Chapter 2
Diana
Stair number eighteen shudders under my feet, and I lose my balance.
My left heel slides off my foot, landing with a clang on the useless staircase below.
My Taco Bell bag falls after it. I screech, clinging to the loose rail and panting as I creep slowly backward, away from the void.
With quivering limbs I crabwalk into the lantern room and drop on my behind.
The remains of the shuddering, old staircase finally go still, content not to be bearing the weight of its bottom half or Diana York.
Then I say a word that would make my grandmother purse her lips and make Stevie laugh. I breathe deeply, listening to the tide come in as I consider my options.
It rings once, and when the dispatcher answers I knead the bridge of my nose with my free hand. “Hello. Yes, I’m trapped at the top of Cape Georgeana Lighthouse because the stairs… are out.” That’s one way to describe it. “Can you send someone?” I ask, breathless from my narrow escape.
My request is met with howling laughter. “You’re at the top of the lighthouse,” the woman wheezes. “And the stairs are out. That’s good, Tina.” There’s more snickering, then a click in my ear.
I look at my phone. I look out at the darkening sea. Look back at my phone. What just happened? I dial again.
“Tina.” The same woman answers. “You know, prank calling nine one one is a misdemeanor—”
“This is Diana York. I am trapped at the top of the Cape Georgeana Lighthouse. Get someone out here now.” I smash the little red button to end the call as humiliation floods through me.
I should’ve kept the dispatcher on the line, but I hate that I played the York family card.
I can imagine the stories that will circulate after that call.
Heat washes over my face at the thought.
But the sky is only getting darker and my old lighthouse is making noises.
I scoot back, closing my eyes and resting my head against the dusty brick wall while I wait for rescue.
It doesn't take long. Minutes later, a distant siren filters through the air, and I scramble cautiously to my feet to peer out the filmy window. The tide is almost over the tombolo now. Waves are crawling onto the tiny strip of land that connects the island to the shore. They’re just in time.
The firetruck—the only one in town—parks as near to the rocky beach as possible, its lights drawing way too much attention.
“Did you really need the siren and the lights and the whole rigamarole, guys?” I mutter as I watch three men unload in the fading light.
They peer up at the lighthouse, shaking their heads while they seem to discuss my predicament.
One of the men immediately climbs back into the truck.
The flashing lights go dark. Thank goodness. But then the other two follow him.
“No!” I shriek. I open my phone, swiping with shaky fingers to turn on my flashlight.
I shake my pathetic light through the window, desperate to get their attention.
“Argh. I’m up here,” I whine uselessly as the third man climbs back into the truck.
The wheels are rolling. I continue waving my flashlight in the window in a frantic, pitiful arc. “Don’t leave!”
The truck stops. The third man climbs out, his hands on his hips as he takes a few steps closer to the rocky shore. Then he darts back to the truck.
“Thank goodness,” I breathe, tucking my phone into my dress pocket. Salvation.
The three men slosh through the shallow water toward the island.
“No!” I yell. “Bring the ladder!” I don’t know why I keep trying to communicate from up here. Desperation is making me an idiot.
I step carefully to the edge of the stairs just as the men reach the entrance to the tower.
“Whoa,” one of them says with a chuckle at the sight of the mangled staircase.
The second lets out a long whistle. “Salt air and iron’ll do that. Only a matter of time—”
“Diana?” the third man calls up the tower.
Oh no. Anyone but him.
I creep as close to the railing as I dare to get a look. Sure enough, Ike Wentworth is down there.
Ike. Freaking. Wentworth.
I’m certain that must be his full legal name.
I almost wouldn’t recognize him in his navy blue t-shirt and firefighting trousers, except for his arrogant profile. I’d know that perfect light brown hair and those soulful eyes anywhere. The beard is new, though, as are the obnoxiously broad shoulders.
“Ugh. You’re a firefighter now, too?” I yell down at him, my nostrils flaring. Of course he is.
The blond guy answers for him. “He’s a volunteer—”
“There’s no time for this. The tide is coming in.” Ike hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “Run and grab the ladder before we’re all stuck out here,” he instructs the other men. “I’ll deal with this.” He gestures to the wreckage in their way.
They leave and he surveys the mess where the staircase used to stand.
He exhales with an annoyed gust. Then he starts moving the mess out of the way—entire, huge sections of an iron staircase.
I don’t know how much the thing weighs, but I am transfixed.
What he’s doing shouldn’t be possible. He grunts as he uses a long bar as a lever to shift another portion to the side.
I have to know. “What kind of steroids are you on?” I call from my perch.
He ignores my question. “You’re going to have to come down. Get as close to the bottom as possible.” He tosses a chunk of iron out of the way. “The ladder that fits through the door isn’t that long.”
“No.” I barely glance at the remaining staircase. “That thing almost killed me. That isn’t happening.”
“You’re going to have to, Princess,” he grunts, lifting another section with a lever. “Or you’re sleeping up there.”
My nails dig into my palms. I hate when he calls me that. Princess York. Ice Princess. Princess Diana. Princess Leia. I hated that one the most. But every one of his old sarcastic nicknames makes me want to… Well, I don’t know what I’d do. I’ve never been a violent person.
Except when Ike Wentworth is involved.