Chapter 2
2
What a disaster this day had been.
Heaving a sigh, Noah Ward parked his rental car, cut his lights, and surveyed the dark windows of his parents’ Hope Harbor retirement home.
Arriving on the cusp of midnight hadn’t been in his plans. Nor had multiple flight delays or leaving the car charger for his phone back in St. Louis.
And at this hour of the night, it was too late to rouse his father with a knock on the front door.
Too bad his cell had died hours ago. Otherwise, he could have called ahead and avoided this predicament. But he could rack out in the empty cottage behind the house, get a decent night’s sleep, then alert Dad to his presence in the morning. An unfamiliar car parked a house away shouldn’t raise any concerns if his father rose early and glanced out the front window.
Noah slid from behind the wheel, stretched, and retrieved his overnight bag from the back seat. His larger suitcase could stay in the trunk until morning.
After locking the car, he fished around in his pocket and pulled out the keys his father had given him when he and Mom bought this place a decade ago. It was a shame the demands of his CPA job had kept him too busy to pay more than an occasional fast visit here. The little seaside town was appealing, and it was easy to understand why his parents had been charmed by it on the vacations they’d taken here prior to making a permanent move from the Midwest.
But it was far less hassle to send them tickets to St. Louis a couple of times a year. That way, he could work during the day while they visited with longtime friends, then spend the evenings with them. It had been a fine arrangement.
Until Mom died, and Dad decided he was done traveling.
Noah maneuvered around the corner of the house in the dark, trying not to trip on the stepping stones. He didn’t need a face-plant to cap off his journey, even if that would be a fitting end to this miserable day.
Nor had he needed this trip, just as the second quarter financial reporting was ramping up.
But how else was he supposed to get a read on a father who wasn’t a texter, caller, or emailer, like Mom had been? Dad’s heart scare a couple of months ago may not have caused any serious long-term damage, but it had been a wake-up call. What if a major health issue did arise? Who would Dad be able to call on for help out here?
Brow crimped, Noah pushed through the gate under the arbor that led to the backyard.
It was far more sensible for his father to move back to St. Louis, where he had friends and a son who could lend a hand if necessary.
Convincing Dad of that would be a challenge, however. One best tackled in person, without forewarning. If he’d called and been up-front about the reason for this trip, his father would have insisted that he was staying put—as he’d done whenever the subject came up—and discouraged a visit. And an out-of-pattern random trip would have made Dad suspicious.
A surprise appearance had definitely been the prudent choice.
But not a surprise appearance in the middle of the night.
Noah squinted across the backyard to the cottage tucked in the corner. It was unfortunate Dad had decided to stop renting it. Talking with guests would have kept him connected to people. Without Mom to plan their social calendar and push her more introverted husband to mix and mingle, it was very possible he’d become a hermit.
On the flip side, though, a lack of reservations for the cottage could be a plus. If the place had been booked for the whole tourist season, his father would have had an excuse to put off a discussion about moving.
At the door to the cottage, Noah bent down, felt around for the lock in the darkness, and poked the key at it. Three tries later, it slid inside.
Yawning, he fumbled for the knob and pushed the door open.
It took him a few seconds to find the light switch on the wall, but once he flipped it, soft illumination flooded the room from a lamp beside the couch.
Easy to see why the compact cottage had always been in demand. Mom had had a knack for décor, and the neutral palette enlivened by splashes of accent colors created an upscale, relaxing vibe.
But he could give the place a closer scrutiny in the morning. After his marathon, problem-plagued travel day, all he wanted to do was sleep.
Bag in hand, he strode over to the bedroom door. Twisted the knob. Pushed through.
In five minutes flat, he ought to be able to—
A beam of a bright light pierced his eyes, blinding him, and he jerked to a stop. Stumbled back.
What the ...
Before he could finish that thought, something wet hit him in the face.
In the next instant, the fires of hell rained down on him, burning his eyes, nose, mouth, and throat.
He dropped his overnight bag as his eyes slammed shut. His seared lungs balked, and he started to hack. Hard. Snot dripped from his nose.
Chest heaving, he fell to his knees as waves of pain crashed over him.
If someone was trying to kill him, they were doing a first-rate job of it.
Splaying the fingers of one hand on the floor, he groped in his pocket for his handkerchief. He had to wipe away whatever was singeing his eyeballs. ASAP.
The instant his fumbling fingers closed over the square of cloth, he yanked it out and tried to swab off whatever toxic substance was wreaking havoc.
Didn’t work.
In fact, his eyes might hurt worse—if that was even possible.
“Help ... me.” The hoarse, croaked plea came out in a voice that didn’t sound anywhere close to his usual baritone.
No response.
Whoever had done this to him must have a heart of stone.
Or else they’d hightailed it out of here after rendering him defenseless.
What kind of scumbag would attack an innocent man and—
Wait.
Was it possible Dad had started renting the cottage again and hadn’t told him? Had he walked in on paying guests who’d assumed he was an intruder and doused him with pepper spray?
Oh, geez.
This day was going from bad to worse.
As the burning pain continued to scald his eyeballs ... throat ... tongue ... skin ... he dropped forward onto his hands and began crawling.
If whoever had sprayed him was gone, he was on his own to find the bathroom and try to wash the noxious residue out of his eyes and off his face before this debilitating agony drove him stark raving mad.
Oh no!
After glancing at the man who was blindly scrabbling across the floor on all fours, Bren shifted her attention back to the luggage tag on the overnight bag he’d dropped after she’d greeted him with a faceful of pepper gel.
Noah Ward.
Fred’s son.
A respectable CPA from St. Louis, not the intruder she’d assumed he was.
Her stomach twisted into a knot.
She’d attacked the offspring of the man who’d come to her rescue this morning.
Well, crud.
What a way to thank her benefactor.
But this wasn’t her fault. Truly, it wasn’t. Fred hadn’t said a thing about his son coming when he’d handed her the key. And who else but an intruder would come creeping around in the middle of the night? Any reasonable person would have ...
Noah ran into a wall. Moaned.
Oh, mercy.
The man was in severe distress.
Tempted as she was to slink away in abject mortification, she had to help him. No one with an ounce of empathy could desert someone who was in such pain. She’d have to deal later with the consequences of what she’d done.
“Um ...” She crossed to him. “I’m sorry about this. I thought you were an intruder.”
He groaned again, his breathing ragged.
A wave of panic washed over her.
Pepper gel wasn’t supposed to be dangerous for most people, only big-time uncomfortable—unless you happened to have asthma.
Did Fred’s son have that ailment?
“I’m so sorry. How can I help you?” She leaned down and touched his shoulder.
“Bathroom.” The word was garbled but decipherable. “Water.”
“Can you stand up?”
He shook his head.
“Okay. I’ll guide you.” She wrapped her fingers around the impressive bicep beneath his long-sleeved dress shirt and tugged him the right direction. At the doorway, she paused. “You’re on the threshold.”
Feeling his way forward, he entered and slowly pulled himself up in front of the sink, a maneuver that appeared to require almost superhuman effort.
No wonder cops used pepper spray as a last resort, if it could bring even this strapping, toned guy to his knees.
Bren reached past him and twisted on the tap.
After cupping his hands beneath the stream, he bent down and began throwing cold water at his face.
But was that the most effective way to mitigate the aftereffects of pepper gel?
Leaving him to his task, she went in search of her phone and googled the remedies. After skimming the instructions, she zipped to the kitchen, yanked a large pitcher from the cabinet, filled it with water, and returned to the bathroom.
Noah was still splashing water on his face.
“I’m back.” She squeezed past him into the small space. “What you’re doing isn’t going to help much. We should irrigate your eyes. I have a pitcher of water. If you’ll lean over and turn your head sideways over the sink, I’ll pour the water into them.”
Without a word, he followed her instructions.
Bren aimed the spout of the pitcher at the corner of one puckered eye and directed a gentle but steady stream there. “It would help if you’d open it as much as possible.”
In response, he lifted a hand and pulled the lower lid down.
When the pitcher was empty, she backed off. “I’m going to get a refill for the other eye.”
Without waiting for a reply, she dashed back to the kitchen and topped off the pitcher again. Followed the same procedure with his other eye.
At least he’d stopped moaning.
She repeated the drill half a dozen times in each eye until he could open them both to slits, then brought him a cup of cold water and a mug of ice chips. “If you drink the water and suck on the ice, it’s supposed to reduce any burning in your mouth.”
In silence, he moved to the toilet, sat on the lid, and gulped the water. Then he began sucking on the chips.
Bren tried not to gape—but man, he was a mess. His eyes were still half swollen shut and watering profusely, his face was splotchy red, and his nose was running like a faucet.
“Light’s too bright.” He shaded his eyes.
Right. She’d also read that pepper gel could cause light sensitivity.
After flicking off the overhead fixture, she wiped her palms down her sleep shirt. “You’re supposed to get rid of your clothes and take a shower.”
Continuing to suck on ice, he stripped off his dress shirt and wadded it into a ball.
The T-shirt underneath hugged a broad, muscular chest.
Bren cleared her throat and eased back as much as the confined space allowed. Unappealing as the guy was in his present condition, it was hard to ignore the well-developed pecs and abs outlined by the snug tee.
“Who are you?” He pulled off a length of toilet paper and tried to staunch the flow of mucus from his nose.
She forced herself to shift her attention from his chest to his face.
He still sounded gravelly, but thankfully his respiration had evened out. Beginning her birthday with a 911 call had been bad enough. Ending it with one would have been beyond surreal.
“Brenna Ryan—but I go by Bren. I live in Hope Harbor. There was a fire at my place this morning, so your dad offered to let me use his cottage until I can move back.”
All she got in reply was a grunt.
After slurping up more ice, he stood and lurched toward the door.
She backed out of the cramped space to allow him to exit. “Listen, I’m really sorry about this.”
No response as he tucked his rolled-up shirt under his arm, brushed past her, and picked up the overnight bag he’d dropped.
Halfway across the combination living, dining, and kitchen space, he hesitated. Turned. “Can I borrow your cellphone?”
“Uh ... sure.” She detoured to the kitchen, plucked her phone off the counter, and held it out to him as she veered back in his direction.
He took it, angled sideways, and tapped in a number.
Silence.
Whoever he was calling must be in bed at this late hour. Like any normal person would be.
“Dad, it’s me ... Yeah ... Long story. I borrowed her phone.” Noah tipped his head and swiped the sleeve of his T-shirt across his leaking eyes. “I’ll explain later, okay? I didn’t want to come into the house without alerting you to my presence ... Yes. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.”
After ending the call, Noah held out the phone, his gaze flicking to the abbreviated hem of her hot-pink sleep shirt before zipping back up. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She tugged on the bottom of the silky fabric and waved a hand toward his face as she took the phone. “If I could undo the damage, I would.”
“I’ll survive.”
True. But based on her Google search, it would take an hour or two for the effects to wear off.
“You, uh, may want to take that shower ASAP. That’s what the internet says.”
“Top of my list. Good night.” He pivoted, strode toward the door, and pulled it shut behind him with a decisive click. As if he couldn’t get away from the scene of the crime fast enough.
Who could blame him?
As quiet once more descended on the cottage, Bren drew a long, slow breath and scanned her watch.
Eleven fifty-nine.
Her birthday was almost over—and what a birthday it had been. Good stuff in the middle, for sure, but bookended by disasters.
Shoulders slumping, she flipped off the light and trudged back toward the bedroom.
If she was lucky, Fred’s son would have a better perspective on the midnight attack by tomorrow morning and be content to stay in his father’s house during his visit.
If she wasn’t?
The younger Ward would convince Fred to let him use the cottage, and she’d be out on the street.
Wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, but she’d thought those days were over.
Just went to show how foolish it was to take the status quo for granted.
She slid back beneath the covers of the bed and pulled them up to her chin. With the busy day she had planned for tomorrow—or rather, today—she needed to get a decent night’s sleep.
But as she stared at the dark ceiling while the minutes ticked by and the night wore on, she faced the truth.
She wasn’t going to wake up rested and refreshed and brimming with energy on the first full day of her thirtieth year.
In fact, if her run of bad luck continued, she’d end up spending it looking for another place to stay instead of ticking off items on her birthday resolution to-do list.