Chapter 2
two
SADIE
I wake the next morning feeling a little annoyed about yesterday’s encounter and a lot hungover from too many glasses of the most perfect champagne I’ve ever tasted.
It's clearly going to take two shots of Mylene’s strongest espresso, a lot of deep breaths, and a full hour before my people-pleasing side kicks in.
Which isn’t great, because I have two shops to run and it’s a springtime weekend so I can’t afford to run on less than a full tank of fuel.
My bank balance depends on it, after all.
So I climb out of bed with a groan, shower as fast as humanly possible and pull my red hair into a messy bun. As I hurriedly slick some gloss onto my lips, I hear a voice floating up the stairs from the shop down below.
The voice sounds sweet and innocent. Or at least it does until Romy says the kind of words you don’t expect to hear early on a Sunday morning.
“So today we’re talking primal kinks.”
I blink. Make that three shots. Good lord, I’m not ready for this.
She must have come in early to record a vlog. She does that sometimes. I love her, but damn, she’s a one-woman hurricane.
She breezed into the shop the first weekend we were open, told me I should hire her, and then proceeded to run my romance section – and quite frankly my entire shop – with the kind of ruthless efficiency that leaves me breathless.
Romy’s only twenty-two, but with the life she’s had so far, she acts far older than her age.
She’s also one of the main reasons I can pay the bills on time every month.
Romance readers come from miles around for her latest recommendations.
Thanks to her, Books by the Sea is a small-town shop with a big-time social media presence.
“Okay, so picture this,” she says into the camera she’s set up on a tripod, a ring of lights surrounding it as I pad down the stairs.
She has no idea I’m watching her from the doorway, not that she’d care.
One of the main reasons she works here on weekends is because it has the best backdrop for her social media posts.
“You’re a kid,” she continues, sounding almost breathless.
“Messing around during recess on the playground. Your friends yell chase, and you run until your chest burns. Your heart is pounding, your breath is short, you’re squealing and laughing, and having the best time.
And then you glance back to see who’s behind you.
And when you see them getting close, too close…
” her voice dips to a whisper, “you get the most delicious thrill of being caught.”
She laughs softly. “Now, leave the childhood part out, but keep the thrill. And that, my friends, is why Primal Play is such a popular subgenre. And I promise you, it only gets better when he catches you.” Her voice dips, sounding sultry at the end, to let everybody know exactly what she’s intimating.
I stroll into the bookshop, taking a deep breath, and Romy hits pause.
“Well you look like hell,” she says, wrinkling her nose at my appearance. “Good party?”
I grimace at her. “I think so. But if anybody chases me before I drink a vat of caffeine, they’re probably going to regret it.”
She laughs, looking every inch the goddess that only a twenty-two year old can.
God only knows what time she got up this morning.
She lives on the mainland with her huge messy family, and catches the first ferry over on the days she works.
Yet somehow she always looks like she’s just stepped off the catwalk.
“If you’d let me set you up with somebody, you wouldn’t be so freaked out by my sex talks,” she says, her voice teasing. She’s desperate for me to find my happily ever after. Can’t understand why I won’t let her set me up on a dating app.
“I have plenty of men around me, thank you very much.” I tell her, lifting an eye at the display of beach romances we put together last week. “They just happen to be fictional.”
Romy snorts. “I’m not sure they count.”
“They do when they pay the bills.” And when they don’t let you down.
I glance at my watch. “Want a coffee?” I ask her, grabbing my phone from my pocket.
One of the best things about having a bookshop on the main street overlooking the ocean is that two doors down is Brewed Awakenings, the coffee shop run by Mylene, a sixty-something powerhouse who’s lived here all her life.
“Absolutely,” she says, rolling her neck and stretching out her arms. “I was up till two editing a video about monster romance.”
I laugh, reaching for the door. “I don’t even want to know.”
When I step outside the salty air hits me, warm already, despite the early hour. Main Street is waking up, the clatter of lifting shutters mixing with the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore.
Down by the jetty, gulls perch on lampposts like they own the place. And I take a deep breath in, centering myself. God, I love this island. I love the peace it gives me. The escape.
Not to mention the fresh start.
I pass the locked door of Art by the Sea, which is where I’ll be working for most of today while Romy holds down the fort in the bookshop. They’re interconnected – and we can run between them to help each other easily – but it’s more efficient to have them both manned on busy days.
Taped to the front of the gallery window is the large, brightly colored poster I let Autumn stick up there a few weeks ago. She comes into the shop to hang out sometimes, especially when new pieces arrive. With her newborn son, I think she gets bored at home.
Liberty Island Art Trail and Charity Gala.
Scheduled only a month after the resort opening, the trail is Autumn’s way of bringing the island together.
She wants to have art in all the shop windows along Main Street, as well as in the hotel, resort, and any other place she can think of.
She’s planning to have island guides on the ferry pier as well as all the stops to encourage art lovers to visit the island throughout the summer, both as day visitors and as longer term guests.
And to start it all off, she’s throwing a charity gala. A huge event at the Grand Liberty Hotel. And of course, I’ve volunteered to help, not only because I can help with acquiring enough art pieces for the show, but because I know I’ll benefit from it, too.
The more tourists we get, the more money in my cash register, after all.
I’m smiling as I back up from the gallery window, my mouth watering at the thought of Mylene’s coffee. And that’s when I hit something solid.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s a chest, hard as steel against my back. A strong hand cups my hip to steady me, as I turn to see two familiar blue eyes. And I swallow hard as I recognize them.
Just like I recognize their owner.
“We must stop meeting like this,” Zach Fitzgerald murmurs, his hand still warm against my hip. In the other hand he’s holding a cup of coffee with Mylene’s branding on it. My heart starts to slam in my chest even though it shouldn’t.
Unlike me, he doesn’t look hungover, or in desperate need of a caffeine injection. Instead, he looks annoyingly good, in a pair of fitted jeans and a black t-shirt that seems to mold to his body.
“What are you, made of titanium?” I mutter, stepping back from him, because he’s too close and way too overwhelming.
“This one definitely wasn’t my fault.” There’s amusement in his voice. Damn, I hate the way my body responds to him.
Like it wants to climb him like he’s a tree and cling on forever.
I shake my head. This is what happens when you swear off men but forget to exercise out your energy for two years. I really need to start running again.
“I didn’t say it was. Maybe you need a siren on your head or something,” I suggest sweetly. “That way I can avoid you completely.”
He smirks, like he knows I’m still salty about yesterday’s comment. Then he nods his head at the display in the window. “Nice paintings,” he says.
“I’m sure they’re a little too mediocre for you,” I say before I think it through.
He shakes his head. “You were never supposed to hear that. And for what it’s worth—”
“It’s fine.” I don’t want him to apologize. I like it better when I have a reason not to like him. That jawline combined with a good personality would be too much to bear. “Have a good day. I need some coffee.” I lift my hand up in goodbye. Then I stride toward the coffee shop, not looking back.
Because, yes, from a purely academic point of view, Zach has the kind of face that makes my heart race. But an injection of adrenaline could have exactly the same result.
Or an injection of poison.
And right now, the only injection I need is behind the door that jingles as I push it open. The smell of coffee and sugar envelops me like mercy itself.
I push the thought of Zach Fitzgerald far from my mind and step up to the counter, giving Mylene a plaintive smile.
“Uhoh, two shots?” she asks, knowing my aversion to any time before midday.
“Make it three,” I tell her. “And a black Americano for Romy.”
“Bad morning?” she asks, sounding sympathetic.
“Something like that,” I admit. Funny how a hangover, a monologue about Primal Play, and an encounter with a man I really don’t like will do that to you.
“Well I can’t give you three shots. You’ll end up murdering somebody.”
I lift a brow and she sighs, like only a woman who deals coffee for a living can. “Okay then,” she says, ringing it up. “But on your own head be it. If you commit any homicides today, I’m gonna plead the fifth.”
ZACH
There are kids everywhere. Most of them – I think – are related in some way or form to me. There are dogs, as well. Two of them are chasing each other in ever-widening circles, their tongues lolling out like they’re living their best lives.
I swear there’s even a squirrel, sitting on the side wall, scowling at me as I decide whether to get out of my car or turn around.