Chapter 7 #2
“I’m not seeing anyone.” Megan’s gaze slid to the window above Scottie’s bed. “Trying to get my life in order so I can get my daughter back.”
Scottie’s breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
“Super long story,” Megan said softly, “but Isabella lives in Seattle. She’s ten now—almost eleven—and I wish that I could see her more often. Girls need their moms, you know? Oh.” She winced. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” Scottie said. “You’re right. Girls need their mothers. I miss my mom every day. I hope it works out for you.”
Megan leaned closer. “And I can tell you this because you’re trustworthy. A few months ago, I saw a guy who looked like Trevor Kelly.”
“Really? Where?”
“At the restroom. Gas station in Glennallen.”
“Whoa. Did you tell anybody?”
“I told Luke.” Megan frowned. “He was skeptical, to say the least.”
“Isn’t that the guy Ethan’s been looking for?”
Megan nodded. “How’d you know?”
“I heard somebody talking about it.” Scottie toyed with the tab on her pop can, the metal clicking. “He’s been missing for a little over a year, right?”
“Yeah. It was a plane crash, but he was never found. I don’t know. It’s so weird. But I just can’t stop thinking about it, and I don’t really have time to investigate. My brothers probably think it’s bonkers, but I know what I saw.”
Scottie took another small sip of her drink. “I hope that if he is alive and he’s out there somewhere, he’ll come home.”
Megan’s eyes welled, tears brimming but not spilling. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Same.”
Huh. Scottie didn’t quite know what to do with her friend’s emotional response. Why did Megan feel so attached to a missing person? The question hovered, fragile as a soap bubble, while the party’s laughter spilled in through the open door.
He had to find Scottie and apologize.
Tate surveyed the Copper Kettle, humming like a hive.
Cheerful voices mixed in with the bubbly milk frother.
Framed prints of glaciers, the northern lights, and fishing boats marched in neat rows across the white shiplap.
Someone had gone a little overboard with live plants.
There were at least four more since he’d been in last week.
Monsteras, pothos, and a fig tree with glossy leaves filled nooks and crannies.
The green velvet sofa near the front was already claimed by a trio of young moms, wearing their babies in cloth wraps or tucked into baby carriers on the floor.
At the tall two-tops, locals hunched over their donuts and coffee.
The front door opened and Tate glanced at the customers coming in. Not Scottie. He stood with his brothers at a reclaimed-wood bar with a live edge along the wall, black plastic baskets crowding the space in front of them. He peeled back the foil wrapped around his breakfast burrito.
Ethan studied him.
Tate froze midbite. “What?”
“Nothing. Just wondering what’s going on with you.”
He forced a shrug, glancing down at the steam curling from his Americano. “Breakfast with my brothers. Can’t think of a better way to start a Tuesday.”
Ethan and Luke exchanged doubtful looks.
“Thanks for splitting all that wood last week,” Ethan said. “Heard you had an audience.”
“Scottie? She’s not my audience,” Tate said. “And she was only there for a couple of minutes.”
Just long enough for him to really screw things up.
Luke added a packet of sugar to his coffee. “What’s on her mind?”
“She thought I was grumpy.”
Ethan barked a laugh.
“Grumpier than normal,” Tate added. “She wanted to know what was going on.”
“Are you grumpier than normal?” Luke asked, eyebrows raised.
Tate reached for his drink, then set it down without taking a sip. Heat prickled his neck. “I don’t like those dudes. Theo. And the guy whose family builds all the yachts.”
“Carter Wynne?” Ethan picked up his bacon, egg, and cheese bagel. “What’s your concern?”
Tate scowled. “The guy’s a flirt, and she’s…letting it happen.”
“She’s a camera operator,” Luke said. “Actors probably flirt with her a lot. And by the way, why do you care?”
Tate scratched at his neck, suddenly itchy. “I want her to be safe, all right? I feel like Damian’s asking a lot of her. People keep getting hurt too.”
“Two people got hurt,” Luke countered. “And they’re both going to be fine. The guy with the broken leg’s got a long road ahead of him, but he’ll recover. Caroline said the lady with the cut on her hand will be good as new. And, you know, it’s not your job to manage all of that.”
Tate angrily chomped down on his breakfast. Maybe if his mouth was full, he wouldn’t snap back.
Because it felt like his job. Somebody had to look out for Scottie.
She didn’t always do a good job of looking out for herself.
Gary and Lainey weren’t going to step in—Gary could barely handle his issues, and Lainey was swamped with the bed-and-breakfast. Ever since the show came to town, she’d been booked solid.
“Frankly, I still don’t get why permits were issued,” he said. “These people have no business filming?—”
“Here’s the thing,” Ethan interrupted, keeping his voice low.
“Whether you like reality TV or not is pretty much irrelevant. It’s happening.
And to be honest, people in Redemption could use a little pick-me-up.
It’s been a rough year. Folks are eating out more.
Tourists are coming to town. Theo, Carter, Elise—they’re drawing attention.
Don’t forget the other contestants. They’re pretty interesting too. ”
“Yeah, well, interesting people can’t be counted on to avert a crisis, can they?” Tate’s words came out rougher than he intended. “What’s wrong with being concerned about the folks I care about?”
“Speaking of those you care about.” Luke tipped his head toward the counter. “Here comes one now.”
Tate turned. Scottie weaved among the tables, a to-go cup in one hand, a paper bag in the other. His pulse stuttered. When did she come in? And how had he not noticed?
“Scottie, hey,” Luke called out, then gave Tate a pointed look. “Seriously, dude? In case you need to apologize for your grumpiness, I’m giving you an opportunity. You’re welcome.”
“That’s a good wingman right there,” Ethan added, grinning. He clapped Luke on the shoulder.
Tate’s ears burned. He wanted to tell them both to zip it, but Scottie was nearly beside him.
“Good morning.” Her smile wobbled when her gaze caught his.
“How’s it going?” Luke asked.
She paused, her to-go cup halfway to her mouth. “Good so far.”
Tate tried not to stare. Tried and failed.
Her curls were held back with a red-and-white polka-dot band, the bow perched just above her temple.
She wore a short-sleeved denim button-down with puffed shoulders.
Slim white jeans. Leopard-print slip-on sneakers.
Those blue eyes—still the same. Still undoing him.