by Jill Shalvis
Please don’t be a raging asshole…
He was still straddling the motorcycle, one long leg stretched out, balancing on a battered work boot, and if he was pissed, she couldn’t tell yet past his reflective sunglasses. He was leanly muscled and broad shouldered, and his jeans and leather jacket were made for a hard body just like his. It was a safe bet that he hadn’t just inhaled an entire bag of salt-and-vinegar chips. “Are you okay?” she asked, annoyed that she sounded breathless and nervous.
Pulling off his helmet, he revealed wavy, dark brown hair and a day’s worth of stubble on a strong jaw. “I’m good. You?” His voice was low and calm, his hair whipping around in the wind.
Irritated, most definitely. But not pissed.
Relieved, she dragged in some air. “I’m fine, but I’m not the one who nearly got run off the road by the crazy LA driver. I’m sorry, I was driving too fast.”
“You probably shouldn’t admit that.”
True. But she was thrown by his gravelly voice, by the fact that he was big and, for all she knew, bad, to boot, and that she was alone with him on a deserted, foggy highway.
It had all the makings of a horror flick.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
Was she? Probably she was a little lost mentally, and quite possibly emotionally, as well. Not that she’d admit either. “I’m heading to Lucky Harbor Resort.”
He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, and be still her heart, he had eyes the exact color of the caramel in the candy bar she’d consumed for lunch. “Lucky Harbor Resort,” he repeated.
“Yes.” But before she could ask why he was baffled about that, his gaze dipped down and he took in her favorite long-sleeved tee. Reaching out, he picked something off her sleeve.
Half a chip.
He took another off her collarbone, and she broke out in goose bumps—and not the scared kind.
“Plain?”
“Salt and vinegar,” she said and shook off the crumbs. She’d muster up some mortification—but she’d used up her entire quota when she’d nearly flattened him like a pancake. Not that she cared what he—or any man, for that matter—thought. Because she’d given up men.
Even tall, built, really good-looking, tousled-haired guys with gravelly voices and piercing eyes.
Especially them.
What she needed now was an exit plan. So she put her phone to her ear, pretending it was vibrating. “Hello,” she said to no one. “Yes, I’ll be right there.” She smiled, like look at me, so busy, I really have to go, and, turning away, she lifted a hand in a wave, still talking into the phone to avoid an awkward good-bye, except—
Her phone rang. And not the pretend kind. Risking a peek at Hot Biker Guy over her shoulder, she found him brows up, looking amused.
“I think you have a real call,” he said, something new in his voice. Possibly more humor, but most likely sheer disbelief that he’d nearly been killed by a socially handicapped LA chick.
Face hot, Maddie answered her phone. And then wished she hadn’t, since it was the HR department of the production office from which she’d been fired, asking where she’d like her final check mailed. “I have automatic deposit,” she murmured, and listened to the end-of-employment spiel and questions, agreeing out loud that yes, she realized being terminated means no references. With a sigh, she hung up.
He was watching her. “Fired, huh?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He accepted that but didn’t move. He just remained still, straddling that bike, sheer testosterone coming off him in waves. She realized he was waiting for her to leave first. Either he was being a gentleman, or he didn’t want to risk his life and limbs. “Again, sorry. And I’m really glad I didn’t kill you—” She walked backward, right into her own car. Good going. Keeping her face averted, she leapt into the driver’s seat. “Really glad I didn’t kill you?” she repeated to herself. Seriously? Well, whatever, it was done. Just don’t look back. Don’t—
She looked.
He was watching her go, and though she couldn’t be certain, she thought maybe he was looking a little bemused.
She got that a lot.
A minute later, she drove through Lucky Harbor. It was everything Google Earth had promised, a picturesque little Washington State beach town nestled in a rocky cove with a quirky, eclectic mix of the old and new. The main drag was lined with Victorian buildings painted in bright colors, housing the requisite grocery store, post office, gas station, and hardware store. Then a turnoff to the beach itself, where a long pier jutted out into the water, lined with more shops and outdoor cafés.
And a Ferris wheel.
The sight of it brought an odd yearning. She wanted to buy a ticket and ride it, if only to pretend for four minutes that she wasn’t twenty-nine, broke every which way to Sunday, and homeless.
Oh, and scared of heights.
She kept driving. Two minutes later, she came to a fork in the road and had no idea which way to turn. Pulling over, she grabbed her map, watching as Hot Biker Guy rode past her in those faded jeans that fit perfectly across his equally perfect butt.
When the very nice view was gone, she went back to studying her map. Lucky Harbor Resort was supposedly on the water, which was still hard to believe, because as far as Maddie knew, the only thing her mother had ever owned was a 1971 wood-paneled station wagon and every single Dead album ever recorded.
According to the lawyer’s papers, the resort was made up of a small marina, an inn, and an owner’s cottage. Filled with anticipation, Maddie hit the gas and steered right… only to come to the end of the asphalt.
Huh.
She eyed the last building on the left. It was an art gallery. A woman stood in the doorway wearing a bright pink velour sweat suit with white piping, white athletic shoes, and a terry-cloth sweatband that held back her equally white hair. She could have been fifty or eighty, it was hard to tell, and in direct contrast to the athletic outfit, she had a cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth and skin that looked as if she’d been standing in the sun for decades. “Hello, darling,” she said in a craggy voice when Maddie got out of her car. “You’re either lost, or you want to buy a painting.”
“A little lost,” Maddie admitted.
“That happens a lot out here. We have all these roads that lead nowhere.”
Great. She was on the road to nowhere. Story of her life. “I’m looking for Lucky Harbor Resort.”
The woman’s white eyebrows jerked upright, vanishing into her hair. “Oh! Oh, finally!” Eyes crinkling when she smiled, she clapped her hands in delight. “Which one are you, honey? The Wild Child, the Steel Magnolia, or the Mouse?”
Maddie blinked. “Uh…”
“Oh, your momma loved to talk about her girls! Always said how she’d screwed you all up but good, but that someday she’d get you all back here to run the inn together as a real family, the three of you.”
“You mean the four of us.”
“Nope. Somehow she always knew it’d be just you three girls.” She puffed on her cigarette, then nearly hacked up a lung. “She wanted to get the inn renovated first, but that didn’t happen. The pneumonia caught her fast, and then she was gone.” Her smile faded some. “Probably God couldn’t resist Pheeb’s company. Christ, she was such a kick.” She cocked her head and studied Maddie’s appearance.
Self-conscious, Maddie once again brushed at herself, hoping the crumbs were long gone and that maybe her hair wasn’t as bad as it felt.
The woman smiled. “The Mouse.”
Well, hell. Maddie blew out a breath, telling herself it was silly to be insulted at the truth. “Yes.”
“That’d make you the smart one, then. The one who ran the big, fancy production company in Los Angeles.”
“Oh.” Maddie vehemently shook her head. “No, I was just an assistant.” To an assistant. Who sometimes had to buy her boss’s underwear and fetch his girlfriend’s presents, as well as actually produce movi
es and TV shows.
“Your momma said you’d say that, but she knew better. Knew your work ethic. She said you worked very hard.”
Maddie had worked hard. And dammit, she had also pretty much run that company. May it rot in hell. “How do you know all this?”
“I’m Lucille.” When this produced no recognition from Maddie, she cackled in laughter. “I actually work for you. You know, at the inn? Whenever there’s guests, I come in and clean.”
“By yourself?”
“Well, business hasn’t exactly been hopping, has it? Oh! Wait here a second, I have something to show you—”
“Actually, I’m sort of in a hurry…” But Lucille was gone. “Okay, then.”
Two minutes later, Lucille reappeared from the gallery carrying a small carved wooden box that said RECIPES, the kind that held 3x5 index cards. “This is for you girls.”
Maddie didn’t cook, but it seemed rude not to take it. “Did Phoebe cook?”
“Oh, hell, no,” Lucille said with a cackle. “She could burn water like no other.”
Maddie accepted the box with a baffled “Thanks.”
“Now, you just continue down this road about a mile to the clearing. You can’t miss it. Call me if you need anything. Cleaning, organizing… spider relocation.”
This caught Maddie’s attention. “Spider relocation?”
“Your momma wasn’t big on spiders.”
Uh-huh, something they had in common. “Are there a lot of them?”
“Well, that depends on what you consider a lot.”
Oh, God. Any more than one was an infestation. Maddie managed a smile that might have been more a baring of her teeth, gave a wave of thanks, and got back into her car, following the dirt road. “The Mouse,” she said with a sigh.
That was going to change.
Chapter 2
“Don’t take life too seriously. After all, none of us are getting out alive anyway.”
Phoebe Traeger
Turned out Lucille was right, and in exactly one mile, the road opened up to a clearing. The Pacific Ocean was a deep, choppy sea of black, dusted with whitecaps that went out as far as Maddie could see. It connected with a metallic gray sky, framed by rocky bluffs, misty and breathtaking.
She had found the “resort,” and Lucille had gotten something else right, too. The place wasn’t exactly hopping.
Dead was more like it.
Clearly, the inn had seen better days. A woman sat on the front porch steps, a Vespa parked nearby. At the sight of Maddie, she stood. She wore cute little hip-hugging army cargoes, a snug, bright red Henley, and matching high-tops. Her glossy dark red hair cascaded down her back in an artful disarray that would have taken an entire beauty salon staff to accomplish on Maddie’s uncontrollable curls.
Chloe, the twenty-four-year-old Wild Child.
Maddie attempted to pat down her own dark blond hair that had a mind of its own, but it was a waste of time on a good day, which this most definitely wasn’t. Before she could say a word, a cab pulled up next to Maddie’s car and a tall, lean, beautiful woman got out. Her short brunette hair was layered and effortlessly sexy. She wore an elegant business suit that emphasized her fit body and a cool smile.
Tara, the Steel Magnolia.
As the cabbie set Tara’s various bags on the porch, the three of them just stared at one another, five years of estrangement floating awkwardly between them. The last time they’d all been in one place, Tara and Maddie had met in Montana to bail Chloe out of jail for illegally bungee jumping off a bridge. Chloe had thanked them, promised to pay them back, and they’d all gone their separate ways.
It was just the way it was. They had three different fathers and three very different personalities, and the only thing they had in common was a sweet, ditzy, wanderlusting hippie of a mother.
“So,” Maddie said, forcing a smile through the uncomfortable silence. “How’s things?”
“Ask me again after we sort out this latest mess,” Tara murmured and eyed their baby sister.
Chloe tossed up her hands. “Hey, I had nothing to do with this one.”
“Which would be a first.” Tara spoke with the very slight southern accent that she denied having, the one she’d gotten from growing up on her paternal grandparents’ horse ranch in Texas.
Chloe rolled her eyes and pulled her always-present asthma inhaler from her pocket, looking around without much interest. “So this is it? The big reveal?”
“I guess so,” Maddie said, also taking in the clearly deserted inn. “There don’t appear to be any guests at the moment.”
“Not good for resale value,” Tara noted.
“Resale?” Maddie asked.
“Selling is the simplest way to get out of here as fast as possible.”
Maddie’s stomach clenched. She didn’t want to get out of here. She wanted a place to stay—to breathe, to lick her wounds, to regroup. “What’s the hurry?”
“Just being realistic. The place came with a huge mortgage and no liquid assets.”
Chloe shook her head. “Sounds like Mom.”
“There was a large trust fund from her parents,” Maddie said. “The will separated it out from the estate, so I have no idea who it went to. I assumed it was one of you.”
Chloe shook her head.
They both looked at Tara.
“Sugar, I don’t know any more than y’all. What I do know is that we’d be smart to sell, pay off the loan on the property, and divide what’s left three ways and get back to our lives. I’m thinking we can list the place and be out of here in a few days if we play our cards right.”
This time Maddie’s stomach plummeted. “So fast?”
“Do you really want to stay in Lucky Harbor a moment longer than necessary?” Tara asked. “Even Mom, bless her heart, didn’t stick around.”
Chloe shook her inhaler and took a second puff from it. “Selling works for me. I’m due at a friend’s day spa in New Mexico next week.”
“You have enough money to book yourself at a spa in New Mexico, but not enough to pay me back what you’ve borrowed?” Tara asked.
“I’m going there to work. I’ve been creating a natural skin care line, and I’m giving a class on it, hoping to sell the line to the spa.” Chloe eyed the road. “Think there’s a bar in town? I could use a drink.”
“It’s four in the afternoon,” Tara said.
“But it’s five o’clock somewhere.”
Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “What?” she said to Tara’s sound of disappointment.
“I think you know.”
“Why don’t you tell me anyway.”
And here we go, Maddie thought, anxiety tightening like a knot in her throat. “Um, maybe we could all just sit down and—”
“No, I want her to say what’s on her mind,” Chloe said.
The static electricity rose in the air until it crackled with violence from both impending storms—Mother Nature’s and the sisters’ fight.
“It’s not important what I think,” Tara said coolly.
“Oh, come on, Dixie,” Chloe said. “Lay it on us. You know you want to.”
Maddie stepped between them. She couldn’t help it. It was the middle sister in her, the approval seeker, the office manager deep inside. “Look!” she said in desperation. “A puppy!”
Chloe swiveled her head to Maddie, amused. “Seriously?”
She shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
“Next time say it with more conviction and less panic. You might get somewhere.”
“Well, I don’t give a hoot if there are puppies and rainbows,” Tara said. “As unpleasant as this is, we have to settle it.”
Maddie was watching Chloe shake her inhaler again, looking pale. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
She tried not to take the sarcasm personally. Chloe, a free spirit as Phoebe had been, suffered debilitating asthma and resented the hell out of the disability because it hampered her quest for adventure.
A
nd for arguing.
Together all three sisters walked across the creaky porch and into the inn. Like most of the other buildings in Lucky Harbor, it was Victorian. The blue and white paint had long ago faded, and the window shutters were mostly gone or falling off, but Maddie could picture how it’d once looked: new and clean, radiating character and charm.
They’d each been mailed a set of keys. Tara used hers to unlock and open the front door, and she let out a long-suffering sigh.
The front room was a shrine to a country-style house circa 1980. Just about everything was blue and white, from the checkered window coverings to the duck-and-cow accent wallpaper peeling off the walls. The paint was chipped and the furniture not old enough to be antique and yet at least thirty years on the wrong side of new.
“Holy asphyxiation,” Chloe said with her nose wrinkled at the dust. “I won’t be able to stay here. I’ll suffocate.”
Tara shook her head, half horrified, half amused. “It looks like Laura Ingalls Wilder threw up in here.”
“You know, your accent gets thicker and thicker,” Chloe said.
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Okay. Except you do.”
“It’s not that bad,” Maddie said quickly when Tara opened her mouth.
“Oh, it’s bad,” Chloe said. “You sounds like Susan Sarandon in Bull Durham.”
“The inn,” Maddie clarified. “I meant the inn isn’t so bad.”
“I’ve stayed in hostels in Bolivia that looked like the Ritz compared to this,” Chloe said.
“Mom’s mom and her third husband ran this place.” Tara ran a finger along the banister, then eyed the dust on the pad of her finger. “Years and years ago.”
“So Grandma ran through men, too?” Chloe asked. “Jeez, it’s like we’re destined to be man-eaters.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tara murmured, indeed sounding like Susan Sarandon.
Chloe grinned. “Admit it, our gene pool could use some chlorine.”
