Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The Crab Shack’s back room trapped the kind of heat that stuck to a man.
Fryer oil lived in the walls. Salt lived in the wood.
The faint tinge of lemon mixed with a cleaning agent lingering in the air indicated someone had run a mop earlier, and it did nothing to mask the scent of last night’s fresh catch.
Buddy braced a shoulder under a plastic bin marked TESSA PROJECT—CENTERPIECES and slid it onto the top shelf Fletcher had cleared. The shelf groaned. So did his back.
“Careful,” Fallon said from the step stool, palm up to steady. “If one more starfish sheds, I’m going to cry in front of witnesses.”
“You wouldn’t dare. I know you’re stressed, but everything’s going to be fine.
You’ve got this down to a science.” He glanced at her, and a mix of emotions swelled in his gut like a storm brewing over the ocean.
The bin settled, but his heart didn’t. He’d sworn off the kinds of feelings that tangled him with women in a way that meant he cared—meant that he wouldn’t have a wandering eye—meant that he’d actually be willing to give a real relationship a shot.
He’d known that Fallon was special the second he’d laid eyes on her, nearly four years ago, the first time he’d set foot in this town.
Ever since then, she’d haunted his dreams. He hadn’t been prepared for what moving here would do to him physically, mentally, but especially…
emotionally. He stepped back, hands open. “What’s in it?”
“Glass cylinders wrapped in a fishing net and my last nerve.” She hopped down, caught the step with her hand, and straightened. Glitter dusted her hairline like she’d leaned into a constellation and brought some of it home.
Boxes were everywhere: BUNTING, LANTERNS, SIGNAGE, DONATION FORMS. The tub of zip-ties was already half-empty—Fallon organized an event like a crime scene. Everything was bagged, labeled, and placed where it wouldn’t get stepped on.
“The marina took delivery on the stage,” she said, pointing her chin toward the back door where light cut the room into stripes. “Fletcher texted me a picture, which is how I know he read his email for once.”
“Must be love,” Buddy said.
“More like fear. He knows I’ll kick his ass.” Fallon shoved a crate of teal ribbon toward him with the toe of her boot. “Second shelf. And don’t crush the bows.”
“I would never crush a bow. That would be criminal,” He lifted the crate one-handed and slid it in beside a stack of lanterns. “Your theme is dangerously cheerful.”
“That’s the point.” She wiped her brow… and then the side of her face. Only, he could tell the swipe of her forehead was a ruse to remove the tear that had escaped and dripped onto her cheek.
He decided to let that be the end of it—for now.
He’d seen grief build shrines. He preferred the way Fallon did it—lamps, pie, a dunk tank to make a town laugh at something that shouldn’t be funny and remember a girl who shouldn’t have been lost. While Fallon tried to bury the idea that she should’ve been the girl to vanish into thin air, never to be seen again.
The kitchen line clattered on the other side of the swinging door. A radio turned low leaked a chorus everyone knew whether they wanted to or not. Someone chalked the daily board: FISH TACOS · CUBANS · KEY LIME PIE (YES, YOU WANT PIE).
“You two redecorating my storage room?” Fletcher leaned in the doorway in his Parks and Recreation uniform, holding a pair of tongs in his hand.
The man had the face of someone who’d fought the world to a draw and decided to feed it anyway.
He was the heart of the community—the hero who’d returned home with three other SEALs and quite literally saved the town from itself.
He, Keaton, Hayes, and Dawson all held different service jobs.
They owned Everglades Overwatch, an airboat tour company, and now they were the proud owners of the Crab Shack.
They were the glue, the protectors, and trouble, wrapped in one tight-knit group that would do absolutely anything for their neighbors.
“We’re curating.” Fallon crossed the room and gave Fletcher a big bear hug. “It’s different.”
“Mm-hmm.” Fletcher squeezed her shoulder as he stared at all the shelves filled with boxes. “Second shelf will hold if you don’t stack the entire ocean on it. And I put paper down because glitter travels faster than the gossip in this town.”
“Too late.” Buddy swiped at his shirt, and the colorful stuff flew off like fairy dust. “Fallon’s hair is turning pink, purple, and green.”
She swiped her hairline and held up a palm that sparkled.
“Ah, that’s evidence,” Fletcher said.
“Of absolutely nothing.” She laughed.
Baily, Fletcher’s wife, slid in behind Fletcher with a tote tucked under her arm.
She had that particular glow of a woman who was tired and fine with it—belly rounding under her soft Crab Shack tee, eyes bright, hair in a messy twist that shouldn’t have looked as good as it did.
On her hip—Kendra, two years old and all opinions, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand like a scepter.
“Volunteer hour check-in,” Baily said, tilting the tote toward Fallon. “And if I find glitter in my hush puppies, I’m razing your booth fee to infinity.”
“Send me the bill,” Fallon said, taking the tote. “I’ll pay by working a few swing shifts when you need help either here, at the marina, or at Everglades Overwatch.”
“Acceptable currency.” Baily kissed Kendra’s cheek. “Say hi to Buddy and Fallon, sweetie.”
Kendra considered Buddy with the solemn, negotiating stare toddlers saved for strangers who might be in charge of snacks. Then she lifted the spoon and declared, “Cookie. Want cookie.”
“So do I,” Buddy said. “We have a lot in common.”
Fletcher reached out to tap the spoon. “In a little bit, pumpkin.”
“Okay, DaDa.” Kendra rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.
Buddy sighed and grabbed another tub, and the room fell into a rhythm he liked—work that didn’t require talking—to toddlers. Not that he didn’t like kids, he did. But it brought up emotions he didn’t want to deal with.
“Come on, sweetie. You can help Mommy with that box over there.” Baily moved across the room.
Tape squeaked off a roll. A fan somewhere clicked every third rotation. Fallon crossed to the list she’d taped to the wall and drew a line through three items with the quick stroke of someone who understood momentum. Fletcher moved more boxes, and Buddy welcomed the silence.
The door swung again, and Keaton stepped in with his Fish and Wildlife hat in hand. He had the rested-unrested look of a man who got enough sleep to function and not a minute more.
“Looks like you all robbed a craft store,” he said.
“We left them a note.” Fletcher lifted another box and hauled it to one of the shelves.
“Hey, Keaton,” Baily said. “You hungry? I have some pre-made salads for anyone who dared to help with the glitter mess.”
“My wife would like me to say yes to that salad,” Keaton said, mouth tipping. “But I’d rather have a hush puppy.”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” Baily said, jumping to her feet, hiking Kendra to her hip.
Keaton stepped further inside and clocked the room the way a trained military man would.
Buddy went very still. He knew that stance. He practiced that stance a million times. Keaton had something serious to say.
“Dawson got a hit on that partial plate.” Keaton turned to Fallon and then Buddy. “Came back to an LLC out of Fort Lauderdale—Blue Heron Boat Tours. Mean anything to you?”
Buddy’s chest went tight around a breath. Blue again. He didn’t move because he’d trained that response out of himself, but the word crawled up the back of his skull and sat there anyway.
“Never heard of them.” Fallon shifted her gaze between Keaton and Buddy, as if she understood what the word Blue would do to him. “What kind of tours?”
“Waterway. Intercoastal. Looking at the big houses. A couple of Tiki party boats. Charter fishing boats. It’s a decent-sized operation from what I can tell.
” Keaton pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Buddy.
“Nothing appears strange about the company. But a muscle car under an LLC? That’s suspect. ”
“If it were a four-door sedan, or an SUV, it might not concern me, but between that text and the girl, it’s got my hackles high,” Buddy said. He kept his voice as even as he could. “I think we should run tech on Fallon’s phone. I can get someone to do it.”
Fallon inched close to him. Her arm pressed tight against his. It was subtle and maybe no one noticed.
“Aegis tech? Or old FBI friend tech?” Keaton asked.
“Mia Sarich,” Buddy said. “Logan’s wife from the Orlando Aegis Network office. She’s good. I’ll reach out later. I’m sure she can look at the phone remotely. If she can’t, it’s only a two-hour drive.”
Fallon curled her fingers around his biceps and squeezed but said nothing.
“I think that’s a good idea. Dawson’s gonna want to see that report,” Keaton said.
Baily reappeared with a plate that would offend a nutritionist and a personal trainer.
Hush puppies and some strawberries to make it legal.
She handed it to Keaton and set a sippy cup on the low shelf where Kendra could find it.
“I meant to ask earlier, is Trinity over the morning sickness yet?” she asked.
“She’s been in the second trimester for a while, but I know that part lingers for her. ”
“Oh, she’s past that and on to the stage of eating anything and everything at all hours of the night and complaining she’s getting fat, only she’s barely gained any weight.
She never does.” Keaton ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair.
“She’s also reminded me that this baby better come out as quick and painless as Petra. ”
Fletcher burst out laughing.