Chapter Forty-Four
REID
I CAN TELL the storm prep is wearing on Emery.
She follows every instruction without complaint, but tension is coiled in her shoulders, her eyes flicking to the horizon like she’s expecting it to look different every time.
We get Blackbird Cottage boarded up with the extra sheets of plywood I threw in the truck and some we found in the storage shed there.
It’s smaller than my place so it’s fast work.
I’ve pulled the small skiff from the water and slid it under the porch.
It won’t fit in the shed but at least it will be tucked away from the wind.
While I nail the remainder of the plywood to the back windows, Emery drags the broken rocking chair from the screened porch inside.
She meets me back at my truck with a few bottles of wine from inside.
“In case we need more provisions,” she says, trying for humor, but her smile is stretched thin.
I hook an arm around her waist and pull her in, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth. “We’re going to be just fine,” I assure her. I say it because it’s true, but I’m also trying to steady her, to pull her out of that tight, uneasy place she’s been stuck in all morning.
“I hope you’re right,” she murmurs.
We climb in and she fixes her gaze outside the truck window to the marsh. Whitecaps slash across the water—sharp and violent. The whole landscape looks foreign.
My mind is already on our next stop. Mama T’s. Rosie can’t board up her place alone, and I’m damn sure not leaving it to whoever Dale Langford claims he’s sending.
I parallel park right outside. The second my boots hit the pavement, the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Dale Langford is already here.
He’s supervising his two mules drilling crooked sheets of plywood to the large grocery store windows. My gaze pans down the side of the building and my throat tightens. One of them is Atlas Rourke.
A familiar unease settles in my gut, sharp and insistent. Atlas Rourke is dangerous enough on his own. Tied to Langford, he’s a warning sign I can’t ignore.
A slow grin crawls across Dale’s face when he notices Emery climbing out of the truck behind me.
He drags his gaze over her like he’s taking inventory.
My stomach drops into something cold and sharp.
Dale I can handle. I’ve known him since he was five.
He doesn’t scare me. It’s the man hanging plywood that stops me in my tracks.
I don’t trust Atlas as far as I can throw him.
“What are you doing here, Dale?” I growl, stepping closer. “Rosie’s place has always been my concern.”
“Right, right. She’s a second mother to you and all since your own wants nothing to do with you,” Dale spits, trying to get a rise out of me.
“Well, you weren’t here early this morning, so I sent my guys to step up.
” He gestures to Atlas and the other man.
Atlas wears a sly smirk, like he’s enjoying this too much. “You know, a little community service.”
Of course, Dale sent his guys in—like he’d do any real man’s work himself.
I take a step forward, squaring myself between his men and the store. “Yeah. Well, we got it from here.”
“Rosie sure is a lucky girl, having two groups fighting over who gets to help her. But my boys have it under control.” Dale steps so close to me I can smell his breath mint.
He tips his head toward the windows his men boarded.
The panels are misaligned. Screws barely sunk.
One corner is already lifting in the wind.
“Doesn’t look that way.” I narrow my eyes.
“And you and her—” he nods toward Emery, “are going to do it better?”
“Yes.” I don’t raise my voice—I don’t need to. “Your guys can take a break before one of them loses a finger.”
Atlas’s jaw tics before he bends to pick up his drill. He moves slowly, deliberately, as if he’s trying to drag out the moment—irritate me further. His eyes flick from me to Emery in a way that makes my blood run cold.
“You know, not everyone appreciates neighborly help.” Dale licks his lips, his eyes fixed on us, taunting. He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Just thought it was the right thing to do.”
I stare him down. “We didn’t ask for your help.”
Dale chuckles, rubbing his chin. “Fine, Morgan. Have it your way. It’ll take twice as long.” He looks over my shoulder behind me to where his guys have paused, watching our standoff. “Okay, boys, pack it in.”
The two men obey, packing the tools slowly, but Atlas’s gaze remains fixed on Emery in a way that unsettles me.
Dale brushes past, his shoulder bumping mine as he heads for his truck. It takes everything in me not to take a swing at him and wipe that smug look off his ugly face.
“Storm’s coming fast, Morgan.” The thin smile that never reaches his eyes spreads slowly across his lips. “Hope you’ve got somewhere to hide.”
Hide.
Not “stay.”
Not “ride it out.”
Hide.
Emery bristles beside me. I don’t take my eyes off Dale as he climbs into the driver’s seat, and they stay glued to him until his truck is out of sight. As soon as he’s gone, the air feels lighter—but barely.
Emery lets out a shaky breath. “He gives me the ick. I don’t like him.”
“You’re not supposed to,” I say flatly. “Let’s board this place up right.”
As I walk her back toward the store, I catch Atlas, still lingering at the edge of the lot, watching.
A sickening feeling unfurls in my gut and I know now, this storm isn’t the only thing brewing.
ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH securing Mama T’s, someone jogs up. “Reid.” Tate’s voice startles me from behind.
“Sorry. We’re coming over there to help you. This is just taking longer than I thought it would.” I take the screw gun off my tool belt and secure the final corner of the sheet we’re working on.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tate says, grabbing the next sheet for me. “I’m just about done. Paid some deckhands overtime to pull in a few of the smaller boats that were left.”
My jaw tightens. Paying overtime to employees is usually something we’d discuss, but chances are there wasn’t time. We’re trying to get it done so we can go home and hunker down.
Hide.
Langford’s sneer pops into my head again. Fuck that guy.
“Sorry.” I grab the other side of the sheet he’s holding, and Emery takes a step back, letting us take the lead. “We had to do my cabin and then the cottage. When I got here, Langford was already here with Rourke and some other guy. Doing it all wrong.”
“I wouldn’t expect Dale to lift a finger,” Tate says with a smirk.
“Oh, don’t worry. He was watching,” Emery pipes up. “Supervising.”
“Figures.” Tate takes the screw gun I’m offering him and drills into his two corners.
“What else do you have to do?” Emery asks. She sits on the bench just outside the store, massaging her biceps. A rush of guilt runs through me for her discomfort.
“Secure some windows on the bait shop, pack in the tables and cover the furniture in the Net, and cover the windows at the research center,” Tate answers, reaching for another piece of plywood as I drill in my side.
Relief runs through me at the normalcy of all this. For weeks I’ve had the sense that Tate is keeping things from me—and maybe he is—but right now, he’s here, working alongside me the way he always has.
“How about I go check in on Rosie and then head over to the research center?” Emery suggests. “Kayla will be there soon. She and I can get everything out of the screened porch and move the turtle tanks inside. Then we’ll be ready for you.”
“Good idea. Be careful,” I grunt, turning over my shoulder.
She jogs up to me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I will. Let’s finish up so we can go the hell home.”
When she’s gone, Tate and I collect the rest of the wood and my tools and make our way around the other side of Mama T’s. Only about eight windows left. It won’t take as long with his help. Emery isn’t as strong and it’s hard for her to hold the wood in place for long.
“Listen, man,” Tate says, once we get set up again.
I hold up a hand. “Whatever it is, Tate, it can wait. Let’s just get through this storm and see what’s left of our livelihood.”
Tate lets out a hiss, like my words sting, but he nods. “I was just going to say, I’m sorry. I’ve been out there lately—preoccupied—but when this is all over, we can sit down and go through all the books. I’ll tell you everything.” His words are sincere, but it’s the last line that has me tense.
I’ll tell you everything.
Which means there’s something to tell. My instincts weren’t wrong. They never are. It’s like Spidey sense. I don’t want to be angry at my best friend, but whatever he’s mixed up in that he’s been keeping from me can’t be good.
“I don’t know what to say to that, man,” I admit, reaching in my toolbelt for another handful of screws. I pass him two of them. “It doesn’t make me feel great.”
Tate lets out a sigh, taking them from me. “I know. And you’ve been asking me a lot of questions lately that I haven’t been able to answer. But you’re part owner and you deserve to know what’s going on. I promise I’ll tell you.”
I pop a screw in my mouth while I do the first one, forcing me to bite back what I really want to say. I’ll hear him out. He at least deserves that. But in the meantime, we’ve got to get through the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
“Okay,” I agree. “Let’s finish this.”
BY THE TIME Tate and I wrap up and say our goodbyes to Rosie, the rain is starting. It’s light at first, but the sound of thunder reverberates in the distance. It won’t be long now.
“We’ve got to move,” Tate barks.
We hop in my truck and speed toward the research center, the windshield wipers already struggling against the sideways sheets of rain.
By the time I pull into the gravel lot, the tires skid slightly on the slick stones.
I park crooked, half over the faded white line—not like it matters.
The place is deserted. Tidehaven never fully empties during a storm, but today it feels… abandoned.