9. Shelby
“Where is she?” Chris calls.
I’m not sure quite what to make of the woman who skips straight through the front door of Mac’s place. She’s in her mid twenties; a beautiful but also kind of badass looking blonde who looks like she moonlights as a rock star, or maybe a mechanic. She wears a black T-shirt rolled up at the sleeves. It’s got a jumble of letters across the chest that don’t make any sense to me. Her jeans are expertly tattered and fit her athletic frame like a glove. The chunky motorcycle boots, hoop earrings, and about a thousand silver rings and bracelets top off her ensemble.
I feel dowdy as hell next to her in my plain white button-down and boring rip-free jeans.
But she ignores the men completely and makes a beeline for me, throwing her arms around me like we’re best friends.
When she pulls back, she keeps her hands on my shoulders. “So this is the famous Shelby.”
“Famous?” I laugh.
She nods. “Yup. I’m Chris. And you are a fucking inspiration, girl.”
Bewildered, I look to Mac.
“News travels fast in a small town,” he says apologetically.
“When life hands you lemons,” Chris says, “you say fuck it and jump off a dock.” She smiles at me, but it’s not mocking. I think she really is impressed by my lunacy.
She winks. “Don’t worry. I don’t have any details. Mac never tells me anything. But Fred may or may not have been coerced to let slip the part about you swimming here from Business Island.”
“So everyone knows, huh?” I ask.
“Can’t keep anything a secret in Redbeard,” Cal says.
Chris snaps her gaze toward Cal, giving him a scathing look. “Some people can’t.”
But when she turns to me, she’s all smiles again. “I say own it, Shelby. Don’t like your job? Fuck it. Jump into the ocean.”
“That’s not exactly?—”
“Just go with it. So, I hear you need some clothes.”
“I do. I’ll be here for a bit.”
She waggles her brows. “Excellent. I know all the best places. Not like there are too many.”
“Did you get your tires checked?” Mac asks Chris.
“Forget the car. What about your glasses?” Cal asks.
“I wear contacts now, fuckface,” Chris says, glaring at him.
Then she throws her arms around Mac. “Thanks again.”
To my shock, jealousy flares in my chest. Not just because she’s beautiful and awesome in every way, but because Mac clearly cares about her. And because it sounds like he helped her out with one of those things. Not that I’m into Mac or anything. But I see the way he softens around her.
“Don’t scare her,” I swear I hear him mumble before she pulls away.
What does that mean?
“Now quit worrying about us,” Chris admonishes Mac. She completely ignores Cal. “We’ve got shit to do. Let’s go, Shelby.” She hooks her arm through mine, and we’re off, like a whirlwind.
Not that I mind.
I understand Mac’s words only five minutes later, when Chris careens off the paved road leading to the highway onto a dirt path barely more trodden than a wagon trail.
She drives like an absolute maniac.
My hands grip the seat next to me as she takes her muscle car up to speed, expertly gearing up as we hit a straight patch.
I can barely unclench my jaw to speak as she peels around a corner. “This is a funner way to go than the highway,” she hollers over the roar of the engine. Dust plumes out behind us in the side mirror.
“Does everyone drive like this?” I squeak.
“Not really. I mean, there’s that one guy I race with, but—shit, girl, you okay?” Chris slows down, seeing my pale face.
“Fine,” I manage. “Totally fine.”
She laughs, slowing down completely as she takes another corner. “I’m sorry. I forget some people just drive to get places.”
“You don’t?”
“No way. Driving is an experience. It’s why I race dirt bikes too. I’d be there today, but my bike’s in the shop.” She quirks a brow at me. “You interested in riding? We could always use more women down at the track.”
I wonder if her shirt’s some kind of insider dirt-biking acronym.
But I shake my head without an ounce of hesitation. “Nope. I’m not an adventurous person.”
Chris laughs. “Right. Because it’s totally normal for someone to do what you did. Nice try, Shel. I know you’ve got a rebellious streak in there somewhere. No straitlaced person would do what you did.”
I tip my head back against the seat, finally able to relax now that she’s not toying with our lives. Then I laugh. “I guess not,” I concede.
The town of Redbeard is adorable. There’s one main street with old west–looking storefronts. On the cross streets, there’re a few more shops, including the boutiques Chris leads me to. I’m surprised at the selection given the size of this place, but Chris says there are enough tourists from bigger cities that they “bring some of their bougieness with them.”
“Kind of like me, right?”
Chris throws her head back and laughs. “In the best way. Listen, my best friend Lana—you’ll meet her; she works at the Dinghy too—came from Vancouver, and she’s a snob and a fucking half about stuff like food and architecture. But she still took to Redbeard like a fish to water.”
I can’t help but think about Mac’s vision of his bar. This town feels special that way—like the locals have made room for the tourists, and the tourists don’t step on the toes of the locals. Except for the ATV dickheads, that is. It seems like this town would have run them off. Then I remember what Diane said about one of them being related to the mayor.
Speaking of those guys, we run into a handful of them on the sidewalk outside the first shop, but they quickly cross the street, looking back at us like we’ve got some kind of communicable disease.
I can’t help but laugh.
“What the hell?” Chris says. “Those guys are usually slimy as hell.”
“Mac might have said something to them.”
I explain the situation with the ATV club at the inn and Chris laughs. But she sobers when she talks about them again. “Every fucking year. They give all the nice, mostly sober ATV-riders a bad name. Last year they wore these T-shirts that said Alpha Males.”
“Ugh,” I say. “Anyone who’s an actual alpha would never need to print it on their clothes.”
“Exactly!”
“Speaking of shirts,” I say, glancing down at the letters on hers. “Is that some kind of club?”
Chris gives a mischievous grin. “I think I might scare you off if I tell you. Unless…are you a romance reader?”
“Not really,” I say. “I used to love reading them as a teenager, but my boyfriend”—is Richard still my boyfriend? I haven’t parsed that yet—“is kind of a book snob.”
“Ugh. The worst. Sorry. That is, if you guys are still together. I heard that little bit of hesitation, though.”
“We’re on a break. Anyway, it’s fine. He’s got his good points.”
Does he? Or is it that I’ve invested the last five years of my life into our relationship and my parents love him? I’ve never articulated that thought before. But I shove Richard from my thoughts.
“Will you tell me what your shirt means? I won’t judge. I swear.”
“Well, don’t tell anyone, but Lana writes books on the side. It’s a hobby of hers, but she’s surprisingly serious about it. She writes kind of prissy historical stories; you know, with no sexy times. She’s really good, even though she’s too scared to publish any of them. But I started doing some research for her and kind of…strayed off course. I got deep into the steamy stuff. So to speak. Like, deep. Anyway I found one where this character wears this acronym on her shirt.” She plucks her T-shirt and doesn’t even look around when she says, “It means Shut the Fuck Up and Take That Dick Like a Good Girl.”
I choke on my own spit.
The other patron in the store, an older woman, looks up over the rack, her eyes wide.
“Chris!” I whisper. “What?”
“Oh, you heard me.”
I did hear her. And for some absolutely unknown reason, I picture Mac saying those very words.
To me.
As she snickers, I train my eyes back on the clothes, flicking through the racks without seeing what I’m looking at.
While Deanie and I talk about men—or at least, she does—and other personal things to a degree, we don’t tend to go too deep. I think it’s because we’re colleagues first and friends second. We often devolve into work talk too. I work so much that I’ve let my other friendships fade away over the years. What would it be like having a friend like Chris who wasn’t my business associate? Who I talk freely about things with?
Like about how the thought of Mac speaking those words makes my legs go to jelly? I’ve never wanted anyone to talk like that to me. In fact it’s something I’d probably think I’d be offended by.
But the thought is so scandalous I think it again.
Visions of that big man with his broad chest gripping the back of my hair…I think of the dark hair dusting his chest, the furrow of it dipping into a dark patch below his waistband.
My insides swirl and twist so hard I have to take a breath.
It’s not feelings. It’s just lust. Maybe I can break my rules and entertain thoughts of lust about him. He never has to know.
I hesitate only for a moment before looking back up again and leaning over the rack. I clear my throat, and Chris looks up. “Do you…have some of those books you might want to share?”
Chris grins. “See? I knew you had it in you.”
A few hours later, I’ve not only gathered enough clothes to last me my whole time here, but I think I might be slightly in girl-love with this woman. I can’t wait to tell Deanie about her.
“Thank you so much for your help,” I say as we leave the last store. “It would have taken me forever to find all this stuff on my own.”
“And I thank you for giving our local economy a huge boost today. Mac’s going to lose it when he sees some of these.”
She gives me a conspiratorial grin. I’m not sure what she means, but I’m also curious about their relationship. But I can’t think of a way to ask her that doesn’t sound like I’m interested in him.
Then she says, “I love those too.” She points to my ears. I’m already wearing a pair of earrings I found in one of the stores. They’re little gold camels.
I smile. “When I see camel anything, I can’t resist. They’re my favorite animal.”
Chris laughs.
As we drop my bags in her car, I notice a stack of boxed helmets in the back.
Chris sees me looking. “They’re for my second job, at an outdoor adventure shop.” She sighs. “I need two jobs because I’ve got expensive hobbies.”
I learn that Chris is what my mother would call—with disdain—“one of those adrenaline junkies.” She rides dirt bikes and ATVs, goes to muscle car shows, and likes recreational bungee jumping and skydiving. Even though none of that appeals to me in the least, I love that she bucks the gender stereotypes doing them.
My stomach growls.
“Oh shit. Is it lunchtime?” she asks. “Sorry, sometimes I completely forget to eat when I’m having fun.”
I’ve never understood people who forget to eat. “I’m fine,” I say.
Chris insists on taking me to the local coffee shop for lunch. “It’s got fantastic sandwiches,” she says.
“Fantastic. A good sandwich is the way to my heart.”
“Mac will appreciate that. The only thing he loves more than doing things for people is feeding people.”
I get a warm fuzziness hearing that. I think about that sandwich and tea latte he made for me the other day, and my stomach growls even harder. There’s something about people loving making food that makes me feel so soft. I think it comes from my parents really phoning it in when it came to mealtimes. My dad barely ate at home, and my mom eats like a bird to this day.
The coffee shop, which is called the Bean Scene, is in an adorable white clapboard building with a green and white awning. But inside, indie rock music plays under the hiss and clatter of the espresso machine. Despite the modern interior, with black-trimmed windows and butcher-block counters, the patrons are a mix of tourists and locals, and there’s an homage to the town in the form of a salon wall full of framed newspaper articles about the town.
This place is doing exactly what I know the Dinghy could do.
Chris says there’s a plaza nearby with benches and picnic tables we can eat at since it’s such a beautiful day. After we place our order at the counter, Chris excuses herself to use the bathroom.
I ask the woman behind the counter if I can take a few photos while I wait.
“Go for it,” she says warmly.
I snap a few photos with my camera, focusing on the parts I think we could emulate at the Dinghy. But when I get to the wall of framed articles, I lower my camera. There’s a whole section here dedicated to the town’s beloved ex-mayor, Angus MacGregor, who I realize is the person Diane was talking about this morning.
But when my eyes land on the oldest article, I lower my phone, my mouth dropping. In this one, an extremely handsome man stands next to a tall, pretty brunette woman. There’s a toddler on the woman’s hip, and the newly minted mayor’s hands are on the shoulders of a handsome dark-haired boy of around ten.
The father is clean cut, with neatly combed hair. I picture him with a grown-out beard and shaggy curls around his collar. And a wool cap for good measure.
Then my eyes go to the boy with the little dimple in his chin.
The caption confirms what I already know: The town’s beloved mayor is Mac’s father. It also confirms something I can’t believe I never asked: Mac’s full name is Alasdair MacGregor.
I look at the boy again and can’t help laughing softly. Even then, Mac had a hard time smiling. Though I can still see the pride in his expression over his dad’s win.
I look at the toddler, whose arms are entwined around her mother’s neck; their mom’s head is tilted to the girl’s. If Mac is his father’s boy, his sister clearly had a deeply special bond with her mother. But she’s also got a hand entwined with her husband’s on little Mac’s shoulder. My heart squeezes a little at the sight of this tight-knit family.
We don’t have a single photo of our family like this. We were never a family like this.
The woman behind the counter calls for our order.
I smile and go to move to the counter, but just as do, my eyes land on an article in the same section that declares Mayor Saved by Hero Son, Wife Tragically Lost.
My stomach drops.
Tragedy struck last night in Redbeard Cove at what was supposed to be a momentous evening celebrating the MacGregors’ twentieth wedding anniversary…
As I read the story, my hand rises up over my mouth.
The celebration was on a dinner cruise, and a speedboat with a drunk driver crashed into the side of the ship. Six people were knocked into the water, including the entire MacGregor family, who’d been posing by the railing for pictures.
Angus hit his head and nearly drowned; Mac, who was seventeen at the time, pulled him and nearly everyone else out of the water.
Everyone except his mom.
My eyes blur as I try to read the rest.
Tragically lost…nine-year-old Annie in a coma…
“We still don’t know how he did it,” Chris says, startling me. She’s got the sandwiches I forgot all about in her hand. “He dislocated his shoulder when he fell out of the boat. Had to be in horrific pain.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes with the heels of my palms. I have the ridiculous thought that I shouldn’t be crying. I didn’t even know these people.
She gives me a sad smile. “He hates talking about it. We all do. It was the worst night of our lives. Annie never really recovered.” At my shocked expression, she says, “Oh no. I mean, physically, she recovered. But she was never the same. I don’t think I’ll ever forget all that shouting in the dark.”
Chris was there. “Oh God, Chris. Please, you don’t have to talk about it.”
She shakes her head. “It’s town lore.”
“Were you hurt?” I ask, despite myself.
“I wasn’t one of the ones who fell into the water. I just watched it all happen.” Her expression is soft as she takes in my face. I’ve never known how to hide my emotions very well.
“Come on,” she says. “It’s nice out today. Let’s take these to go.”
We walk outside into the bright spring day. Chris takes us around the block to a pretty town square. It’s beautiful here, reminiscent of a European plaza with a fountain in the middle. Several benches and tables are scattered around the open space, dotted with blue- and white-collar workers eating lunch, a few of whom Chris exchanges waves with.
She tells me a little about each of them as we settle onto a bench under a cherry blossom tree in full bloom.
I know I should move on from the story of Mac’s family, but I can’t stop thinking about this blurry moment from when I came out of the water.
“Hey, you okay?” Chris asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just…Mac was panicked. When they found me at the beach. He thought I came from a boat.” My heart cracks along with my voice. I retraumatized him by coming out of the water like that.
Chris must see the guilt on my face, because she shakes her head. “He’s just always alert now. But he was the best person to find you.” She takes a bite of her sandwich and swallows. She hesitates a moment before speaking again. “Since you’re going to be working with him, you should know that there were other things that happened. After the crash itself.”
I set my sandwich down.
“The story made national news,” Chris says. “Then, somehow, it got picked up by a teen magazine, of all things. Probably because someone somewhere saw Mac’s picture, and he’s, well, you’ve seen him. It all went downhill from there. He got this weird, twisted fan following, started getting stuff in the mail from girls all over the world. Photos, marriage proposals, you name it.”
I gape. “But he lost his mom!”
“Exactly. That’s why he hated being called a hero. He got so bitter.” She meets my eyes. “When I tell you they had to drag him out of the water that night—” Her voice catches in her throat, and I lay a hand on her back.
“Chris, it’s okay?—”
She shakes her head. “Women come into the Dinghy even today, saying they remember the story. It’s like they’ve made meeting Mac a bucket list item. It’s the reason he’s so guarded now. I think it’s the reason he’s never really had a relationship with anyone. Except Nate’s mom, but that’s…” Chris sighs. “Anyway.”
I desperately want to know more, but it’s not my place.
God, that poor boy.
“Listen, it’ll be good to have you at the bar. If any of them come in when you’re there, you can help us keep them away from him. We usually tell Mac to stay in the back if we see them.”
“How often does it happen?” I ask.
“Hardly ever anymore. But it’s hard to tell them apart from normal Mac groupies.”
I laugh softly, even as I feel the slightest twinge of something in my chest. What, jealousy? Ridiculous.
We go all-in on our sandwiches after that. “This is good,” I say. “It’s no Mac club sandwich, but it’s tasty.”
Chris’s smile is genuine now as she settles back into the present. “Mac made you a club?”
“That’s not his go-to?”
“Absolutely not. It’s fancy as hell. He must have wanted to impress you.”
Somehow I doubt that. “He doesn’t seem like the type to want to try to impress people.”
“You’re right.” She laughs. I can’t help wondering if Mac has made Chris a club. I can’t help the twisted sting of jealousy in my chest at the thought of him making that fancy sandwich for anyone.
“Still,” Chris muses as she leans back on the bench, closing her eyes in the sunshine. “It’s not his usual thing to invite his new employees to stay at his place either.”
“Cal says he’s nice to a fault.”
“Yeah. It’s a character flaw for sure.” She meets my eye. “But Shelby, believe me when I say that even this is above and beyond for Mac.”
Just then, Chris’s phone buzzes. She glances at me and grins. “My bike’s ready. Want to come see it?”