Chapter 1
One
Thirteen Years Later
RIOS
The air was thick with humidity that clung to my skin and made every breath taste faintly like the sea.
The OBX Brewhouse glowed against the deepening dusk, strings of Edison bulbs casting a warm glow along the edges of the cedar siding.
I heard the crowd before I saw them. Music rolled through the open doors, and laughter spilled out over the crushed shell parking lot.
I hadn’t planned on being here tonight. Hell, I hadn’t planned to be on Hatterwick at all.
I should’ve been hip-deep in my investigation, closing in on evidence that would nail the perpetrators to the wall.
But the Navy had put the kibosh on that, calling me on the carpet in D.C.
to answer for daring to upset the status quo.
The fuckers.
So when the Wayward Sons text thread had lit up this morning with Sawyer giving Ford shit about the ring and Ford confirming that tonight was the night and wishing Jace and I could be there, I’d found my way back to the island.
Unannounced. Uninvited. Pretending I wasn’t already a knot of nerves.
I spotted Ford leaning against Sawyer’s big contractor’s truck in the parking lot, both hands braced on his thighs as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Sawyer was right there, hand on his shoulder, probably giving him a pep talk.
“Do I need to find you a paper bag?” I drawled.
At the sound of my voice, Ford’s head snapped up, and his face broke into a grin that made something in my chest ease for the first time in weeks.
“No way.” He was already in motion, meeting me halfway across the lot and pulling me in for a back-thumping hug. “You actually came.”
“You think I was gonna miss this? After Sawyer went and married Willa without so much as a warning to the rest of us?”
“Extenuating circumstances,” Sawyer protested, following suit with another bro hug. “You didn’t tell anybody you were home.”
“Wasn’t sure I was.”
Ford’s grin softened into something quieter, steadier. “Well, you’re here now. That’s what matters.” He clapped me on the shoulder, a wordless welcome that hit harder than I’d admit. “Come on, before Bree figures out what I have planned.”
Having seen the outline of his plan this morning, I laughed. “She’s gonna kill you.”
“Worth it.”
The door swung open as we reached it, the rush of sound and warmth hitting like a wave—glasses clinking, chairs scraping, the low buzz of cheerful conversation rolling under Monty’s voice as he did mic checks for karaoke.
The scent of beer, a hint of fryer oil, and something citrusy from Bree’s new summer shandy wrapped around me like a memory that didn’t quite fit anymore.
The crowd was a mix of locals, tourists, and summer workers.
Many faces I knew. Many I didn’t. The Wayward Sons’ old table by the stage was occupied by strangers now, but the Gray Beards still had their corner, and Willa was near the jukebox, waving a drink as she argued with Duck about the banned song list.
Then I saw them.
Caroline’s dark hair caught the light as she leaned across a table, laughing at something her husband, Hoyt, said. Beside her, Gabi gestured mid-story, animated and bright.
My throat tightened. After everything we’d gone through growing up, I’d never tire of seeing my sisters like this—loud, safe, and happy. I moved in their direction, but I hadn’t made it three steps before Gabi’s eyes landed on me.
“Rios!” Her voice cracked through the noise like a firework. Heads turned as she launched herself across the room, and I found myself bracing as I always did when attention turned to me on Hatterwick.
“Hey, pequena,” I managed before she collided with me, hugging hard enough to knock the wind out of my lungs.
Caroline wasn’t far behind, eyes wide, already demanding, “When did you get here?”
“On the most recent ferry.”
“You could’ve called!”
“Would’ve ruined the surprise.”
She smacked my arm but hugged me again anyway.
I let the squeeze settle something frayed inside me, then eased toward the bar with Sawyer at my shoulder, tracking exits out of habit, trying to look like a man who wasn’t constantly scanning for looks of derision and judgment.
Mostly I saw folks who’d decided my visiting my sisters wasn’t interesting enough to pay attention to—a position I was more than fine with.
Bree came around from behind the taps and wrapped me up in a quick, solid hug underscored by the scents of citrus and clean malt. “Good to see you, Rios.”
“Great to see you, too.” I pulled back, letting my gaze flick between her and Ford, taking in the way they stood close enough to brush shoulders, the easy intimacy that had been absent for so many years. “Glad you two finally got your heads out of your asses.”
Ford shot me a cheerful middle finger over his pint, which made my mouth twitch despite everything I wasn’t saying—all the things I’d learned to keep locked down tight when I was around decent people living decent lives.
Bree shook her head, amused and exasperated in equal measure, the sound of the room swelling and softening around us like the tide against the docks outside. “We’ve heard that often enough we’re considering putting it on a t-shirt and selling it at the bar.”
“It would be a bestseller.” The words felt easy rolling off my tongue; the relief behind them did not.
She tipped her chin toward the impressive row of tap handles, pride edging her smile in a way that made her whole face light up. “You want to try the new beer? Dark Moon Rising just won a gold medal at Brewgaloo.”
I took in the neat rows of sample glasses lined up on the polished counter, the way her hands stayed steady and sure even with the bar hopping around us and voices rising over the music. A normal moment between old friends. A good one, the kind I’d learned not to take for granted.
“Sure, I’ll have a sample.”
“Don’t be silly.” She waved off my offer before I could even reach for my wallet. “As a proper welcome home, you get an entire pint on me.”
I let the warmth of that sit in my chest while she poured. The pint landed under my hand with a soft slide of glass on wood.
From somewhere just behind my shoulder, a name cut clean through the ambient noise like a blade, and every one of my muscles went taut. “Did you hear about Madden Reilly?”
I didn’t turn around, but everything in me tuned in to the conversation.
“Miles and Gwen Busby’s cousin? The one who moved out to Washington?”
“California. She was some big deal prosecutor out there. Emphasis on was.”
“What happened?”
“Lost her job.”
“Over what?”
“Helped convict an innocent man. New evidence came to light, and the conviction was overturned. Guess the guy had connections, ‘cause next thing she knew, she was out.”
“Ouch.”
The pint was cold and solid in my hand, condensation already beading on the glass. I kept my face carefully neutral and let the anger that wanted to rise burn itself down to manageable embers instead.
Bree’s blue eyes flicked up to catch mine, voice deliberately even when she asked, “Karma?”
I took a measured sip of the dark beer—rich and complex, with notes of chocolate and coffee her brewmaster, Monty, had perfected—and set the glass down carefully so it didn’t thump against the bar. My tone stayed completely flat. “Maybe now she’ll learn to think before she speaks.”
I lifted the pint in a brief salute to Bree and stepped away from the bar, angling toward a spot against the far wall where I could see the whole room breathe—my sisters safe and laughing, the exits clearly mapped, Ford’s nervous energy slowly coalescing into something that looked like purpose.
I let the noise and warmth of the place fill my ears, replacing the echoes of the past.
Up on the small stage that had been set up in the corner, Monty tapped the microphone with one manicured finger. Feedback squealed through the speakers; the crowd responded with good-natured laughter and a few catcalls.
“Welcome, welcome to karaoke night at the OBX Brewhouse! Now, we’ve got some ground rules. Two-song limit per person. And if you’re on the banned list—” he paused dramatically, scanning the crowd with mock severity, “you know who you are. Don’t even think about it.”
The laughter rolled through the room like a wave, easy and familiar.
“To kick things off, we’ve got a special treat. Please welcome Ford Donoghue and Bree Cartwright!”
Bree’s head snapped up so fast I was surprised she didn’t get whiplash, that carefully maintained bartender composure cracking at the edges like ice in spring. “Excuse me, what? I don’t karaoke.”
Ford’s grin was pure mischief mixed with affection, the expression of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second. He offered his hand with the confidence of someone extending a formal invitation to a dance. “Come on.”
The chanting started somewhere near the Gray Beards’ usual table—no doubt instigated by Bree’s grandfather, Ed—and spread like wildfire.
Her name bounced around the room in a rhythm that caught and built on itself.
Ford’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Peyton, was on her feet clapping, and both his mom and her wife’s cheers rang clear as bells over the rest of the noise.
I leaned back against the wall and let the sound work on me like a pressure release valve, watching my friend get thoroughly peer-pressured by people who loved her.
Bree shot Ford a look that should have been lethal, the kind that would have sent a smart man running for cover, then surrendered with an exasperated huff that anyone who knew her could read as pure affection underneath all that manufactured irritation.
“Fine. But I’m blaming you when this goes horribly wrong. ”
She came out from behind the safety of her bar to a wall of cheers and applause. Ford tugged her up onto the little stage, both of them already swallowing laughter like teenagers getting away with something.
“What are we even singing?” she demanded, accepting the microphone like it might bite her.
Ford’s eyes danced with barely contained amusement as he picked up the second mic. “A classic.”
The opening notes of “I Got You Babe” filled the air, and Bree sliced him a look that should have peeled paint off the walls. “Really? This is your idea of a timeless classic?”
But Ford just leaned into it with complete commitment, and after a moment of what looked like internal struggle, so did she.
They were off-key and fearless, ham-handed with the choreography and completely tone-deaf.
Neither of them could carry a tune in a bucket if their lives depended on it.
But the room clapped along and hooted encouragement.
I spotted at least half a dozen cell phones recording the spectacle for posterity.
I felt the knot that had been sitting in my chest since I’d stepped off the ferry finally start to loosen. This was good—this warmth, this acceptance, this sense of belonging somewhere that didn’t require explanations or apologies.
They finished with a flourish that was all theatrical nonsense, playing to the crowd like seasoned performers. Bree started to step away from the microphone stand, already laughing at herself, then stopped short when Ford didn’t follow.
“What are you...” Her words strangled out completely as Ford dropped to one knee right there on the small stage. The entire bar seemed to breathe in and hold it, the silence sudden and complete.
“What?” she squeaked, shock and laughter braided so tight in her voice I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Ford’s voice carried steady as a ship’s keel through the sudden quiet, and even though I’d seen the ring in our group text earlier, had watched him agonize over the timing and the words for weeks, hearing him actually say them still hit me like a wave I wanted to let carry me along.
“Bree Cartwright,” he began, a slight tremor underneath all that determination, “I have loved you for most of my life. First as my best friend, then as the woman who stole my heart, and now as this amazing bonus mom to my kid. You’re the missing piece I didn’t even know I was looking for until I lost you.
I was an idiot to ever let you go, and I don’t want to waste another minute.
” He pulled out the ring box, and several people in the crowd actually gasped. “Will you marry me?”
For one heartbeat that felt like it lasted an hour, I heard only my own pulse hammering in my ears. Then the room seemed to tip toward pure joy, and Bree’s laugh broke on a breath that sounded like yes before she actually managed to say the word out loud.
“I will marry you on one condition.”
Ford didn’t even blink. He probably would have agreed to anything in that moment. “What’s that?”
“You never, ever get me up here again.”
The place absolutely detonated—cheers and applause and whistles that probably reached all the way down to the docks.
I didn’t try to shout over the celebration; I just lifted my glass in a quiet toast, while Ford slid the ring onto her finger with shaking hands and pulled her up into a kiss that turned the whole bar molten with shared happiness.
It was nice to have something to celebrate.
Even if everything else in my life was falling apart.