Chapter 1 

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SKYLER 

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Have you ever known  you’re making a bad decision at the EXACT time you’re making it, yet still you won’t back out? That’s me, right now. To be honest, that’s been me for the majority of my life. The last twenty-nine years of my existence have been one bad decision after another. 

But this one could definitely be the worst. 

I’m sitting in my car, the wipers working overtime to push the rivers of rain away from the windshield, staring out at an ocean that looks so foreboding I’m surprised anybody willingly drives down this road and onto the ferry that’s waiting at the end of the jetty. 

“You promised me sunshine,” I say out loud, my voice echoing in the empty car. 

A chuckle blasts out from the speakers. “I said I remember the sun shining there,” my sister says through the phone line. “It’s just one bad day. It’ll get better, Skyler.” 

It’s ironic that Lee’s the one who’s being all optimistic and rah-rah-rah. She’s been against this from the start. So has our mom, which is a huge part of the reason I’m here right now, staring out at the rivers of rain pouring down the road to the dock. I’m the family mess up. The black sheep. 

And for once, I want to prove them wrong. 

A baby starts to cry from the other end of the phone followed by Lee’s cooing. She has her daughter Cora, her husband, James, who’s made it big in business, and her own career as an entertainment agent that is thriving. She’s been on maternity leave since my squishy little niece was born but she’ll be back at it soon enough. 

“I should let you go,” I tell Lee.  

“No, please don’t. You’re the only adult I’ve spoken to all day.” She sighs heavily. “Describe exactly what you can see.” 

I lean my head forward, trying to squint out through the blur of the rain, but I only succeed in obscuring the glass even more with my misty breath. “I can see the ferry,” I say. It’s currently unloading the cars who have sensibly left the island.  

It’s called Liberty, or at least that’s what everybody calls it. Its full name is Cape Liberty Island but according to Lee, nobody has ever called it that. It’s a pretty little island off the East Coast, lined with beaches and a main street that used to attract tourists by the boatload in the early part of the twentieth century, before the commercial airplane was invented and the rich moved on to foreign resorts. 

But, from what I have gathered, there’s been some investment that has improved the town, as well as the hotel and bed and breakfasts that are there. I guess I’ll find out in a few minutes. 

“What else can you see?” Lee says, sounding almost desperate. I know how much she loves her little girl, but I also know how much she hates being isolated at home.  

“Um, I can see the island in the distance,” I lie, because I sense she needs this. “Just barely though.” There, not too much of a lie. 

“It’s so pretty there,” she tells me. “You’ll call once you get to the bar, right?” 

“Of course,” I say.  

“And it’s usually sunny, I promise. I remember that visit with your dad…” she trails off. Mostly because she doesn’t like sad things, and this is definitely an upsetting subject. We have different fathers, but for a couple of years mine was a parent to both of us. She can remember him in a way that I can’t. Can remember who he used to be before the alcohol took over and changed him. 

Whereas I can only remember bad times. 

Because he’s been absent for most of my life, and now he’ll be absent forever. 

The last car is off the ferry. A guy in one of those yellow rubber capes and hats gestures at the cars waiting to onboard. There are only two vehicles ahead of me. The one at the front belongs to an air-conditioning company. The second is another van, this one with the words The Grand Liberty Hotel written across it. 

I lift my hand to the steering wheel, my bangles making a jangling sound. “Looks like it’s my turn to drive on,” I tell her. “I should probably go.” 

“No!” she says quickly. “Don’t hang up. Let me hear what’s going on.” 

“You know there’s a big thing on the wall of your living room that’s much more exciting than this,” I tell her. 

“I hate watching television,” Lee says. “It reminds me too much of work.” 

The guy in the yellow raincoat beckons to me and I drive onto the metal ramp that leads to the small ferry, the wheels groaning and clanging as I pull into the space ahead of me. 

As I press on the brake, the bedraggled man knocks on my window and I lower it, the wind pushing a sheet of rain inside the car and wetting my face.  

He glances at my clothes and I inwardly squirm. I’d taken Lee’s rose-colored memories at face value and dressed for a beautiful summer island day. I’m wearing a white gypsy style top and a floaty cotton skirt that I found at a thrift shop in Manhattan, along with sandals that show off my freshly pedicured – by myself – toes. 

“Put your car in park and shut off the engine,” he shouts over the thunder of the rain. He brings his gaze up to my face. “You come to work at the hotel?” 

I shake my head. “No.” 

“I hope you’re not a visitor. You picked a bad day for it.” 

He’s telling me. But I kind of like the way he’s chatty despite the weather. “My dad used to own the bar on the island,” I tell him. “The Salty Dog.” And now I own it, thanks to his will. 

“You’re Wayne’s kid?” 

Of course he’d know my dad. The island isn’t exactly huge. There are only a few hundred full time residents, though it’s a tourist haven during the warmer months, when the population surges by the thousands on a daily basis. Most come for the day, though there are guest houses in the town center along with the stupidly expensive hotel that opened late last year. I checked out the prices before realizing I could barely afford one night there.  

“That’s right,” I shout back at him and he blinks, opening his mouth then closing it, like he’s thought better of what he was about to say. Instead he shouts out to a second man dressed in a yellow rain slicker. “Hey Jesse!” 

The man who turns around is younger than me. “Yep?” 

“This is Wayne’s daughter, the one who inherited The Dog.” The older man grins. “That’s Jesse,” he says to me as though I should know who he’s talking about. 

Jesse walks over, leaning down until his face is next to the other guy’s. “Hey.” He gives me the biggest smile. 

“Hi.” I smile back, trying to be friendly, but he seems disappointed by my response for some reason.  

“I’m going to lock up the gate,” he tells the older man. “We’re ready to go.” 

“Okay.” The man frowns again, then looks at me. “Once we get to Liberty, the bar is on the right as you drive up. It’s been empty a while.” 

I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the guilt that washes over me. I’d had no idea my dad was sick. I hadn’t heard from him for years. Didn’t even know he’d gone back to the little island off the Atlantic Coast to run a bar. 

He and my mom separated when I was a baby and Lee was five. I barely remember him, save for the occasional visit when he was sober enough to remember he had kids and for Mom to let him into our nice house in Hollywood Hills. Lee remembers a bit more – the visit to Liberty before I was born, the way he and mom would throw things at each other during every fight. 

Theirs was a passion that burned hot and fast. Looking back, their relationship was so alien to the way I see my mom now. She’s the ultimate responsible parent, and he was a free spirit, never willing to settle down.  

She says I take after him in that way, and I know it exasperates her. I just don’t know any other way to be. I’ve lived in dozens of different places and had a lot of  different jobs. It’s not the life she hoped I’d have. 

“Thank you,” I tell the older man. I’m feeling nervous about seeing the bar for the first time. There’s something portentous about it, especially with this rain streaming down. 

He nods, still giving me that strange look, then tells me to roll the window back up. Not that it matters, my face and neck are already soaked.  

“Who was that?” 

Lee’s voice comes as a shock. I’d forgotten we hadn’t hung up our call. 

“The ferry captain and Jesse, his assistant, I think.” 

She laughs. “You’ll know everybody’s name within a week. There are no secrets in small towns.” 

And yet it feels like the opposite. We didn’t even know my dad was here for the last few years. He’d inherited the bar from his own mother, and had been running it for the last five years before he became ill. But he hadn’t bothered to let us know.  

That had hurt more than anything. The fact he’d finally settled down for a few years. Enough to have a little business he could leave to his daughter. 

“As part of the bequest he would like for you to stay on the island for a period of six months,” the lawyer told me as he read me the contents of the will. Apparently – according to my mom, who’s a paralegal – that clause is easily contestable.  

But I’m not sure I want to contest it. I’m not sure of anything really. I have nowhere better to be and I need to see the island my dad grew up on, the island that everybody in my family can remember except me. 

And then I’ll make some decisions. 

It takes twenty minutes for the ferry to cross the little channel of the Atlantic Ocean between the mainland and Liberty Island, and for the entire journey I can see nothing but rain. The only indicator we’ve actually reached land is the way the boat slows down and the crew starts to rush around, preparing for us to dock. 

The ramp groans as they let it hit the concrete of Liberty’s jetty, then the van at the front starts to pull away. 

The younger man – Jesse – waves at me as I start up my engine. I wave back and turn my wipers to high, thankful that the bar is in the main town, just up from the dock, so I don’t have to try to find my way around this place in the pouring rain. 

It takes less than a minute to drive up the road and make the right to where a low roofed building overlooks the water. I park in a graveled spot next to the overhanging canopy that shades stacks of outdoors chairs and tables, and stare out, feeling stupidly emotional. 

This was where my dad grew up. And where he spent the last years of his life. Did he think about me? Did he think about calling me? 

I would have visited. I should have.  

“I’m here now,” I tell myself.  

“Excellent.” 

Dear God, how is Lee still on the line?  

“I’m gonna hang up,” I tell her. “I need to put my phone away if I’m going to dash through the rain to the bar.” 

“Take photos. Send them to me. Call me once you’re situated.” 

I will, but I feel like I need to be alone right now. I hang up and grab my purse, deciding to leave my luggage in the car until the rain lightens up. I want to explore before I decide what to do next. 

According to the lawyers, there’s an apartment at the back of the bar. The same apartment my dad lived in until he relocated to the mainland when he got sick. I’ll be staying there for a while. 

“Here goes nothing,” I murmur to myself as I open the car door and the sound of rain hitting the tin roof of the bar fills my ears. It’s a short run from the car to the canopy, but I still manage to get soaked, the thin cotton of my skirt and top clinging to my flesh like it’s afraid. 

I have to dig through my overstuffed purse – way too full of fliers and tissues and a half-eaten bag of M&Ms – to find the code and keys the lawyers gave us. I key in the numbers then unlock the three rusty locks, hearing the groan of metal scraping against metal. When the last one is unlocked the door swings open and I quickly close it behind me, taking a look at the place that I now own. 

The bar consists of one room with tables and chairs piled neatly across the wooden floor, like whoever was here last thought they’d be back in the morning. There’s a large wooden counter at the end of the room, along with liquor bottles attached to optics that haven’t been used in a while. 

It feels almost ghostly in here. For a second I consider leaving. Just turning my back and agreeing with my mom that the best thing to do is contest the clause. 

But then she’ll be right and I’ll be wrong, the way I always am. 

I walk over to the bar, running my finger over the sticky wooden countertop. Dust clings to the pad, turning it a dark gray. Drops of rain fall from my hair onto the dust, moistening it, as a shiver wracks through my body. 

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m soaked to the bone and it’s cold or because it feels like there are way too many memories in this place. 

I’m just about to pull my phone out and call Lee back – for moral support more than anything – when the door I closed securely behind me is shoved open. The sudden noise makes me jump and I shiver again, goosebumps breaking out on my body as I turn around to look at the doorway. 

And the man framed inside it. 

Holy hotness, he’s good looking. I blink, taking in the expensive suit, the white shirt buttoned to the top, and the perfectly knotted tie, all packaging the tall, broad body that wouldn’t look out of place on a viking. One with brown hair though, because he has the thickest, glossiest, brushed back hair I think I’ve ever seen. 

But it’s his face that draws my gaze. He has one of those straight, strong noses that leads down to the perfect lips – not too full, not too narrow, just perfectly balanced and currently pressed together. 

I’ve always been a sucker for a man with a chiseled jaw. But those jaws are usually stubbled, belonging to a guy with long hair, a suntan, and no 401K or designer suits to his name. 

This guy though. He has an aura about him. If I had to categorize it, right now it’s screaming ‘don’t mess with me.’ 

My breath stutters at the way he looks ridiculously angry and handsome at the same time. His jaw is twitching, his lips pressed into a mean scowl, and his ocean-blue eyes are glaring at me.  

My heart starts to pound. I can’t remember the last time I had such a visceral reaction to somebody I’ve never met before. Especially not an angry guy in a suit. I’m all about happiness and free love. 

Shame my body doesn’t seem to remember that right now. 

Luckily, he goes and spoils it all by opening his mouth. 

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you people? This is private property,” he rasps. “Get out of here. You’re not welcome.” 

I’ve had a lot of server jobs in my life. Dealt with thousands of annoyed people whose meal was cold or wrong or they’re just having a bad day and decided to take it out on me. 

I know how to deal with angry people, but right now I’m cold and I’m wet and damn it, I could do without this right now. 

“No,” I say, shooting him as dirty of a look as I can muster. “You get out. This is my bar and you’re not welcome.” 

​

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2 

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SKYLER 

 

Of course he doesn’t move. He looks like the kind of man who doesn’t take orders kindly. Instead, he stares at me like he’d like to wrap his huge hands around my neck and wring it, slowly taking in my face and my wet white gypsy blouse that’s turned translucent from the rain and is broadcasting the fact that I prefer not to wear bras, and the skirt that’s clinging to my thighs. 

He pays special attention to the ink that swirls from my left ribcage down to my hip. 

I wait for him to apologize to me, for walking into my bar and ordering me around, but of course he doesn’t.  

He looks like the kind of man who isn’t used to apologizing to anybody. In his expensive clothes, with his perfectly styled hair and his tight jawline, he probably spends most of his days around corporate ass-lickers telling him he’s the bees knees. 

“Aren’t you leaving?” I ask him. “I think I made it clear that I own the place.” 

His eyes narrow and yet somehow his sexiness isn’t diminished by his annoyance. “You’re Wayne’s kid?” he asks, frowning like he doesn’t believe me. 

“What’s it to you?” I ask, my pulse still racing. I fold my arms across my chest for good measure, because if he’s going to be an ass he doesn’t get to look at my nipples while he’s doing it. 

Especially since they seem to have minds of their own right now. 

“I live on this island. Making sure it’s safe is my job.” He even looks handsome when he scowls. “So are you Wayne’s kid, or do I need to call the cops?” 

He doesn’t look like he needs to call the cops at all. One flex of his biceps and he’d have me over his shoulder and marching me back to the ferry without taking a breath. 

“Yes, I’m Wayne’s kid,” I say, because as good looking as this man is, I don’t want to be hoisted over his chest right now. Or anywhere else for that matter. 

He nods, looking slightly mollified. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Oh boy. We’ve gone from evicting me to offering condolences. I’m starting to get whiplash.  

“You knew my dad?” I ask him. And it doesn’t come out as strong as I want it to. There’s no way I want to show any vulnerability to this oaf, even if he is the first man to set my pulse racing in a long, long time. 

“Yes.” He nods. “I assumed you’d be selling this place.” 

I shrug. “I’m not sure what I’m doing yet. I just got here.” I pull my lip between my teeth. “Not that it’s any of your business,” I add, just to make him grimace a little more. 

It works. 

“Of course it’s my business,” he says, still not walking out of my damn bar. “I plan to buy this place as soon as it’s on the market.” 

I immediately bristle. Oh hell no, that’s not happening. “It’s not for sale.” 

Technically, that’s true. I won’t be putting it up for sale until I’ve had a chance to go through all the things that are still in here and in the living quarters. I owe that to my dad. Even if I don’t end up spending the next six months here. 

But if it takes my last breath, I’ll make sure this guy never gets his hands on this place. 

“What did you say your name is?” he asks. 

“I didn’t.” And he knows that as well as I do. He’s got that ability that only rich men seem to have of putting me on edge.  

And then he glances at my chest and I realize my nipples are still pushing against the translucent top that seemed like a good idea only a few hours ago. 

I’m not attracted to him. Yes, in my past I’ve been a bit of an asshole magnet, as Lee would put it. But I’m older. I’m wiser.  

I just need my body to get the memo. 

“You’re Skyler,” he says, suddenly surprising me.  

“How do you know that?” I narrow my eyes at him, feeling exposed in more ways than just having my damn nipples pressed against my top like traffic lights. 

“Your father had a daughter and a stepdaughter. Skyler and Lee. Lee has a husband and a house and lives in LA. You…” he trails off. “Don’t.” 

“He talked about us?” My voice comes out small. Not only because this man had some kind of connection with my dad, but because his knowledge of who I am must come from Dad too. 

Which means Dad talked about us. 

For some reason that makes my throat tighten so hard I find it difficult to breathe. 

“He did.” He nods.  

“What’s your name?” I ask him.  

“Hudson Fitzgerald.” 

He doesn’t offer me his hand, and I’m grateful for that. Mostly because I don’t feel that charitable to him, despite the lowering of his tone. But also because I’m not sure I want to touch him. 

“And there’s really no need to be here,” he tells me. “Whatever offer you get, I’ll top it. I’ll buy this place as is. You can leave and enjoy the money.” 

He says it so easily, like we’re talking about a simple transaction, not my dead father’s bar. I can’t walk away from it like that.  

“Thank you,” I say. “But I won’t be taking that offer.” 

Because now an idea is forming in my mind. I look around at the chairs stacked on the tables and the dust clinging to every surface. But in my head I see a bar full of people, laughing, ordering drinks, maybe a singer on the podium at the far end, a couple dancing to the music next to him. 

And I see my dad behind the bar. Not the man who died of cirrhosis, but the man he was before. The one in the photographs I’ve seen from when Lee was young and I was a baby. 

In a stupidly strange way it feels like home. 

“I need to change out of these clothes,” I say, aware that I’ll have to run through the rain again to get to the car to get my luggage, but it has to beat being wet. And exposed. 

This time he doesn’t look down at my body. Instead his gaze dips to my lips, to the stud in the top left corner. I part them, exhale, and there’s a flash in his eyes. 

“Very well.” He nods. “But I’ll be back.” It sounds like more of a threat than a promise. He holds out a card. “If you change your mind, call that number. My assistant will answer day or night.” 

I bite down a smile. “And what if I only want to talk to you?” I ask him. 

“My assistant is more responsive than me,” he says. 

“I bet.” 

He shakes his head and goes to turn his back on me, before changing his mind. “This is a small island. Extremely boring. You’re going to hate it here,” he tells me, his voice certain. “I guarantee within a week you’ll change your mind.” 

“Well if I do,” I say giving him a sour smile, “I’ll make sure you’re the last to know.” 

 

 

 

* * * 

HUDSON 

 

The rain is pouring down in sheets as I head back to my car, wrenching the door open and climbing in before I close the umbrella. I slam the door hard for good measure before letting my head fall back against the leather upholstered headrest. I’m furious, because I should have known she was coming. I pay good money to know exactly what’s going on all over this island. 

I don’t like surprises. Especially not in the form of a soaking wet woman who has the most perfect breasts I think I’ve ever seen. 

Not that I was looking. I don’t think I’ve met anybody who’s less my type than her. I’m not keen on tattoos. I don’t like facial piercings. Fuck only knows what other surprises she’s hiding under those clothes. 

You’d like to find out though. 

I blink that thought away. Because that voice sounds way too much like her, and she was fucking infuriating. Beautiful, poised, and extremely fucking annoying. Not my type at all. 

And yet if I close my eyes, I can still see her behind my lids. That wet hair stuck to her face, those white clothes clinging to her perfect curves. I try to push that image away, because even a few minutes in that woman’s presence tells me she’s trouble with a capital ‘T’. And something I don’t need is trouble. 

“Is everything okay?” 

My sister’s voice brings me out of my dark mood. She’s sitting in the backseat, next to Ayda. My six-year-old daughter is asleep, and has been since we left the hotel earlier. Autumn – my sister – volunteered to come with us while I drove into town to check on a few business arrangements. This rain has made everybody feel antsy. I think both of them needed to get out of the house, along with Barney, the huge Irish Wolfhound that is Ayda’s shadow. He’s currently curled up in the back of the car, snoring. 

It was only when I drove by that I noticed the lock open on The Salty Dog door. We’ve had trouble there, since Wayne passed. Kids breaking in to drink from the optics, visitors from the mainland camping out and making fires in the center of the room. 

And yeah, it’s not mine yet, but it will be. And I protect what’s mine. I don’t want the place burned down – I just want to own it. 

“Everything’s fine,” I say tersely.  

“Who was in there?” 

“Nobody important.” I start up the car, but I can tell by the way Autumn shifts in her seat that my answer hasn’t satisfied her. My twenty-six-year-old sister is nosy as fuck. Honestly, my whole family is.  

As the oldest of six, it’s always been my job to protect them. And sure, Asher, Wyatt, and Zach are grown men – as tall and as strong as I am – but Autumn and Eden are always my top concern, along with my daughter. 

Even if Autumn is married to my best friend, she’s still my responsibility. 

I back out from the parking space and curse when a car screeches to a halt behind me. Fuck it, I wasn’t looking and I always look. 

I always do everything right. It’s how I’ve gotten to where I am in life. 

“Be careful,” Autumn murmurs. I look back to check that they’re both okay. Barney, Ayda’s wolf of a dog – is lounging in the trunk, his head perched on the back of the seat like he’s standing guard. The sudden jolt has woken Ayda up. Her lips purse as she looks around, trying to work out where she is. 

And all I can think is that maybe this is the day she says something. 

But no words escape her lips. They haven’t for the past year. 

I turn back around to pull out onto the road and head back to the hotel. I have more meetings this afternoon, and Autumn has offered to watch Ayda for me. I have a babysitter on call for when Autumn and my best friend Parker aren’t available, but I prefer my daughter to be looked after by family whenever possible. 

By the time I park outside of the hotel the rain has eased a little. Enough for us to make a run for it to the huge oak door that leads to the Liberty Hotel. Autumn holds Ayda’s hand, the two of them running through puddles like it’s actually fun to get wet, Barney chasing them with delight because at heart he’s a working dog. Ayda gives a silent giggle and my jaw tightens, because her inability to speak is my fault. 

I lost control of her mother. I almost lost Ayda. And now she’s lost her voice. 

“I’m going to be a few hours,” I tell Autumn. “Then I’ll pick Ayda and Barney up. Is that okay?” 

My sister gives me a beaming smile. “Of course. I have a commission to work on, she can help me with it.” 

Autumn is an interior designer. She used to be based in New York, but since she and Parker got together, they both moved here. They live in the refurbished lighthouse on the edge of the hotel grounds. About a ten minute walk from where Ayda and I live in the Captain’s House that’s been in our family for generations. 

I’m still getting used to being based here on Liberty permanently. It’s a slower pace of life, but a protected one, too. I know – or at least I usually do – exactly who’s coming onto the island. I nearly lost Ayda once and I’ll be damned if anybody gets close enough to her without warning again. 

That’s why I’m so pissed about Wayne’s daughter turning up without me knowing. For a second her image flashes behind my eyes. The white top and skirt that had turned translucent and clung to her body. The vivid ink that covered her bare waist, curling up her side. And that fucking lip stud. 

I hate lip studs. 

So why am I imagining what it would feel like against my tongue? 

Christ, I need to get laid. I run the palm of my hand over my face. That’s easier said than done on Liberty. 

I stalk past the reception staff who call out a hello, through the double doors to the private area where there are two apartments and a business suite, at the back of which is my office. I push the door open and stride in, yanking the plush leather chair from beneath the oak desk before sitting down on it. I look at the three monitors on my desk that are always on, showing the NASDAQ, the S&P 500, and the Dow Jones. 

A quick glance tells me not much has changed since this morning as I hit the call button on my phone that connects directly with my lawyer. 

“Hudson, how are you?” Richard booms out. 

“I need you to run a check on somebody,” I tell him.  

“Sure.” He doesn’t blink at my brash tone. Probably because I pay him a hell of a lot of money not to. “What’s his name?” 

“Her name is Skyler Brown. I want all the background.” 

“Brown as in Wayne Brown?” Richard knows about my desire to buy The Salty Dog. If he were my therapist and not my lawyer he’d probably remark that it’s part of my need to be in control of everything. But luckily he isn’t and he knows better than to question me. 

“Yep.” I’m still thinking about that fucking stud above her lip. I have no idea why I’m so fixated on it. “She’s just arrived on Liberty. I want to make sure she’s not bringing trouble with her.”  

I glance out of my window. The rain has eased even more as I’ve been sitting here. It’s a light mist now, enough to give some visibility out of the window. We’re only a few weeks away from spring turning into summer and reaching our busiest time of the year. It’s our first full year of being open since the huge renovation project that took place on the nineteenth century hotel last year. Guests will be paying a hell of a lot to stay here on Liberty. Every suite in the hotel has been decorated to the highest standard.  

We’re delivering luxury, privacy, and the promise of good weather. Luxury will include a bar near the center of town that will help my guests feel at home. 

Not The Salty Dog. And not a bar run by a manic pixie dream girl with a stud in her lip and an attitude on her mouth. 

That mouth though… 

Swollen, pink, delicious. Christ, I could show her how to use it. 

“Anything else?” Richard asks. He sounds amused. 

Was I actually staring out into space then? Thank god we’re not on a video call. I don’t stare out into space, I don’t fantasize about sex. I have it hard and fast and then I move on.  

“That’s it,” I say. “Make it quick, please.” 

“It’ll cost,” Richard points out. 

“And you know that I can pay.” Because yes, we extended ourselves with buying all the available real estate on the island, but after this year it will start to pay off. I have investors, I have money. What I don’t have is the time to think about women who are of no interest to me. 

“On it,” Richard says, and I end the call without saying goodbye. I’ll have the report in my hands by the end of the week and be escorting that damn woman off the island shortly after that. 

Then everything will be calm and under control. The way I like it. And I’ll never have to think about lip studs again. 

 

 

 

3 

 

SKYLER 

 

Everything in the apartment at the back of the bar is neat and tidy. I suspect that somebody came in after my dad died – or once he went to the hospital – and cleaned it up, maybe expecting him to come home and wanting the place to be ready for him. 

I feel like I’m intruding as I pull open the closet and see his clothes hanging in there. I grab a sweater – old and chunky with some holes in it from overwashing – and sniff the sleeve. 

It smells clean, yet there’s also a hint of the salty air. Like he pulled this on and walked along the ocean. My chest tightens, because I’ll never see that. 

I’ll never get to see him again. 

I know so little about him, really. My mom never talked about him when I was growing up. He’d flit in and out of my life like some kind of distant relative, arriving unexpectedly, leaving quickly, and never letting me get to know the man who supplied half of my genes. 

I manage to find some fresh bedding and change the sheets, then I unpack my suitcase and hang my clothes in his closet, where there’s plenty of space because he was apparently a man of few clothes. 

I still don’t know why he requested that I stay here. Did he want me to have somewhere to finally lay down some foundations? Maybe he knew that I’m just like him, never able to settle, always moving onto the next thing. 

From the earliest age I drove my mom crazy by never sticking at one thing for long. We tried ballet and t-ball and every other hobby you could give to an elementary school kid, but none of them seemed to fit me. 

And then, at school, I was a daydreamer. She’d roll her eyes every time I brought home a progress report.  

Skyler would be doing much better at English if she didn’t spend most of the class staring out of the window. 

“You’re just like your father,” she told me after she read that one. And I knew from the way she said it, that it wasn’t a compliment. 

Maybe that’s why I’m here. This was the one place he kept coming back to. The place he grew up in and the last place he lived before he died. 

The rain has stopped and night has fallen, the ocean an inky black mass of liquid as it laps against the shore. The smell of damp air lingers, like the weather can’t quite bring itself to move on. 

Lee calls and we talk for a while, but then I spend the rest of the evening exploring the bar, the outside porch, and searching through the drawers in the apartment to try to find the reason I’m here. The reason he wants me to stay here. 

But there’s nothing. Just sad piles of clothes and old letters and photographs. I find one of him. It’s faded but you can still see him smiling at the camera. He’s leaning against an old car, wearing a pair of jeans and no shirt. 

He looks to be in his mid twenties – the same age he was when he met Mom at a concert in LA. I can see why she fell for him. He has this easy grin and a handsome face. 

He was her only rebellion in life. And the one thing I think she regrets, though she insists that she doesn’t regret having me. Even if I am her problem child. 

And then a rush of exhaustion comes over me. Maybe it’s the day of travel or the storm. Or maybe it’s the angry man with eyes the color of the ocean on a sunny day. I’ve only met three people so far, and each of them has treated me strangely. The ferry captain, Jesse, and now this man. 

Hudson Fitzgerald. 

Even his name sounds stuffy. I hate the way he acted like he owns this bar when it’s mine. I sit down on the freshly made bed and let out a sigh. 

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone in my life than I do right now, sitting in this empty apartment. 

Do you think I’ve made a mistake?  

I type quickly and send it to Lee. 

She replies just as fast, her name on my screen making me feel wistful. 

No, I don’t. You’re right where you need to be. Now go to sleep.  

How many times did she tell me that when I was young? Being six years older, she was like my second mom sometimes. Bossy, overbearing. And completely loving. 

You go to sleep. You’re the one with the baby. 

She sends back a heart. And I heart her heart. 

A couple of hours later, I finally do as my sister tells me and fall into a fitful dream about an angry man with piercing blue eyes. 

 

* * * 

 

When I walk out of the bar area onto the deck the next day it’s as though the storm never happened. The sun is beating down, golden rays sparkling as they bounce off the waves in the ocean. I lift the cup of black coffee to my lips and take a long sip. 

It tastes stale. I found an old unopened jar of coffee in the tiny apartment kitchen, and last night and this morning it’s all I’ve had in my mouth. I brought enough food to see me through until I could make it to the grocery store, but I’m not hungry. 

I lean against the pole holding up the overhang of the bar, breathing in the salty ocean air. I was so happy to get up and put on some shorts and a midriff tank, because those are the only clothes I packed to do cleaning. I’d hate to soil any of my vintage ones. They have too many memories in them – mine and so many others. 

Thinking of memories, as I look at the bar area from my vantage point on the deck, I can almost see Hudson Fitzgerald – the angry man from yesterday – standing there, as he berated me. 

I frown, angry at the memory, because I would never treat anybody like that. I’m new, my father died, and he pretty much told me I wasn’t welcome. 

When I told Lee about him she’d thought it was hilarious.  

“Oh my God,” she gushed. “It’s just like those small town Hallmark movies. The two of you are going to end up doing it.” 

Ha! As if. I can think of a dozen things I’d rather do than let his disdainful mouth come anywhere near me. Like pull my nails out of their beds one by one. 

Angry sex is great if you want to get off, but the older I get the more I’ve learned that relationships should be about caring, mutual trust. 

Love. 

When I finish my coffee – which involves pouring half of the cup into a nearby planter full of dead leaves – I walk back into the bar area to decide where I’m going to start with the clean up. I need to get supplies, both for the cleaning and so I have something other than stale black coffee to keep me going. 

I walk behind the bar and go to pull the nearest cupboard open, only to scream out loud when my foot hits something on the floor, sending it scurrying across the dirty tiles. 

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is that a rat? I swear it has a tail. My stomach turns as my heart starts to hammer against my chest like it wants to get the hell out of here. 

I know the feeling. 

“Oh my God,” I whisper. When I look down, the rat hasn’t moved. Not one inch. “Please don’t be dead,” I say. Because then I’ll have to feel sorry for it. 

Did it die alone? Was it wishing it had somebody there holding it’s hand. Okay, it’s paw. Whatever, nobody should die alone. 

Putting my big girl pants on, I prod the animal with my toe. 

It still doesn’t move. 

My stomach turns. Am I going to have to bury it? I don’t even know if there’s a shovel here. And I’m not throwing it in the trashcan. Even a rat deserves better than that. 

Before I can make a decision a sound comes from the door. Like it’s being opened. Then a dog rushes in. Or at least I think it’s a dog. It’s huge and furry and looks more like a wolf than a friendly mutt. 

Before I can say a word it rushes past me, behind the bar and lets out a low growl before it picks the rat up between it’s bared teeth. 

I’m not gonna lie. I actually scream. 

“Don’t eat it!” I shout. Because dead rats usually mean poisoned rats. 

The dog, calmer now that it has the rat in it’s jaw, turns to look at me. If animals could look disdainful, this one would be the champion. It drops the rat and that’s when I see it’s actually a stuffed toy. A dog toy, I guess. 

Belonging to this dog? 

“Hey,” I say, my heart rate finally calming. “Is this yours? You could have taken it before it gave me a heart attack.” 

The dog lets out a low sound. Somewhere between a bark and a purr. And yes, I should be afraid. It’s an unknown beast, it could be dangerous. 

And yet to my female-logic, it’s less scary than a dead rat that turned out to be a stuffie.  

The dog nudges my leg with it’s nose. 

“What is it?” I ask him. 

He nudges me again, like he’s trying to push me out from behind the counter. And because I’m not an idiot, I let him. 

“Okay,” I say as I back up. “But I’m only doing this to be nice. We’ve just met and I’ve already made one enemy on the island. I figure we should be fri— oh shit!” 

I jump at the sight of a little girl standing in front of me, like she’s just appeared out of nowhere. She’s staring up at me with wide, saucer like eyes. She’s in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and her dark hair is neatly pulled into a pony tail.  

“Hello?” I say warily, looking around for her parents. “I think you came in the wrong place, sweetie.” 

The dog walks between me and the girl, the toy rat forgotten, like he’s trying to guard her. 

“Is he yours?” I ask her. 

The little girl nods. I’m not great with kids’ ages, but she looks like she might be five or six. 

“Where are your parents?” I ask her, looking hopefully at the door. Surely they must be close. 

She doesn’t reply. It’s kind of unnerving how direct her stare is. She has the most beautiful blue expressive eyes. 

“Are they outside?” I ask her. “Because we aren’t open yet.” 

She shakes her head. 

Okay then. I guess she’s been told not to speak to strangers, which is good. But it’s not going to help me figure out what the heck she’s doing here. 

“Well shall we try to find them?” I ask, holding out my hand. The dog lets out a low warning growl. And the little girl pats his head like she’s calming him down. 

Instead of taking my hand, she walks around me and the dog. Her faithful hound follows her as she heads behind the bar like she owns the place. It would be funny if it wasn’t so weird and I wasn’t scared that any minute her parents are going to run in and accuse me of child abduction. 

“You can’t go behind there,” I say, because even if she won’t speak to me I know she can hear me. But she completely ignores my words, opening a drawer next to the refrigerator. 

And she pulls out a coloring book and a box of half-stubbed crayons inside an old ice cream tub. The interior is covered with scribbles that the crayons have made as they’ve rested in the box. Her tiny lips are pressed together as she carries them back around the bar and reaches up to put them on the counter. 

But she’s too short. 

She tips her head and looks at me like I’m some kind of idiot then shoves them toward me. 

“What?” I ask. 

Her lips part and she lets out what looks like a sigh, then points at the bar counter. 

“You want me to put these up there?” I ask. 

She rolls her eyes and nods at the same time. This kid has chutzpah. And for some reason I end up doing exactly as she asks. Once they’re safely on the counter, she pulls out a bar stool and climbs on it. 

“Wait,” I say, realizing she’s planning on hanging out at the bar. “You can’t stay here.” 

She lifts a brow. A weird memory flashes in my mind, like I’m trying to connect her expression to something but I don’t know what. 

“Kid, you need to go.” Except I can’t throw her out. I let out a long sigh, then hold my hand out to her, planning to help her down from the stool. 

The dog barks loudly. 

“I’m trying to help here,” I mutter to him. “You should be thanking me, not barking at me.” 

He tips his head to the side, his eyes not leaving my face. 

“I’m friendly,” I tell him, holding up my hands. “See?” 

Then I hold a hand out once more to the little girl. This time she takes it, and I smirk at the dog. 

He doesn’t look amused. 

“We’re going outside to look for a responsible adult,” I tell her. “Okay?” Because I’m anything but responsible. Nobody should put their child in my care. 

She shrugs. Well okay then. 

I don’t let go of her hand as we walk to the front door and I push it open, sunlight flooding into the bar. She’s wearing little sparkly sneakers, and they squeak against the wooden deck as we walk to the steps, the sound of steady dog paws behind us. 

He nudges my ass with his nose, as if to remind me not to do anything funny. 

“Wasn’t planning on it,” I promise him. 

There are no adults outside looking for a missing little girl. No sign of people at all. Apart from the guys working on the ferry which looks like it’s just about to leave for the mainland. 

“Do you live around here?” I ask the little girl. “Or are you a visitor?” 

She shrugs. Well that’s helpful. I look up the hill, at the building next to mine. Eileen’s By The Sea is painted on a brown wooden sign affixed to the wall. The front door is open and a woman is kneeling on the stoop, scrubbing the front step. 

“Hello?” I call out to the woman. She turns to look at me. Her hair is a steel gray color, tied into a severe bun. She’s wearing what looks like a housecoat, though it’s the first time I’ve actually seen one in the flesh. 

Slowly she stands up, and if I’m being honest it’s painful to watch. I swear I feel every twinge and ache reflected in her expression as she straightens her legs.  

“Hello.” She offers me a smile. “You must be Wayne’s daughter.” 

“I am.” I smile widely at her. “Do I look like him or something?” 

“No.” She shakes her head, and I feel deflated. “You’re all the talk on the island WhatsApp. What are you doing with Ayda?” 

I look down at the little girl. “Is that your name?” I ask her. “Ayda?” 

She nods. 

“She walked into the bar. I’m trying to clean it up,” I call out to the woman. “Do you know where her parents are?” 

“Well her mom’s dead.” The woman shrugs. 

My mouth drops open. This is the brutal island honesty that I was promised, but somehow it feels bad. I think about putting my hands over Ayda’s ears, but she doesn’t look perturbed at all by this woman’s words. 

“And her dad is probably at work. Her aunt looks after her mostly.”  

“Do you know where her aunt is?” I ask, trying to sound patient. 

“No. You could try calling her.” The woman winks at Ayda. 

Who winks back. 

“That would be a great idea,” I say. “If I knew her name or had her number.” 

“I tell you what, I’ll text her,” she says, and finally I let myself relax. 

“Great. Can I leave Ayda with you while she waits to get picked up?” A rush of hope goes through me. 

“Oh no, dear.” She shakes her head. “I have things to do.” She pulls a phone from the pocket of her housecoat and taps on it like an expert. “There,” she says. “I’ve told her that you have Ayda at the bar. You two might as well go back there and wait.” 

“But you don’t know me,” I say. “I’m a stranger. I could mean danger.”  

“You’re Wayne’s girl,” she replies. “Now why don’t you two go get to know each other?” 

“She won’t talk to me.” 

“She won’t talk to anybody. I wouldn’t take it personally.” 

I glance at Ayda, who doesn’t look at all upset at being talked about so directly. “You want to come back to the bar?” I ask her, warily. 

She nods, a smile lighting up her face. 

“Well okay then.” I look at the woman. “Thanks…” I trail off.  

“Eileen,” she says, pointing at the sign on the guest house. “Obviously.” 

“Thanks, Eileen,” I say, then under my breath I mutter. “Obviously.” Taking Ayda’s hand in mine once more, the three of us – Ayda, me, and the hound from hell – head back to the bar to wait for her aunt.