by Addison Cole
A blond waitress set his drink on the table. “Hi. I’m Kat. Enjoy your sidecar.”
Really? This is definitely not my night. “Thank you.” He peered around Kat, looking for the dark-haired beauty who had taken his order. Bree. He spotted her taking a drink order from a stocky blond man in a flannel shirt. The first thing Hugh had noticed when she’d taken his order was that she looked as if she was thinking about a hundred things and taking his order was white noise to her internal thoughts. In the space of a breath, she’d struck him as interesting, beautiful, and intense in a way that had nothing to do with sexuality—which in and of itself struck him as strange that he’d notice something like that. But he had. And now he was unable to look away as she moved from one customer to the next, focused and efficient and completely oblivious to him.
Hugh had picked the Old Town Tavern to meet the blind date because it was out of the way. A little bar with a smaller restaurant. The last thing he wanted to deal with was another group of sex-craved or money-hungry women eyeing him like they hadn’t eaten in a month and he was a big juicy steak. He’d hoped he could go unnoticed. When Brianna had finally lifted her eyes to his and her jaw dropped open, he’d worried that she’d recognized him. But she’d ditched him and sent Kat as a replacement. She hadn’t even taken a second look. He might not want to be recognized for who he was, but being noticed as a man rather than a race car driver and then rejected by Brianna was a whole different story. This was definitely not his night.
He’d accepted the blind date only because his buddy and crew chief, Art Cullen, had claimed he had the perfect woman for him—smart and beautiful, and best of all, she had no clue who he was. Now, as an overdeveloped redhead slid into the booth across from him, he questioned that decision.
“Hey, sugar. Are you Art’s friend?” The redhead put her glass on the table between them and ran her red fingernail around the rim of the glass. “I’m Tracie. That’s with an I E, not a Y.”
I’m going to kill Art. Tracie looked like a dime-store hooker with overprocessed hair and a tight red dress that was three sizes too small across her rounded hips and breasts. Hugh pressed his lips together and forced himself to lift his cheeks into a smile. “Hugh. Nice to meet you.”
“Art said you were handsome, but I never expected you to look like that guy on television. McDreamy? McSteamy?”
She laughed, and Hugh sighed. At least Art had promised not to tell her what he did for a living. No more fan girls. Based on the other patrons’ eyes locked on the pre-playoff show on the large-screen televisions, and the lack of attention from any of the guys in the now-packed bar, Hugh assumed he was safe from being identified. Might as well make the best of it.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that. Patrick Dempsey,” he answered. He was already bored. He glanced at the group of guys coming into the bar, each one louder than the next as they approached the bar. The blond waitress, Kat, picked up a tip from a table, then headed back in his direction, seating two more people on her way across the floor.
Kat appeared by his side and scowled at Tracie, then flashed a smile at Hugh. “What can I get you, darlin’? Another sidecar?”
If looks could kill. One more drink. Then I’m out of here.
“Get us both another one. On me,” Tracie said, fluttering her false eyelashes.
On you? Right. Women like Tracie were made of hollow offers and a boatload of needs. Not that Hugh needed anyone to buy his drinks. He eyed his untouched beverage. Not very observant, are you? “No. I’m good.” He nodded at his full drink, wishing he could escape the booth and sit by himself—or maybe at a table where the cute brunette would take another order he wouldn’t drink.
“My pleasure,” Tracie said.
There’s that sex-hungry stare again. No way. Not gonna happen.
“Thank you,” Hugh said, showing the manners his father, Hal Braden, an affluent thoroughbred horse breeder from Weston, Colorado, had instilled in him. With a bigger trust fund than he could ever spend, Hugh didn’t need women buying him drinks, but dealing with the wrath of a woman who felt put off would be worse. He could spare another half hour, have a drink, then politely excuse himself.
He watched Kat return to the bar and whisper to Bree. Even her name was appealing. She wiped the counter with a serious look in her eyes, served up drink after drink, and dodged a guy putting his hand on hers—“Behave, Chip,” she said with a shake of her head—all in a matter of seconds. She didn’t look at any of the men at the bar. In fact, she seemed to be purposely shifting her eyes to the counter every time a guy spoke to her. She was the only person in the bar not smiling—besides him—and Hugh wondered why.
He turned his attention back to Tracie, who was rattling on about Grey’s Anatomy. Hugh didn’t watch television, and after Tracie finished her next drink, he looked at his watch with a loud and purposeful groan.
“Well, Tracie, this has been nice, but I’m afraid I have to run. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.” He stood and extended his hand. “Thanks for coming out to meet me. I appreciate it.”
She climbed from the booth. “I don’t have my car here. A friend dropped me off. Can you drive me home?”
Are you freaking kidding me?
Kat appeared by his side again. “Leaving already?” She glanced at the fifty-dollar bill he’d left on the table.
“I’m afraid so. It’s getting late,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”
Red wrapped her arm around his, and Hugh noticed Kat’s eyes narrow.
“Right,” Kat said. She snagged the money from the table and stalked back to the bar.
As Hugh pushed the door open for Tracie to pass through, he noticed Kat and Bree watching them leave. He smiled—and this time it wasn’t forced. Kat waved. Bree turned away.
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AND THEN THERE WAS US
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Chapter One
THE TIDE LAPPED at the sandy shore beyond the deck of the cedar-shingled bungalow where Kurt Remington sat on the deck of his cottage, fingers to keyboard, working on his latest manuscript. Dark Times was due to his agent at the end of the month, and Kurt came to his cottage in Wellfleet, Massachusetts, to hunker down for the summer and complete the project. He lived just outside of New York City and he wrote daily, sometimes for ten or twelve hours straight. In the summers, he liked the change of scenery the Cape offered and was inspired by the Cape’s fresh air and the sounds of the sea.
He’d bought the estate of a local painter a few years earlier with the intent of renovating the artist’s studio that sat nestled among a grouping of trees on the far side of the property. Initially, Kurt thought he might use the studio as a writing retreat separate from where he lived, with the idea that leaving the cottage to work might give him a chance to actually have a life and not feel pressure to write twenty-four-seven. What he found was that the studio was too far removed from the sights and sounds that inspired him, and it made him feel like even more of a recluse than he already was. He realized that it wasn’t the location of his computer that pressured him. It was his internal drive and his love of writing that propelled his fingers to the keyboard every waking second. The idea of making the studio into a guest cottage crossed his mind, but that would indicate his desire to have guests, which would mean giving up his coveted writing time to entertain. So there it sat, awaiting…something. Though he had no idea what.
The cottage was built down a private road at the top of a dune, with a private beach below. A curtain of dense air settled around him. Kurt lifted his eyes long enough to scan the graying clouds and ponder the imminence of rain. It was seven twenty in the evening, and he’d been writing since nine o’clock that morning, as was his daily habit, right after his three-mile run, two cups of coffee, and a quick breeze thro
ugh the newspaper and email. Once Kurt got into his writing zone each day, other than getting up to eat, he rarely changed his surroundings. The idea of moving inside and breaking his train of thought was unsettling.
He set his hands back on the keyboard and reread the last few sentences of what would become his thirteenth thriller novel. A dog barked in the distance, and Kurt drew his thick, dark brows together without breaking the stride of his keystrokes. Kurt hadn’t risen to the ranks of Patterson, King, and Grisham by being easily distracted.
“Pepper! Come on, boy!” A female voice sliced through his concentration. “Come on, Pepper. Where are you?”
Kurt’s fingers hesitated for only a moment as she hollered; then he went right back to the killer lurking outside the window in his story.
“Pepper!” the woman yelled again. “Oh geez, Pepper, really?”
Kurt closed his eyes for a beat as the wind picked up. The woman’s voice was distracting him. She was too close to ignore. Get your mutt and move on. He let out a breath and went back to work. Kurt craved silence. The quieter things were, the better he could hear his characters and think through their issues. He tried to ignore the sounds of splashing and continued writing.
“Pepper! No, Pepper!”
Great. He was hoping to squeeze in a few more hours of writing on the deck before taking a walk on the beach, but if that woman kept up her racket, he’d be forced to work inside—and if there was one thing Kurt hated, it was changing his surroundings while he was in the zone. Writing was an art that took total focus. He’d honed his craft with the efficiency of a drill sergeant, which was only fitting since his father was a four-star general.
More splashing.
“Oh no! Pepper? Pepper!”
The woman’s panicked voice split his focus right down the center. He thought of his sister, Siena, and for a second he considered getting up to see if the woman’s concern was valid. Then he remembered that his sister often overreacted. Women often overreacted.
“Pepper! Oh no!”
Being an older brother came with responsibilities that Kurt took seriously, as had been ingrained in him at a young age. That loud woman was someone’s daughter. His conscience won over the battle for focus, and with a sigh, he pushed away from the table and went to the railing. He caught sight of the woman wading waist deep in the rough ocean waves.
“Pepper! Pepper, please come back!” she cried.
Kurt followed her gaze into deeper water, which was becoming rougher by the second as the clouds darkened and the wind picked up a notch. He didn’t see a dog anywhere in the water. He scanned the empty beach—no dog there, either.
“Pepper! Please, Pep! Come on, boy!” She tumbled back with the next wave and fell on her butt, then struggled to find her footing.
Come on. Really? This, he didn’t need. He watched her push through the crashing waves. She was shoulder deep. Kurt knew about the dangers of riptides and storms and wondered why she didn’t. She had no business being out in the water with a storm brewing.
Drops of water dampened Kurt’s arms. He swatted them away with a grimace, still watching the woman.
“Please come back, Pepper!”
The rain came in a heavy drizzle now. For the love of… Kurt spun around, gathered his computer and notes and took them inside. He checked to see that he’d saved his file before pushing the laptop safely back from the edge of the counter, then turned back to the French doors. I could close the doors and go right back to work. He eyed his laptop.
“Pepper!”
She sounded farther away now. Maybe she’d moved on. He went back out on the deck to see if she’d come to her senses.
“Pep—” Another wave toppled her over. She was deeper now and seemed to be pulled by the current.
“Hey!” Kurt hollered in an effort to dissuade her from going out any deeper. She must not have heard him. He scanned the water again and saw a flash of something about thirty feet away from her. Your stupid dog. Dogs were smelly, they shed, and they needed time and attention. All reasons why Kurt was not a fan of the creatures.
The rain picked up with the gusty wind. Good grief. He grabbed a towel from inside and stomped down the steps, Dark Times begrudgingly pushed aside.
LEANNA BRAY WAS wet, cold, and floundering. Literally. She’d been floundering for twenty-eight years, so this was nothing new, but being pummeled by rain, wind, and waves, chasing a dog that never listened? That was new.
“Pepp—” A wave knocked her off her feet and she went under the water, taking a mouthful of saltwater along with her. She tumbled head down beneath the surface.
Now Pepper and I will both drown. Freaking perfect.
Something grabbed her arm, and she reflexively fought against it, sucking in another mouthful of salty water as she broke through the surface, arms flailing, choking, and pushing against the powerful hand that yanked her to her feet.
“You okay?” A deep, annoyed voice carried over the din of the crashing waves.
Cough. Cough. “Yeah. I—” Cough. Cough. “My dog.” She blinked and blinked, trying to clear the saltwater and rain from her eyes. The man’s mop of wet, dark hair came into focus. He held tightly to her arm while scanning the water in the direction of where she’d last seen Pepper. His clothes stuck to his body like a second skin, riding the ripples of his impressive chest and arms as he held her above the surface with one arm around her ribs.
“Come on.” She coughed as he plowed through the pounding surf with her clutched against his side. She slid down his body, and he lifted her easily into his arms, carrying her like he might carry a child, pressing her to his chest as he fought against the waves.
She pushed against his chest, feeling ridiculous and helpless…and maybe a little thankful, but she was ignoring that emotion in order to save Pepper.
“My dog! I need to get my dog!” she hollered.
Mr. Big, Tall, and Stoic didn’t say a word. He set her on the wet sand and tossed her a rain-soaked towel. “It was dry.” He pointed behind her to a wooden staircase. “Go up to the deck.”
She dropped the towel and plowed past him toward the water. “I gotta get my dog.”
He snagged her by the arm and glared at her with the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen—and a stare so dark she swallowed her voice.
“Go.” He pointed to the stairs again. “I’ll get your dog.” He took a step toward the water, and she pushed past him again.
“You don’t have t—”
He scooped her into his arms again and carried her to the stairs. “If you fight me, your dog will drown. He won’t last in this much longer.”
She pushed at his chest again. “Let me go!”
He set her down on the stairs. “The waves will pull you under. I’ll get your dog. Please stay here.”
Her heart thundered against her ribs as she watched him stalk off and plow through the waves as if he were indestructible. She stood in the rain on the bottom stair, huddled beneath the wet towel, squinting to see him through the driving rain. She finally spotted him deep in the sea, wrapping his arms around Pepper—the dog who never let anyone carry him. He rounded his shoulders, shielding Pepper as he made his way back through the wild waves.
She ran to the edge of the water, shivering, tears in her eyes. “Thank you!” She reached for Pepper and the dog whined, pressing his trembling body closer to the guy.
“You have a leash?”
She shook her head. Her wet hair whipped across her cheek, and she turned her back to the wind. “He doesn’t like them.”
He took her by the arm again. “Come on.” He led her up the stairs to a wooden deck, opened a French door, and leaned in close, talking over the sheeting rain.
“Go on in.”
She stepped onto pristine hardwood. The warm cottage smelled of coffee and something sweet and masculine, like a campfire. She reached for Pepper. Pepper whined again and pressed against the man’s chest.
“He…” Her teeth chattered from th
e cold. “He must be scared.”
“I’ll get you a towel.” He eyed the dog in his arms and shook his head before disappearing up a stairwell.
Leanna scoped out the open floor plan of the cozy cottage, looking for signs of crazy. How crazy could he be? He’d just rescued her and Pepper, and Pepper already seemed to be quite attached to him. He went into the water in a storm without an ounce of fear. The man was crazy. It dawned on her that she’d done the same thing, but she knew she wasn’t crazy. She’d had no choice. To her right was a small kitchen with expensive-looking light wood cabinets and fancy molding. A laptop sat open beside two neatly stacked notebooks on the shiny marble countertop. The screen was dark, and she had an urge to touch a button and bring the laptop to life, but she didn’t really want to know if there was something awful on there. He could have been watching porn, for all she knew, although he hadn’t checked her out once, even with her wet T-shirt and shorter-than-short cut offs. She couldn’t decide if that was gentlemanly or creepy.
She shifted her thoughts away from the computer to the quaint breakfast nook to her left. Her eyes traveled past a little alcove with two closed doors and a set of stairs by the kitchen to the white-walled living room. There was not a speck of clutter anywhere. A pair of flip-flops sat by the front door, perfectly lined up against the wall beside a pair of running shoes. She located the source of the campfire smell. A gorgeous two-story stone fireplace covered most of the wall adjacent to an oversized brown couch. There was a small stack of firewood in a metal holder beside the hearth. The cottage was surprisingly warm considering there wasn’t a fire in the fireplace. Dark wood bookshelves ran the length of the far wall, from floor to ceiling, complete with a rolling ladder. The room was full of textures—a chenille blanket was folded neatly across the back of the couch, a thick, brown shag rug sat before the stone fireplace, and an intricately carved wooden table was placed before the couch. Leanna had a thing for textures, and right now she was texturing the beautiful hardwood with drops of water. She snagged a dishtowel from the kitchen counter as the man came back downstairs with Pepper cradled in his arms like a baby and wrapped in a big fluffy towel.
