Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Abi
Iwas no longer dangerously lingering in the shadowy catching feelings zone for Beckett. I was sashaying—no—bicycle interval training in the region of doomed-unrequited-love-but-too-far-gone-to-change-course. Though at least it wasn’t exclusively my fault.
“You’re sure this is what you wanted?” Beckett said, standing with me at the ice cream window for North Water Bakery & Deli.
Yes. Beckett Kinge was in public. During daylight hours.
(Well, technically twilight hours as the sunset was starting to paint beautiful colors on the sky and across the lake.) He was actually venturing into Algoma, all because I’d impulsively asked him while heading out the door, my faithful guidebook in my bag.
“Abi.”
“Huh?” I said, ever witty.
Beckett handed me an ice cream cone of fresh frozen custard—a Wisconsin staple. “This is what you wanted?” he repeated.
“Yes. It’s a twist cone—half chocolate and half vanilla custard.
” I kept my eyes on my custard instead of peering at Beckett, which would only make things worse for my heart already doomed to be broken.
“Thanks for buying it. When I invited you to come with me, I didn’t do so with impure intensions of leeching off you. ”
“You can hardly count the cost of a single cone as leeching off me,” Beckett said, amused.
“You’re sure you don’t want to try it?” I asked, resisting my ice cream cone as we walked away from the deli.
“Yes. It’s not my thing,” he said—though by thing, I assume he meant human food in general and not just Wisconsin custard.
I finally licked my ice cream, savoring the delicious and creamy balance of sweet vanilla and rich chocolate as we strolled down the sidewalk, strolling over the bridge that crossed the Ahnapee River.
“Besides,” Beckett continued. “I didn’t come for the food, but the company.”
“I see you’re going out of your way to be charming tonight,” I half observed, half grumbled.
“Aren’t I doing what you wanted?” Beckett asked, his voice colored with too much innocence. “I’m leaving the refuge of my dusty old mansion and being a crusty people hater and am instead out and about with the populace.”
“I never phrased it that way… to your face,” I complained.
Beckett laughed, a deep sound that was richer than the custard I was eating. He looked down the street as we strolled along, watching locals mill around. “Algoma is a thriving town, but it’s not as badly packed as I thought it would be.”
We turned off 2nd Street, heading towards von Stiehl Winery and farther down the road—Lake Michigan and the red Algoma Pierhead Lighthouse.
“It’s because it’s a weeknight,” I explained. “Friday nights and weekends are crazy because that’s when they get the most tourists. Daphne says the days they get the Lake Michigan cruises are really nuts too. Otherwise it’s just pleasantly busy.”
My cone was starting to melt faster than I could keep up, so I took a frantic bite while Beckett thoughtfully tilted his head back.
“I see,” he said.
When I tucked a wild clump of hair behind my ear, I noticed Shannon standing on the sidewalk across the street from the winery, her eyes bulging in shock.
She pointedly looked from me to Beckett—whom she recognized on sight as she had interacted with him before I had arrived—and then her lips started to curl up in a smile that was simultaneously so smug and joyous it looked like she was about to break out into gleeful screams.
I quickly shook my head then looked away, afraid to encourage her, but there was a shallow part of me that preened. At least I wasn’t the only one who thought this was… something.
Abigail Marshall, wake up! I’m better than this.
I’ve survived weeks of overtime living off disgusting protein bars and so much coffee I got a caffeine addiction.
I cannot let one little trip into town melt me like butter, even if this goes against all of Beckett’s personal practices.
I am a professional, and intelligent enough to know any feelings I have for my boss couldn’t go anywhere—
“Hold on a moment,” Beckett said.
I made the foolish mistake of glancing at him.
Beckett was wearing the standard celebrity disguise: a baseball cap and sunglasses.
Grade A camouflage that did absolutely nothing to dampen his good looks.
If anything, the baseball cap drew attention, as it didn’t really match the vibe of his crown tattoo, navy button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and charcoal slacks.
Beckett used my moment of ogling to lean in and use his thumb to wipe the corner of my mouth. “You had a smudge.” He showed me the blot of chocolate custard on his thumb pad while grinning—briefly showing his prominent fang teeth—then casually licked his finger off.
Yes. At least thirty-five percent of my feelings are Beckett’s fault. He’s terrible at physical boundaries.
A cackle echoed down the street. “Hah-ha! I told you my eyesight wasn’t that bad!” As that sounded dangerously like Shannon, I figured it was time to pick up the pace.
Beckett, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice the increase speed thanks to his long legs, but I did almost choke on my ice cream in my hurry.
The sidewalk ended at the Algoma waterfront, which was fine because we were going to walk down the boardwalk and head south along the lake and towards the beach.
Just before we were about to pass under the arched entrance of the Crescent Beach Boardwalk, Beckett stilled and stared into the marina, where a few cars were pulled up together and a couple of people, indistinguishable shadows in the low light as the sun had half sunk beyond the horizon, laughed and chatted together.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Nope. We should get walking. Immediately,” Beckett said, his voice tight.
“Mr. Kinge!”
I, lacking Beckett’s vampire night vision, squinted in the twilight. I couldn’t make out who was standing in the marina, but I recognized that voice. “Daphne?”
My werewolf friend loped up to us, her dark brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail. “Hello Mr. Kinge, Abi.” She nodded to Beckett, then smiled at me.
The folks standing by the cars in the marina waved to us.
“Mr. Kinge!”
“Evening, Mr. Kinge!”
“Hello, sir.”
“That’s my family, the Pack,” Daphne explained for my benefit. “Would you mind if they greeted you, sir?”
Beckett sighed and took off his sunglasses. “Even if I say no, none of you would listen. Would you?”
“It’s a sign of respect, Mr. Kinge.”
“If it was just respect, you lot wouldn’t be so stubborn about it,” Beckett growled before turning to me. “I’ll be just a moment.”
“Don’t hurry on my account.” I waved him off, smiling when he stalked towards the werewolves, a sharp silhouette against the sky.
“Sorry, Abi,” Daphne said. “I’d introduce you, but I’m pretty sure Mr. Kinge would pluck all the hair off my tail if I tried.”
I grinned. “No worries. We’re still on for meeting up later this week, right?”
“Yep! I’ll text you before then!” Daphne waved to me over her shoulder before she hurried after Beckett.
I, meanwhile, looked around for a trashcan to throw out my napkin from my ice cream cone.
My memories of the marina were pretty hazy on account of being seasick the last time I’d been here, but I was pretty sure there was a trash can or two by the fish cleaning station—a small, open air pole building that smelled fainty fishy even though no one was there right now.
Either I was as blind as a bat in the setting sun, or the trash cans had been moved elsewhere because I didn’t see them, but that didn’t matter.
If I went about a block up I’d hit that little bench/pergola spot where Daphne had sat with me after I’d gotten toasted from the wine at von Stiehl Winery, and I knew there was a trash can there.
Off I went, trotting like a good citizen who avoided littering. Sure enough, there was a trash can at the spot, so I threw out my napkin while suspiciously peering up the street, half expecting Shannon to pop out and jump me, loudly asking why Beckett and I were in town together.
Satisfied, I crossed the street and started to walk back to the marina, but paused.
It was quiet. Too quiet considering the von Stiehl Cider Bar, housed in a little house/garage-like building just up the street from me, was hopping with guests. I didn’t hear any crickets, or even the wind and the quiet hush of the Lake Michigan waves.
I turned in a circle, my palms growing clammy as a streetlight flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows everywhere.
There was a noise behind me—the sound of a shoe on asphalt, maybe, and then things grew… dreamy. Or maybe hazy was a better word.
It was the same feeling I had when I caught a bad cold and took every medication I could get my hands on. Like my head was a balloon bouncing on a string tied to my shoulders.
I didn’t feel wholly in control of myself as I stood there on the sidewalk like a dolt.
The feeling was warm, pleasant, and alluring. I wanted to sink deeper into it and give up all my troubles and cares, but I heard another scrape of shoes on sidewalk, and there was still a tiny part of me, a faint alarm bell in the back of my brain that wouldn’t stop ringing.
I should be afraid, I recognized in a detached sort of way. Because something is very wrong.
This was the quiet intensity of a predator—like the stare of a tiger I’d seen in a zoo. But even though I mentally recognized that, my body and brain didn’t respond.
I couldn’t even dredge up an ounce of adrenaline to get me moving.
What is going on?
My breathing was the loudest noise. The only other thing I could hear was the faint laughter from the customers at the cider bar.
I swear I saw something stir in the shadows of the pergola. As if someone was crouched there.
“Abi?”