Chapter 11
How Not to Make an Entrance
Tessa
As I pedaled, the steady hum of the narrow tires pulled me back to the night I'd first shown up on Maisie Pickett's front porch, praying I'd gotten the right place.
In my mind, I could still see the look in her eyes when she'd opened the front door, expecting maybe a friend, a family member, or literally anyone else.
What she'd gotten instead was me. Not a friend. Not family. And not exactly welcome, judging from her expression – a little shocked, a little guarded, and a whole lot of thinly veiled alarm.
Two years had passed since I'd last seen her, but she had looked the same as I recalled, with long brown hair, a petite frame, and hazel eyes, squinting into the fading light.
Her brow had wrinkled as she'd said, "Tessa?"
Well, at least she hadn't called me that godawful nickname.
Golden Girl.
This was the name my younger sister – who happened to be Maisie's best friend – had given me ages ago. And trust me when I say, this wasn't meant as a compliment.
But Delaney was still my sister, and I'd been determined to find her, even if she hadn't wanted to be found.
On Maisie's porch, the temperature was barely above freezing, with a bitter wind that cut through my sorry excuse for a coat – a saucy red mistake, about as warm as a paper napkin.
Of course, I'd packed for Miami, not Mackinac Island, which was significantly colder – not that I was complaining. If I hadn't pre-packed for that business trip, I might've had no coat at all.
Now that would've been fun – hiking two miles coatless from the smallest airport I had ever seen.
In high heels.
Dragging two suitcases.
One suitcase had been big enough to stuff a body while the other was a standard carry-on. Both had wheels, thank heaven, or I might've given up halfway and slept in a ditch.
Wheeled or not, my shoulders ached from rolling two bags along the deserted streets.
But of course they'd been deserted. This had been mid-April, and the island didn't truly open until May.
I hadn't known this when fleeing Chicago. But I'd learned it fast enough when I couldn't catch a ferry from Mackinaw City, because they weren't yet running.
Instead, I'd had to catch a rideshare over the Mackinac Bridge to St. Ignace where I'd purchased a plane ride that had taken barely ten minutes and most of my cash.
So now, there I was, shaking from the cold, dead on my feet, and still waiting for Maisie to invite me in.
She hadn't, probably because of Delaney, who wasn't my biggest fan.
Still, I'd summoned up a smile. "Uh, yeah. It's me."
Maisie's gaze drifted from my wind-blown hair to the ginormous suitcase at my side and finally to the other one propped against my leg. With a little shake of her head, she asked, "What are you doing here?"
There were countless ways I could've replied.
I'm looking for Delaney.
I'm hiding from the spotlight.
I'm running from all kinds of trouble.
Instead, I'd tried for a joke. "I was in the area."
Maisie blinked before letting out a small, nervous laugh. "Nobody's ever in the area."
She hadn't been wrong. During the off-season, the island housed only a few hundred residents, at least according to the internet. But even if I had arrived during the actual tourist season, the island still would've been a destination, not a waystation.
I mean, you couldn't even get here by car.
Stupidly, I mumbled, "You know…that's actually a really good point."
Maisie only stared.
Damn it.
In Chicago, I had given countless presentations. Except for that final one, nearly all had been a raging success. And why? Because of planning.
But there on Maisie's doorstep? I'd had nothing. No script. No charm. Just low-grade panic. Under her polite, bewildered stare, I opened my mouth and delivered my best work yet – something between a croak and a laugh.
Maisie's brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, totally." It had been a lie, obviously. I'd been desperate for warmth, shelter, and the location of my sister.
And yet, I didn't dare ask about Delaney, because I'd known exactly how that would end – with Maisie, as nice as she was, brooming me off her porch.
So instead, I'd peered past her, scoping the place out, wondering if my sister was just up that stairway, listening to every word.
Speaking louder so my words would carry, I'd called out, "It's super nice to see you!"
This had been a message for Delaney. See? I'm here to make amends, not trouble.
After glancing over her shoulder, Maisie turned back with a puzzled frown. "Why are you yelling?"
"Was I? Sorry." And yet I couldn't stop myself from calling out again. "Everything's great! Just saying a friendly hello!"
Nothing.
Of course, even as a kid, Delaney had been great at hiding. But she had to be somewhere, right?
Maisie looked out toward the street, as if searching for a horse and buggy to carry me away. Spotting neither, she asked, "Do you…want me to yell back? I mean…is that a city thing?"
No. It had been a lose-your-mind sort of thing. Even worse, I had just realized something even more awkward. I needed a bathroom, desperately.
In front of me, Maisie's face revealed a new creeping dread. "So…where are you staying?"
For half a second, I considered lying again – pretending that I'd booked a hotel room or rented a cottage. I hadn't. Even worse, I couldn't. "You mean tonight? Um…well…" There it was…the moment of truth. With a pathetic little laugh, I replied, "On your couch?"
Maisie blinked long and hard before repeating slowly, "My couch."
"That is…if you don't mind. I mean, it could be just for the night."
I hadn't gotten the couch. What I'd gotten instead was a reluctant invitation to crash in one of the two upstairs bedrooms, where I didn't find my sister – or any sign that she'd been there at all.
A deeper look in the middle of the night – searching with a little penlight and a whole lot of nerve – had been equally disappointing.
The next morning, I'd offered to leave – honestly, I had – but Maisie, being Maisie, had waved it off with a quiet, "It's fine. Don't worry about it."
I offered again a few days later, and then again after that. Both times, Maisie had brushed it aside like it was no big deal – even though in my heart, I'd known it was.
Eventually, I'd stopped asking, although the guilt never went away.
After two weeks, I'd known it was time to switch gears – which was why I'd begged Skip for that job at the coffee shop and worked out a longer stay with Maisie.
The plan had seemed simple enough. I'd chip in money for rent and move out when the season ended – except my only income came from tips, which I'd been spending mostly on groceries.
I hadn't been living up to my end of the deal. Instead, I'd been giving Maisie whatever cash I had left, usually in singles that she looked embarrassed to accept.
After getting on my feet, I was planning to pay Maisie back – and with interest, too.
But obviously, I'd been an idiot – and worse, a freeloading clod. I hadn't meant to be. Until earlier this week, when I'd spotted some collection letters on the table, I'd had no idea that Maisie had money problems of her own.
But I knew now, which meant I'd need to step it up, rent-wise, starting with the hundred dollars from Ryder Vaughn.
As I pedaled faster, overly aware that my lunch break was slipping away, I told myself to focus on the road – and not on some Chicago hotshot who, if I was lucky, I'd never see again.
I failed miserably.
And why?
Because when I rounded the next bend, I spotted the hotshot himself standing directly in my path, like he wanted to be run over. I let out a noise somewhere between a scream and a honk, and by some miracle, I didn't hit him.
But Ryder Vaughn? He didn't even flinch.
So, who was the idiot now?