Chapter 4
Jessie’s internal alarm clock betrayed her at five thirty the next morning, a holdover from years of pre-market analysis and early client calls. She lay still, listening to the island wake around her—the distant rhythm of waves, the insistent call of gulls, the rustling palms just beyond the windows. Sleep had come easier than expected, as if her body remembered the island’s lullaby even after fifteen years away.
Light filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting patterns across the guest room that seemed less foreign today than yesterday. She stretched languidly, mentally preparing herself for what promised to be a physically demanding day. Becoming a bar owner hadn’t been on her five-year plan, but if she was going to be one—even temporarily—she would do it properly.
She showered quickly, opting for practicality over polish. Her usual wardrobe of tailored separates and designer dresses would be ridiculous in a beach bar. Instead, she chose lightweight khaki shorts and a sleeveless blue button-down that could withstand heat and humidity. She ran a comb through her short hair, applied minimal makeup, and slipped into comfortable Birkenstocks that wouldn’t leave her crippled after hours on her feet.
Coffee was already brewing when she emerged from her room, but no sign of Luke. A note propped against the pot read: Early seafood delivery. Lock up when you leave.
Just as well. Their dinner-that-wasn’t last night had left things awkward between them. Better to have their next encounter on neutral territory with plenty of witnesses to prevent either of them from saying something regrettable.
Jessie filled a travel mug with coffee, snagged an apple from the fruit bowl, and headed for the door. The morning air greeted her with that particular island combination of salt, flowers, and impending heat that had featured prominently in her dreams of home over the years. She paused on the porch, allowing herself a moment to absorb the peach-gold sunrise spreading across the ocean horizon.
This view alone might be worth the price of admission.
She descended the stairs to where her golf cart waited beneath the house, parked beside Luke’s battered pickup. The cart’s battery had recharged overnight, its gauge showing full power for the journey to Seeker’s Paradise. Jessie settled behind the wheel, the apple clamped between her teeth as she navigated the path away from Luke’s secluded home.
The island looked different in early morning light—softer, somehow, with dew still clinging to the dense vegetation and mist rising from the stretches of sand visible between trees. Few people were stirring yet, though she passed an elderly couple walking hand in hand along the coastal road and a solitary runner whose raised hand acknowledged her with island familiarity.
She’d forgotten how everyone greeted everyone here, regardless of acquaintance. In Savannah, even neighbors maintained a polite distance unless properly introduced. In New York, eye contact itself was considered an act of aggression. Here, a nod and wave were the minimum acceptable interaction.
She followed the coastal road toward Seeker's Paradise. Employees in staff T-shirts were busy reinstalling the umbrellas they'd removed during the storm, their movements efficient and practiced. The parking area confirmed Miguel's assessment of the lunch rush, so Jessie parked near the kitchen entrance and made her way to the main area.
Movement near the delivery entrance caught her attention—Luke directing two men unloading crates from a refrigerated truck. He wore cargo shorts slung low on his hips and a faded T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, revealing shoulders bronzed from island sun. His hair was still damp, curling against his neck as he gestured toward the kitchen doorway.
Jessie approached quietly, not wanting to interrupt what appeared to be a well-choreographed routine. She stopped several feet away, waiting for a break in activity to announce her presence.
Luke spotted her before she could speak. His surprise registered briefly before his expression settled into neutral courtesy. “You’re up early.”
“Old habits.” She gestured toward the crates being carried inside. “Need a hand?”
“We’ve got it covered.” He signed a clipboard handed to him by the delivery driver. “But you’re welcome to observe the exciting world of seafood procurement.”
“Be still my heart,” she deadpanned. “And here I left my camera at home.”
One corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Coffee’s on inside if you want some. Miguel won’t be in for another hour, and the rest of the crew comes at ten.”
“I brought my own.” She lifted her travel mug. “But I wouldn’t say no to a tour of the operation. Figured I should know what I’m part owner of.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, at her interest in the business details. “Sure. Let me finish up here and I’ll show you around.”
Jessie waited while Luke completed the transaction, exchanging easy banter with the delivery men about fishing conditions and weather patterns. Their interaction revealed the depth of his island connections—he knew their names, asked about family members, made inside jokes that spoke of long acquaintance. This wasn’t just business; it was community.
“All set,” he said, returning to her side after the truck departed. “Ready for the grand tour?”
“Lead on, Captain.”
They started in the kitchen, and a slender man with impressive forearms was already at work, breaking down what appeared to be a massive tuna with surgical precision. He glanced up as they entered, flashing a brilliant smile that transformed his serious face.
“The infamous Ms. James, I presume.” He wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his apron. “Mateo Suarez. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All lies, I’m sure,” she replied, extending her hand. “And it’s Jessie, please.”
“Mateo’s our head chef,” Luke explained. “Stole him from a five-star resort in Miami three years ago.”
“I lost a poker game,” Mateo corrected with a theatrical sigh. “My talents were the collateral. A true artist, reduced to cooking for islanders and tourists who think ketchup is a spice.”
“Mateo leans toward the dramatic,” Luke said with a grin. “But his food speaks for itself.”
“The seafood convinced me to stay. And the obscene salary.” Mateo gestured toward the tuna. “Now, I must commune with this magnificent creature. Come back for staff meal and I’ll make you a bouillabaisse that will change your relationship with food forever.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Jessie promised.
Luke continued the tour, showing her the walk-in refrigerators, dry storage areas, and an impressive wine cellar she hadn’t expected. Unlike the open-air main bar and dining sections, these back-of-house areas were properly enclosed with solid walls, lockable doors, and air-conditioning to protect the food and equipment from the elements and potential theft. His knowledge was comprehensive, his passion evident in the way he described systems he’d implemented and challenges they’d overcome. This was more than a business to him—it was a creation, nurtured with the same care one might give a child.
“And this is where the magic happens,” he said as they exited the kitchen into the main bar area. Without patrons, the space felt larger, its polished surfaces gleaming in the morning light streaming through the raised screens. “We open at eleven for lunch service, close between three and five to reset, then dinner from five until midnight. Later on weekends.”
“You’re here for all of it?” She tried to imagine the hours such a schedule required.
“I have managers, but yeah, I’m around most days. Hard to run a place like this if you’re not in the trenches.”
Jessie nodded, absorbing the implications. Her life in finance had been demanding, but at least she’d been able to set boundaries around her time. This was all-consuming in a way that explained both Luke’s dedication and his apparent lack of a personal life beyond the business.
“So,” she said, running her fingers along the polished mahogany bar, “what do you want me to do?”
Luke’s eyebrows shot up. “Do?”
“I’m part owner now, for better or worse. I’m not just going to sit around watching you work while I collect profits.”
He studied her for a moment, as if trying to determine her sincerity. “Can you tend bar?”
“I can learn.”
“Wait tables?”
“If necessary.”
“Wash dishes?”
She leveled a look at him. “Now you’re just being insulting.”
“Welcome to the restaurant business,” he said with a shrug. “Everyone does everything when needed. I’ve washed more dishes than I can count.”
“Then consider me your new dishwashing apprentice,” Jessie said, refusing to back down. “I’m serious, Luke. I want to contribute.”
He leaned against the bar, arms crossed over his chest as he assessed her. The position emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength built from years of physical work rather than calculated gym sessions.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s start with the basics. You can shadow Miguel at the bar today, learn the most common drinks and systems. If you survive that without poisoning anyone, we’ll move you up to taking orders tomorrow.”
“Such confidence in my abilities.”
“I have enormous confidence in your abilities,” he corrected. “Just not in this particular arena. Yet.”
The distinction mattered, she realized. He wasn’t underestimating her competence, just acknowledging her inexperience in his world. Fair enough.
“When do we start?” she asked.
“First things first.” Luke moved behind the bar with fluid grace, emerged with a white apron similar to the one he’d tossed at her that first day. “Uniform of the day, Ms. James.”
This time, when he offered it, she accepted with a small smile. “Does it come with hazard pay?”
“Only if you survive the lunch rush.” He checked his watch. “Miguel will be here in twenty minutes. Want me to show you how to set up the bar while we wait?”
“Absolutely.”
For the next hour, Jessie absorbed information like a sponge—learning where supplies were stored, how to check inventory, the proper way to slice fruit garnishes, and the meticulous process of restocking the bar for service. Luke was a surprisingly patient teacher, demonstrating each task with clear explanations and no condescension.
“Not bad,” he said, inspecting her lime wedges. “Though we might need to implement a standardized size chart.”
“Everyone’s a critic.” She flicked a piece of lime peel at him. “Some of us didn’t attend Citrus Cutting Academy.”
“It was a correspondence course,” he replied with exaggerated dignity. “I still have the certificate somewhere.”
“Framed above your bed, no doubt.”
“Just below my Maraschino Cherry Stem Tying diploma.”
Jessie laughed, the sound startling both of them with its ease. It was a genuine moment, unplanned and natural despite the tension that had lingered between them.
The moment was interrupted as a tall, powerfully built man appeared at the bar from the beach side, having just parked his department-issued golf cart at the edge of the sand. It wasn’t your typical tourist cart—this one was modified for island law enforcement with all-terrain tires that could handle both sand and pavement, a light bar mounted on the roof, and the Sheriff’s Department star emblazoned on the side. Sheriff Reece Wells stepped out with the easy confidence of someone who owned whatever ground he walked on.
Sheriff Reece Wells was roughly Luke’s age—early thirties—but where Luke’s good looks tended toward the golden California surfer, Reece was all dark intensity. Black hair cut short on the sides but slightly longer on top, heavily lashed dark eyes that missed nothing, and a perpetual three-day stubble that somehow managed to look deliberate rather than neglectful. The tan BDU tactical pants and black polo shirt with the Sheriff’s Department logo embroidered over the left breast had replaced the traditional uniform years ago—practical concessions to island life. His service weapon was holstered at his hip, a silent reminder of authority despite his casual appearance.
A tribal tattoo band circled one impressive bicep, visible below the sleeve of his polo, with what looked like more ink disappearing beneath the fabric. There was something dangerous about him, a coiled energy that suggested he could handle himself in any situation. Jessie remembered him as the island’s most notorious teenage troublemaker—always in some kind of mischief with Luke not far behind. The badge was the last thing she’d ever expected to see on Reece Wells.
“Well, I’ll be,” he drawled, his weather-beaten face registering surprise before settling into wary assessment. “The rumors are true.”
“Morning, Reece,” Luke said, straightening from his position beside Jessie. “Coffee?”
“Wouldn’t say no.” The sheriff removed his sunglasses as he rested his elbows on the bar, revealing eyes so dark they were almost black. His gaze flickered over Jessie with calculated assessment. “Jessie James. Last time I saw you, you were stealing Peterson’s boat for a midnight joyride with this reprobate.”
“Reece,” she acknowledged, recognizing him despite the added years. “As I recall, you were conveniently looking the other way that night.”
“Statute of limitations,” he said with a smile and a shrug. “Can neither confirm nor deny.”
Luke placed a mug of coffee before the sheriff, who accepted it with a grateful nod. “Reece stops by most mornings to make sure we haven’t broken any laws overnight,” he explained.
“Pure professional diligence,” Reece agreed. “Nothing to do with Mateo’s breakfast burritos.”
“Which won’t be ready for another thirty minutes,” Luke said. “So you might as well tell me what really brought you by at—” he checked his watch, “—seven forty-five in the morning.”
Reece sipped his coffee, gaze shifting between them with undisguised curiosity. “Wanted to see if Harold Biggs was spinning tales again. Claimed he saw Jessie James back on the island, pretty as ever and sitting right here at your bar yesterday.”
“And now you’ve seen for yourself,” Jessie said. “Mystery solved.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Reece’s shrewd eyes assessed her. “Just confirmed one piece of the puzzle.”
Luke’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “Jess is back to handle her father’s estate. Including his share of the bar.”
“Is that right?” Reece turned to her, those penetrating dark eyes missing nothing. “Planning a long stay?”
The question seemed loaded with more than casual curiosity. Jessie smiled pleasantly, refusing to be intimidated. “Haven’t decided yet. Depends on how quickly we can settle things.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting.” Reece drained his coffee mug and set it on the bar with a decisive click. “You know where to find me if you need anything. Island law enforcement at your service.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, recognizing the offer as genuine despite his obvious reservations about her return.
Reece settled his sunglasses back on, tipped an imaginary hat to Jessie, and strolled back toward the beach, leaving a wake of unspoken questions behind him.
“Well, that was subtle,” Jessie said once the sheriff was out of earshot.
Luke’s mouth quirked. “Reece is about as subtle as a hurricane. But he means well.”
“He’s checking up on you.” She recognized the protective instinct—had seen it in her own friends when she’d ventured back into dating after a particularly bad breakup. “Making sure the prodigal partner isn’t going to cause problems.”
“Can you blame him?” The question contained no accusation, just simple curiosity.
Jessie considered for a moment. “No,” she admitted. “I can’t. He always was fiercely loyal.” She watched Reece’s retreating figure—the confident stride so different from the cocky swagger of the boy who’d once led half the island’s teenagers into various forms of mischief. “When did he become sheriff? That’s quite a plot twist.”
Luke’s expression softened into something like fondness. “About six years ago. County election. Ran unopposed after old Sheriff Biggs retired.”
“Reece Wells. A lawman.” She shook her head in wonder. “Wasn’t he the one who blew up the science lab in tenth grade?”
“Technically, we both did.” Luke’s grin was quick and reminiscent. “But he took the fall. Said I had more to lose with my squeaky-clean record.”
The insight into their friendship touched something in Jessie. She’d forgotten how close the two had been—more like brothers than friends. Clearly, that bond had only strengthened in her absence.
Before Luke could respond, a stream of staff members began arriving for the morning shift. They approached from various directions—some from the beach path, others from the parking area, all converging on the bar to begin their workday.
Miguel led the procession, his perpetual grin widening when he spotted Jessie behind the bar.
“Ms. James! You decided to join the party!” His voice carried the musical lilt of his Cuban heritage, softened by years in the States but still distinctly present in certain words.
“Just observing today,” she clarified. “Luke says I’m to shadow you and learn the mysterious arts of bartending.”
Miguel clutched his chest dramatically. “The boss is letting you touch the sacred bottles? On day two? It took me a month before he’d let me pour anything stronger than iced tea.”
“Different circumstances,” Luke said. “Jessie technically owns half those sacred bottles.”
“True ownership comes through blood, sweat, and broken glassware,” Miguel declared. “But I shall teach you our ways, grasshopper.”
The rest of the staff filtered in from the parking area—two young women who introduced themselves as Amber and Ellie, waitresses who doubled as hostesses; Carlos, a stocky man responsible for maintenance and security; and finally Tasha, a no-nonsense woman in her fifties who managed the dining room with military precision. Each greeted Jessie with varying degrees of curiosity, their collective attitude one of cautious welcome.
“Staff meeting in five,” Luke announced. “Then regular pre-shift briefing at ten thirty.”
While the others dispersed to their stations, Miguel took up position beside Jessie. “First rule of bartending,” he said solemnly, “never trust a man who orders a Long Island iced tea before noon.”
“What about a woman?”
“Women can drink whatever they want, whenever they want,” he said with a grin. “They’re the superior species.”
“I like him,” Jessie said to Luke, who rolled his eyes.
“Don’t encourage him. His ego barely fits behind the bar as it is.”
“Too late,” Miguel said cheerfully. “I’m her new favorite person. We’re getting matching tattoos later.”