if this is the price of falling in love.

Maybe the kid has the right idea.

“They found my drugs,” the woman next to me offers up to no one in particular.

Except I’m closest to her and feel obligated to reply.

“I think my husband framed me for art forgery.”

“Woof.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d offer you something to take the edge off…” she says with a shrug that reads more ‘what-you-gonna-do?’ than ‘my-maximum-sentence-could-be-twenty-five-years.’

I wonder, hysterically, if I should have given New York more of a chance during college. There’s something oddly comforting about her jadedness.

I wish I could manifest that kind of numbness. I wish I could feel something that didn’t make my lungs want to give out just trying to get me to breathe properly. I wish things would stop feeling so surreal.

My phone call with Meredith, back in Nantucket, feels like a lifetime ago. The last conversation I had that made even a fraction of sense.

“Okay. Listen to me. We’re going to get you out of this, alright? I need you to tell me everything they’ve said to you so far.”

“The FBI guy said something about New York, but they won’t tell me anything. I don’t know if Ashton is?—”

“Let’s worry about you first, okay? If the FBI’s involved, that means they’re probably going to move you to New York. The Southern District will likely deal with this if it’s federal… It will take a day or two before they can get you in front of a judge. Maybe a bit longer for travel. ”

“How am I gonna get a lawyer before then?”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll pull as many strings as I need to. Are you okay?”

“Perfect, peachy. Best day of my life.”

“Whatever happens, June. I’m here, okay? I’ll get the next flight out to JFK and be there before you are.”

“I didn’t do anything, Mere. I promise. I just painted.”

“I’d be there even if you had.”

And it was reassuring, in the moment, to know that she had my back. Knowing that I wasn’t hurtling toward the ground—a pit—without anyone trying to slow my descent. But that was over twenty-six hours ago now, and all assurances seem to have been scraped from my mind by the sheer anxiety of it all.

Assurances like: I love you. I’ll make sure you have everything you need. Marry me, June.

Because what if… what if…

… since we first met (he was at my gallery! He was looking for an artist)... the reason he proposed (it all happened so quickly, no normal person proposes after six weeks)... this whole time (it was too good to be true)...

It was too good to be true.

No one sticks around. Not like he did.

No one stays just for me.

I should have known better. I should have seen this coming. Instead, I fell for a fantasy (did I?) because I was so desperate for it to be true (was it?).

Either way, Ashton Parker walked into my life and obliterated it.

I was foolish for ever thinking it was merely my happiness on the line.

“June Parker? You’ve got legal.”

The words shock me back into a state of consciousness, and I blink owlishly at the officer standing at the door. On shaking legs, I get to my feet, shuffling through the room and trying to avoid kicking the still-rocking teen on the floor.

“Hey!”

I turn to see that my companion on the bench has risen too, offering me a half-hearted salute. “Stick it to your ex.”

Her words cut over the perpetual drone of noise, garnering a few rallies of support from those not sleeping in the corner or rocking on the floor. The one universal unifier of wronged women: a distaste for men.

As much as the words ‘he’s not my ex’ attempt to escape my mouth in instinctive protest, I clamp my mouth shut and follow the officer out into the corridor.

As we make our way past door after door of identical gray doors, I think about how I woke up two days ago, preparing to officially open the Holloway Lobster Shack with my family and friends.

Readying myself to begin a new chapter of life without the shadow of either needing or wanting to uphold my father’s legacy.

Anticipating seeing my husband again after over a month of separation.

Nervous about confessing that little truth to my family, but knowing I could do it if he were by my side.

How everything changed so quickly, I don’t know. I’m not sure my mind has even begun to process it.

I’m not sure if Ashton were to suddenly appear before me, I wouldn’t just fall into his arms.

But that’s not a decision I will likely ever have to deal with again.

Even if Meredith’s found someone to represent me in court, even if by some miracle they manage to get me off without charge, there’s not a chance in hell they’ll ever let me even be in the same room as him again. Not unless there’s bulletproof glass between us.

The thought lingers cooly (freezingly) as the officer stops before yet another gray door—this time labeled ‘legal visitation room’—and gestures for me to step inside.

It’s sterile and small, the metal table, two plastic chairs, and the man occupying one of them are practically spotlighted by the harsh fluorescent bulbs above.

It’s a baron kind of wasteland, a legal purgatory, only half real until everything fully sinks in.

Which it won’t for a while. At least I have the wherewithal to understand that much.

“June,” the man greets me with a smile and a nod toward the empty seat.

There’s something about him that I recognize.

Not his voice or his tight posture (looking as if he were sitting upon a throne instead of these glorified middle-school chairs).

I think I could have recalled if we’d met before, his strikingly dark features would have flagged as handsome—or at least, agreeable if not slightly too tailored.

There was barely a hair of place, a fraction of an inch to spare on the cut of his suit.

Everything about him screams professional, perfectionist, p… very, very expensive.

I take a seat with no small amount of caution. Wondering if he’ll start charging me for breathing in his general direction.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” he continues in that same, almost condescendingly charming tone.

“Did Mere send you…?”

“Mark.”

“Mark.” I chew on the name. Something snags in the back of my mind, too dull to recall exactly…

“Yes, Meredith got in contact with me yesterday. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner,” he sighs before shooting me a pleasant smile. “This isn’t how I imagined we’d meet.”

I blink at him a few times, willing the memory to the surface and failing spectacularly.

“Sorry, am I supposed to know who you are?”

Mark tilts his head slightly, perfectly coiffed hair remaining perfectly still despite the movement. A twist to his lips that might read dissatisfaction, but could equally just be the expression he wears as he appraises people. “Perhaps a proper introduction is necessary.”

I almost snort at his formality and find myself throwing my hand out into the space between us. “June Parker, nee. Holloway, wrongfully incarcerated for federal crimes.”

Mark takes my hand gamely.

“Mark Perez, federal lawyer,” his smile turns serpentine.

“I’m your brother-in-law.”