Authors: Jill Shalvis
Olivia shrugged. “I made you pizza,” she said. “Which I don’t do for anyone else. So I must like you a little. What’s with the food?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m actually trying to bribe you into liking me more.” She waved the food again. “Is it working?”
“Maybe.” Olivia peered at the bag and inhaled deeply. “Did you say fries?”
“Yep. And brownies.”
Olivia narrowed her eyes. “
Store-bought
brownies?”
“Yes,” Becca said, “but give me a break here; I need a friend. And trust me, store-bought is way better than my homemade.”
Olivia didn’t look impressed.
“They’re from the bakery,” Becca said, which was a little piece of heaven and everyone in town knew it.
Including, it seemed, Olivia. “Yeah, okay,” she relented, and let Becca in.
Olivia’s place had been transformed. The open, empty warehouse was now filled with warm, comfy furniture, floor lamps, and throw rugs. “Wow,” Becca said. “It looks like a real home now.”
“That’s the idea.” Olivia dug into the food like she hadn’t eaten all day.
“What’s behind there?” Becca asked, gesturing to an
antique screen that blocked off a good third of the open space.
“Overflow stock for my store. Now you. You’re doing the hot surfer.”
Becca choked on a bite of her sandwich.
“Sam,” Olivia clarified.
“I know who you mean,” Becca said on a laugh. “I’m just not sure my question and your question are on equal measure.”
Olivia smiled. “Yeah. You’re totally doing him. You going to eat your brownie?”
Becca sighed and handed it over. “I want points for that.”
“You get points for the hot surfer.”
Sam punched in the phone number for Becca’s first reference. He was leaning against their front counter. Tanner was sitting on it, absently rubbing his aching leg, watching him. They’d just come in from a scuba excursion with a bunch of college students, which had been a little bit like herding wild horses.
“You trust her,” Tanner said, reading her application on his tablet. “Or you wouldn’t have slept with her.”
Jesus. “Cole has a big mouth,” Sam said in disgust.
Tanner flashed a grin. “Cole didn’t tell me shit. You just did.”
Sam considered putting his fist through that grin.
“You won’t,” Tanner said, reading his mind.
“Only because I wouldn’t want to mess up your pretty face.”
Tanner couldn’t be deterred. “So,” he went on. “You trust Becca, which means you’re calling those references
for something else. It’s about
her
, not you. You’re wondering about her.”
Wondering. Worrying . . .
“You could do this the old-fashioned way, you know,” Tanner said, “and just ask her what you want to know.”
“Calling her references is the smart thing to do,” Sam pointed out. But Tanner was right, he
did
trust her. At least as much as he trusted anyone. What he didn’t trust was the flashes of unease he sometimes saw in her pretty brown eyes, or her claims that she wasn’t in trouble.
He wanted to know her story.
Her first reference was her boss at the ad agency.
“Excellent employee,” the guy said when he came on the line. “Hard worker, loyal, compulsively organized. A great office manager, not so great at the jingles. We were sorry she had to leave town so suddenly. I’d hire her back in an instant as an admin, but she said she wouldn’t be coming back to New Orleans for a while. Shame. Still, she’s on contract for the jingles, and I’ll take what I can get from her.”
Next up was a co-worker. “Becca Thorpe?” the woman asked. “Loved her. Very hard to see her go. She struggled with jingle writing, I know, but she didn’t struggle to keep us organized. Such a sweet thing, too. She’d give a stranger the very shirt off her back. Certainly gave much of her life over to her family. Her brother mostly. That was a rough situation, but she’s resilient. You’d be lucky to have her.”
Sam didn’t believe in luck. Sam believed in good, old-fashioned determination and making one’s own path. He knew what his path was.
But now he wanted to know about Becca’s.
Not in the mood to put together a meal for herself, Becca went back to the Eat Me diner for dinner. She was halfway through bacon and eggs—nothing said comfort food like a hot breakfast for dinner—when an old woman slid into the booth across from her and smiled.
“Hi,” she said to Becca. “You don’t know me, but I know you. And I just wanted to say that you play the piano like an angel.”
“Um,” Becca said. “Thanks.”
The old woman just kept smiling at her.
Where Becca had come from, if a stranger slid into your booth, you had your cell phone in hand, your thumb hovering over 911. Especially if that stranger knew something about you, like, say, the fact that you played the piano—which you’d told no one.
But the thing was, this stranger was barely five feet tall, had blue-gray bristle for hair, matching blue-gray eyes gone filmy from age, and wore bright red lipstick. She also had more wrinkles than an uncooked chicken, and a harmless-looking smile that Becca didn’t buy for a minute.
“I’m Lucille,” she said. “I kinda run this place.”
Becca looked around. “The diner?”
“No, Lucky Harbor.”
“So you’re the mayor or something?” Becca asked.
Lucille smiled. “Not the mayor, but actually, that’s a great idea. I’m more of a . . . social organizer.”
“Oh,” Becca said, having no idea what a social organizer might do for an entire town, but impressed that a woman of her age had a job at all.
“I was at the bar the other night, late,” Lucille said. “I
got my hormone meds mixed up and couldn’t sleep. Jax makes a mean hot toddy.”
Becca went still. Late the other night she’d walked to the Love Shack, and when the bar had emptied out, she’d played. “I didn’t see you.”
“I know,” Lucile said, smiling. “I’m geriatric stealth. You’re an amazing piano player, anyone ever tell you that?”
Becca felt nauseous. “Maybe once or twice.”
“You playing tonight?”
“No.” Maybe.
“I’d sure like to hear you again,” Lucille said.
“Sorry, but I don’t play for an audience.” Anymore. “I write jingles now.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like for soup, and toilet paper.” She grimaced, thinking of her latest assignment, which she still hadn’t figured out. “I’m currently a little bit stuck.”
“Really?” Lucille brightened. “I’m real good at making stuff up. What product?”
Crap. “Diaxsistheerectiledysfunctionmed.”
“What’s that?” Lucille cupped hand around her ear. “Speak up, hon, I’m old as dirt.”
Becca sighed. “It’s Diaxsis.”
“Shut the front door,” Lucille said on a wide grin.
“It’s an erectile dysfunction med—”
“I know what it is.” Lucille cackled and rubbed her hands together in delight. “And now you’re speaking my language. What are you stuck on exactly? You oughta write a song that someone of an age could sing to her man! Like how he shouldn’t be embarrassed to need the pill, ’cause us women need
it
, and by
it
I mean—”
“I know what you mean!”
“I’m just saying, those commercials all miss my age demographic. We’re not dead yet, you know.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Becca said. “Soon as my muse comes back.”
“Maybe your muse needs a distraction. Something to fuel your creativity. You ever teach music?”
Becca actually found a laugh at that. She’d played music, dreamed music, worked for and about music, ate and slept music, then run like hell from music, but she’d never taught. “No.”
“Could you?”
“Well, probably,” she said slowly. “But. . .”
“But it’d be better if it was, say, younger?” Lucille asked, reading her mind. “Like, young, eager-to-learn school-aged kids?”
“Well, maybe,” Becca said, failing to see where this was going.
Lucille grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that. The rec center needs someone to teach kids for Music Hour on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. I’m on the board, and you have no idea how happy everyone’ll be that I found you.”
“Wow,” Becca said, impressed. “You tricked me.”
“Only a little. We’d pay you.”
Becca had already been shaking her head, but she stopped at the pay part. “You would?”
“You bet. We’ll need references, of course, someone who could vouch for you not being a felon or anything of that nature.” Lucille slid her a card. It said
ORACLE OF LUCKY HARBOR
and gave a cell number, website, and a physical address. “The website is my Pinterest,” Lucille said.
Becca stared down at it. “I’ve been to your boards.”
Lucille smiled. “Yeah, they’re good, right? I used to be on Facebook, but got kicked off. The addy’s for my art gallery. Email me your résumé and references today, okay? We can get you going by tomorrow. The kids’ll be so excited.”
By the time Becca got back home, she was excited, too. Maybe she couldn’t play in front of people, but she could sure as hell teach kids to do so. She sat on her bed and played around on the keyboard, determined to come up with something for Diaxsis and get it off her plate. After a few hours, she had a jingle. She hadn’t been able to give Lucille her wish about aiming the song at the eighty-ish crowd, but hopefully they’d appreciate it anyway. She sent it off and then crawled beneath her covers, her thoughts on the fact she now had
three
jobs.
She could only hope at least one of them worked out . . .
When Becca’s alarm went off the next morning at the obscene hour of zero dark thirty, she spent a moment revisiting the pros of the charter job. Or, more accurately, the cons. But in the end, she rolled out of bed, showered, dressed, and made her commute into work, which was the short walk across the alley.
Cole was already there. “You look like you could use some coffee,” he said. “Maybe the new girl could do it.”
Becca laughed and headed to the coffeemaker. She went through the motions while yawning, and then realized nothing was happening. The coffeemaker was playing possum. She waited another moment, yawning again. Outside, the sky was dark. This was because the sun hadn’t risen yet, since it was five oh five.
In the morning.
She actually wasn’t even sure that she’d ever seen this time before.
And still no caffeine emerged from the coffeemaker. “I’m counting on you,” she said to it. “I need you, bad.”
“Sometimes you gotta give it a good whack,” Cole said, looking more awake than anyone should ever look at this ungodly hour. He was in loose board shorts and a T-shirt advertising some dive shop in the Caicos.
Unlike her, who in deference to the early chill was in jeans, boots, a tank, a tee,
and
a sweatshirt, complete with hoodie, hat, scarf, and gloves. Yes, it was summer, but this was Washington State. At this time of morning, it was forty degrees, and she believed in comfort over style.
“Here,” he said, nudging her over. “I’ve got it. If Sam shows up before there’s coffee, he’ll bitch like a little girl.”
Becca had seen Sam grumpy, but he was more of a silent grump. She couldn’t imagine him actually bitching about anything, and at her expression, Cole laughed. “You ever catch him early in the morning?” he asked.
“Nope.” He’d been long gone from her bed by daylight.
“Well, he’s a bear,” Cole said. “We usually just toss him some caffeine and then stay out of arm’s reach until it sinks in.” Cole hit the side of the coffeemaker.
Nothing happened.
He went to hit it again, but the door opened and in came the bear himself. He was dressed almost identically to Cole, with the addition of a backward baseball cap, his mirrored aviator shades—even though the sun still wasn’t up—and a scowl. He met her gaze, and despite that scowl, something shimmered between them.
Becca knew she wasn’t going to survive this without caffeine, so she smacked the side of the coffeemaker like Cole had.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked.
“Working.”
“No, I meant why are you beating the shit out of the coffeemaker?” he asked, his voice still morning-gruff, like he hadn’t used it yet.
She had no idea why she found that so incredibly sexy. “Cole said I have to beat the thing up to get it to work.”
Sam gave Cole a head shake and came up behind Becca, reaching an arm around her to stroke the machine. “Come on, baby,” he murmured. “You know what I want.”
Cole snorted.
Becca melted.
And the coffee machine purred to life.
“Show-off,” Cole said, and headed to the door.
“Hey,” Sam said. “Where are you going?”
“Tanner’s on the boat. We’ve got a group of eight.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam said. “Because
I’m
taking them out with him.”
“Uh, no. I am,” Cole said.
“Uh, no,” Sam said, imitating Cole’s voice. “
You’re
training the new girl.”
The “new girl” grimaced.
Cole shook his head. “
I’m
with Tanner today. It’s on the schedule.”
“No, it’s not,” Sam said.
Cole pulled out his phone and began to thumb the screen furiously.
Becca raised her hand. “Yeah, hi. If one of you would
just train me already, I’d be able to straighten out this very sort of thing.”
Cole looked up from his phone. “No one can
ever
straighten this shit out.”
“I can,” she said, doing her best to look confident in that fact. Scheduling was a piece of cake. It was writing jingles that was killing her. “I’ll bet you.”
“Competitive little thing,” Cole said to Sam. “I like her.”
Sam looked at Becca. “You lost your last bet,” he reminded her.
And the one before that, but who was counting. “I won’t lose this one,” she said, determined.
Desperate
. She had to get something right. This was it, she could feel it.
She felt Sam’s gaze linger on her, felt the weight of his consideration. “Is everything a competition with you?” he asked.
She met his green eyes, and like it always seemed to between them, the air shimmered.
“Ha! It finally loaded.” Cole waved his phone beneath Sam’s nose. “See? I
am
the one scheduled for this morning.”