by A. S. Green
The old man goes inside while she crosses in front of my car. A gust of wind blows her long red curls across her face, and she quickly piles the heavy mass onto the top of her head, securing it with an elastic she pulls from her wrist.
I toss my paperwork onto the dash before she jumps in. She opens the door and hops onto the seat, giving it a little bounce and bringing with her a faintly floral scent.
“Good morning,” I say.
She turns toward me with a welcoming smile. Fucking great mouth. A smile like that once damn near stopped my h— Oh, shit. Oh, fuck no. Impossible.
I knew Little Bear Island had sounded familiar. I thought maybe I’d seen it featured on a travel show or something. But no. Now I remember where I first heard the name. On the lips of Natalie Rip Your Heart Out O’Brien. The one woman besides Gram who ever really mattered to me.
Gone are the bright-blue hair and Poindexter glasses she wore back when I thought she was mine. I can tell there’s more meat on her bones, too, which—fuck me—only makes her look more amazing.
I might not have recognized her so quickly if she hadn’t smiled. Shit, that smile. She used that same fucking smile on me mere seconds before she threw me away—us away.
Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to give her the satisfaction of seeing my pain. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
The smile has dropped off her face by now—small mercy.
I don’t think about what that might mean, because I’m too far into self-preservation mode. It might make me a coward, it might make me a huge dick, but I reach out my hand and give her the best blank look I can manage. Then I force my mouth to form the words I hope will burn her as badly as she burned me.
“Jackson Sparke. Pleased to meet you.”
Chapter Four
Natalie
I stare at him while all the blood drains from my head. Holy shit! I’ve done it. I’ve really done it. I’ve always known it was a possibility—that a person could watch so much Syfy channel that they’d develop some kind of extrasensory skills.
The only thing is, which skills? Is this like on Ghost Hunters, and I’m seeing a ghost? Or have I developed telekinesis, and I can now summon things using only the power of my mind?
He clears his throat, and his eyebrows pull together. He looks real. Not a ghost. Telekinesis, then, but instead of bending spoons I’m drawing actual human beings to me. Not five minutes ago I was remembering his kiss, and now my mind powers have brought him to my island! The one man I have never, ever gotten over, no matter how hard I’ve tried.
“Miss?”
His voice pulls me out of my head. I blink once. Did he seriously just call me “miss”? Wait. Did he just introduce himself to me? Why is he holding his hand out like he wants me to shake it?
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This isn’t about kinetic abilities or seeing ghosts. It’s not even about watching too much TV. My man who got away is here because he’s the head of the security team.
And he doesn’t even recognize me.
“Is everything all right?” He sounds expectant, like he’s trying to coax me into saying something, but I’m too dumbfounded to speak.
I take in everything about him. All at once. And then piece by piece. The thick, dark-blond hair that had once brushed his shoulders but is now cut short; the neatly trimmed new beard that graces his strong jaw; the same sleepy gray eyes that turn down at the corners; those full, bitable lips.
His leather jacket. Oh, God. I always loved that jacket. I fell in love with him in that jacket. The years have filled it out with at least twenty more pounds of muscle. God, he must be like, what, thirty now?
This cannot be happening. He has absolutely no fucking clue who I am, and now I’ve got two fucked-up choices: either shamelessly beg him to remember me—aka some apparently forgettable chick he had a meaningless fling with six years ago—or fake my own amnesia just to save whatever morsel of pride I have left.
Is there really any choice here?
I slip my hand against his, and my heart accelerates while my eyes blink back tears. He just needs an extra second. It’ll come to him. He’ll remember.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
A flash of emotion slices across his face, and he lets go of my hand like it’s burned him.
Jesus, how many times have I caught myself wondering if this gorgeous man was a dream? Of course, he wasn’t a dream. I knew that. As much as I do enjoy my rich fantasy life, no one loses her virginity to a dream. That’s not a real thing, right?
“Is what not a real thing?” he asks.
Crap. “Did I say that out loud?” Heat shoots up the back of my neck.
“You did.”
This isn’t a dream. My gaze drops to his ridiculously long legs, remembering the sight of them walking down the road with his thumb out to hitch a ride, then running up alongside Aaron’s van. “Where are you guys headed?”
A couple weeks later, those same long legs were tangled with mine as we rode each other hard in a stranger’s basement bedroom. God, he was incredible.
His forehead furrows. He’s so serious. Impatient. “So.” His voice is thick and gravelly. “I was told you’d direct me to the event center?”
How can he not remember me? Sure, I was still wearing glasses and my hair was dyed bright blue back then…and maybe I’ve put on twenty pounds, but they’re the good kind of pounds, and they’ve mostly landed in all the right spots.
Shouldn’t he be able to see past all the changes in me? He’s as stomach-clenchingly beautiful as I remembered. I’m glad my memory hasn’t exaggerated the details over time. And then I wish it had so I could be disappointed.
God, this is torture. He once called me unforgettable, but apparently I was just one of many fake twenty-four-year-olds whose cherries he popped that summer. No one of significance.
Now here I am, six years later (this time a legit twenty-four), and I’m exactly the same person I was back then, doing exactly the same thing: helping out at the post office, going wherever I’m needed, experiencing the world one Netflix movie at a time, while he’s…he’s…
“Is something wrong?” There’s a slight curl to his lip, as if he’s judging me.
What an ass! He thinks he’s better than us small-town island folks? If this is the kind of person he turned out to be, I dodged a huge bullet. Huge!
“Why would anything be wrong, Mr. Sparke?” I try to be polite. Kate would want me to be polite. But my question comes out sarcastic, with a dollop of the please-kill-me-nows.
“I have no idea.” He narrows his eyes at me. Those eyes. I know exactly what they look like at the moment when he comes. Shit. Shit, shit, shit!
“I’m sorry.” He slips on his mirrored sunglasses, putting a buffer between us. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do. Maybe we could get going?”
I grit my teeth. “Yeah. I’m busy, too. Lots to get done.”
“Would you rather just tell me how to get there? I’m sure I could find my way.”
“No,” I say, but only because I promised Kate I’d be his escort. I would never let her down. “Let’s get this over with.”
I almost think I see him flinch, but then his face slips into a blank mask. So blank it makes me want to scream.
I don’t, of course. Instead, I dig my fingernails into my seat while he drives to the top of the small hill that leads from the ferry to the main street. I point left, then right, when he’s supposed to make his turns, but I don’t say a word.
The road climbs and winds through the woods, following the bluff toward Paddy’s Grille, the church, and then the cemetery. We should stop here because, seriously, I want to die. God. My skin has never felt so shivery and exposed. And I live in freakin’ Minnesota! This is so much worse than that dream where I’ve gone to school naked.
“Everything okay over there?” Jax asks, completely oblivious.
“Peachy.”
“Fantastic.”
Is my life really so boring t
hat I created a romantic-fantasy past out of nothing? What is wrong with me? Fuck. What we had… It was only five weeks out of our lives. Looking the way he does, he’s probably had plenty of girls to dull his memory of me.
Not that I’ve been celibate. Close, but not entirely. Still…I spend too much time on TV. I need to get out and do something real. Without meaning to, I groan, and Jax glances over at me again.
“Turn here,” I tell him, and my voice cracks on the last word.
He pulls into the near-empty lot of the event center and parks along the path that leads to the gazebo. It’s hard to imagine two famous people will be saying their vows here in a handful of hours.
“This is the place?” he asks, removing his sunglasses. His eyes scan the trees, probably assessing all the ways there could be a security breach. I pull the handle on my door, jump out of the SUV, then storm up to the building.
Just as I get there, the front door opens and Kate steps out. “Is that the professional badass?” she whispers as I pass.
“Unfortunately,” I mutter. She gives me a questioning glance, but I don’t explain.
I look over my shoulder at Jax. He has his hand out, ready to greet Kate. The gesture makes his jacket swing open. There’s something holstered at his waist.
“I’m Katherine, the party planner,” Kate says. “I assume you’re Mr. Sparke?”
“That would be me.”
I make a sound of disgust in the back of my throat, then I fling open the door and go inside. If I have to look at him one more minute, I swear my wounded pride will never recover. Too bad this humiliating day has barely begun.
Chapter Five
Jackson
“Your associates were here earlier,” the party planner tells me as we walk the rest of the way toward the event center.
I get to the door first and hold it open for her. “I understand my men have finished the install?”
It’s amazing I can keep the conversation professional. What just happened in my car did not play out the way I expected. Natalie was supposed to be embarrassed about how she ended things. She was supposed to fall all over herself, apologizing.
I was then going to pretend like it was just dawning on me who she was. I was going to tell her no harm, no foul. What we had? Just a meaningless flash in the pan.
Instead, the woman who obliterated me doesn’t seem to know me from Adam. That sears the burn in my chest even deeper.
The party planner nods and checks something off on her clipboard. “They got the motion-activated lights and cameras set up in the woods. Now they’ve left to get something to eat in town. I hope everything is set up right. Do you think it needs testing?”
I give my head a brief shake. “I’m sure they’ve done that. I only work with the best.”
She lifts her chin in affirmation, then leads me down the short hallway that opens onto the dining room. “I’m sure you do. It’s just that the bride and groom have pretty high standards, and at the end of the day, everything that happens here reflects on me.”
I know the feeling.
The dining room is completely decked out. There’s the typical wedding stuff: white tablecloths, those little Christmas lights wrapped around anything that stood still too long. But also some more unusual things, like birch-bark candleholders encircled in pine boughs and at least a dozen six-foot potted pine trees, as if the forest has taken root inside. It’s like a fairy-tale escape, and I suspect anyone fool enough to get married would eat this shit up.
She hands me a guest list with photographs. For most of them, the names are famous enough that the photos are unnecessary, but I appreciate the attention to detail.
Then she clears her throat. “All fifty guests should be checked in to their cottages in New Porte by this afternoon, then they’re taking the five o’clock ferry to the island. The shuttle bus will have them up here by five thirty.”
While she continues with the details of everyone’s arrivals and the itinerary for the night, right down to the timing of the toasts, I take notes on my tablet.
“If any photographers show up,” she starts, “do you think they’ll try running drone cameras, given all the trees?”
“We have our own drone with a radio frequency blocker. If anyone tries to breach the perimeter with an aerial shot, they’ll lose signal and go down.”
“Oh, but won’t that make a lot of noise?” She sounds nervous. “I hope it won’t interfere with the atmosphere I’m trying to create. We have a harpist coming.”
I lift my chin toward the windows and the view of the lake. “The water’s choppy today. It’ll cover any low buzzing sounds from the drone.”
She exhales. “Perfect.”
I scrutinize the big, open space, looking for all the possible entrances. I have to force my eyes to slide over Natalie, who’s seated at a table, folding napkins. “What’s in there?” I ask, indicating a door closest to us.
“Kitchen.”
I go in to inspect. There are several windows, which are somewhat of a concern, but at least there’s only one exit to the outside. Better yet, it’s just an exit. There’s no handle on the exterior side.
When we return to the main room, I peek through the curtains that hang at the back of the stage. The small space behind them is nearly pitch black, so no surprise it sends a shiver down the backs of my legs. I brush it off.
“What’s the bride and groom’s exit plan?”
She looks up from her clipboard. “Normally the last ferry to New Porte is at ten thirty, but we’ve arranged for a special return trip for everyone at midnight. The place should be cleared by then.”
“Exits are the weakest point. Do the bride and groom want us to escort them to their car or for us to be more invisible?”
“They’d really like to pretend security isn’t necessary, so as invisible as you can make yourselves…that would be great.”
“Understood.” I can’t help but glance over at Natalie. She’s folding those napkins so aggressively now, I’d swear she was trying to kill them. Still has some of her same fire, I see.
“I’ll be around all night,” the party planner says as her gaze drifts over to the object of my attention. “And, of course, you’ve met Natalie now, too.”
She summons her over. Natalie reluctantly pushes her chair back, making a scraping sound. Once she’s made her way to where we’re standing, she sets her feet and plants her hands firmly on the curve of her hips. Her black skirt stretches tight across her thighs.
“Nat’ll be here tonight, too, working as hostess with the mostest.” It’s clearly their inside joke, and she continues, undeterred, even when Natalie rolls her eyes. “If you need anything, anything at all…she’s my most dependable assistant, and she’s friendly to a fault.”
“Is that so?” I raise one eyebrow to suggest that—based on her behavior in my car—I’d bet my left testicle she has no idea how to be friendly to a fault.
“That’s so,” Natalie says, her voice dropping low. She sounds pissed, and that only serves to make me more pissed. Being angry is my right, and my right alone. She can’t take that from me like she took everything else.
“Too bad I’ll be too busy to appreciate all that friendliness,” I tell her. I’ve got a job to do. I don’t need some flaky chick from my past getting in my way.
“Your loss,” she says.
The other woman’s head swivels back and forth as she looks from her assistant to me, then back again. “Would you excuse me, please, Mr. Sparke?” Then, to Natalie, “Um…? Can we have a word?”
Chapter Six
Natalie
I let out a huff and follow Kate through the front door and into the parking lot. The door slams behind us, and Kate whirls on me. “Do you want to tell me why you’re treating Mr. Sparke as if he should be skewered and held over open flames?”
“I know who he is.” A rush of nerves tickles the back of my arms and makes my stomach constrict. My humiliation turned to indignation on the drive up, but
now I’m seriously pissed off. I did not imagine all that Jax and I shared in the past: those long late-night talks tucked into the back seat of Aaron’s van, sharing secrets, confiding our hopes for the future. I didn’t go around sharing that kind of shit with just anyone. We even got around to naming all the kids we were going to have.
Kate leans in close. “Of course you know who he is. You heard all about him last night. He is not a surprise.”
I roll my eyes. She doesn’t get it. “That’s Jackson.” I say his name as matter-of-factly as I can. As if I don’t care. As if it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Yeah,” she says, because I’m kind of stating the obvious. Her eyebrows draw together. “But I’m told he prefers to keep things professional. ‘Mr. Sparke’ is best.”
“No. That’s Jax,” I say with extra emphasis.
It only takes Kate a second to catch up. A year ago, we got drunk and I told her all about the summer after graduating high school when a bunch of us road-tripped to follow our favorite indie band across the Midwest. And about the gorgeous hitchhiker we picked up.
“What’s your name?” Aaron called out from the front seat.
“Jax. Thanks again for stopping.” Then the stranger turned his sleepy gray eyes on me. “Whoa. Your hair is blue.”
“I dyed it to match the drummer’s. I’m Natalie, by the way. Red Vine?” I handed him my bag of candy, and his fingers brushed against mine.
“Perfect,” he said. And it was.
“It can’t be him,” Kate says, breaking the spell.
“Oh, it is.”
Kate looks past my shoulder toward the event center, where Jax is still inside, then her eyes jerk back to mine. “Sparke Investigations is your Jax?”
“Yes,” I whisper, trying to get her to lower her own voice. “I mean, no. He was a recently unemployed bouncer when I first met him, and he’s definitely not mine now.”
Not anymore.
“Oh my God.” She puts both hands on the sides of her face, and her eyebrows hit her hairline. “He must have flipped when you met him at the ferry. What did he say when he saw you?”
