Addy’s brow furrowed. “Did you hide a spy camera in my car?”
“Oh dear, what did he mangle this time?”
“No damage, just a little drool.”
Liv’s belly-shaking laughter rang out. “Now, I want you to promise me you’ll give yourself the break you need, lovey. Walk the beach. Bring me back some shells—and something from Souvenir Planet.”
“Another UFO mug?” Addy rounded the windy road’s last curve, and the town of Trappers Cove came into view, its colorful shops stretched out along Main Street like a string of mismatched beads.
“Surprise me. Ope, there goes my pager. We’ll talk soon. And hey, get yourself a yummy man while you’re there. You’ve been sublimating your libido for far too long.”
Liv signed off with a loud smooch, and Addy’s road-trip playlist picked up in the middle of a song she and her friend should have been singing together. She grumbled, muted the nineties boy band, and cruised down Main Street, past restaurants, bars, and souvenir shops. Now that the summer hordes had returned to their inland lives, it was a pleasure to drink in all the quaint cuteness without sugar-mad kids dashing across her path.
Halloween must bring an influx of visitors, though, because most of the touristy shops were still open: The Mermaid’s Cave Gift shop, Skee-Ball Madness Arcade, Sea Visions Art Gallery, Gelateria Paradiso, and one she hadn’t noticed on her last trip: Madame Zora’s Psychic Emporium. She’d have to check it out later, maybe bring Liv a crystal or two for her woo-woo meditations.
Addy forced her tense shoulders to relax. If she could handle all the other shitty cards life had dealt her, she could damn well quit whining and make the most of a week at the shore. Watching Snoot run on the beach would be fun. After six years of combat duty, he deserved to use his expertly trained sniffer on something less dangerous than IEDs.
As she turned down Narwhal Lane, Snoot perked up and thrust his nose through the open window to drink in the sea air.
“Smells good, doesn’t it? Let’s see, 128, 132…This is us, bud. Home sweet home for the next seven days.”
Beach cottages didn’t come cuter than this one: cedar shingles, a covered porch with an ocean-blue railing, a sandy front yard beneath sprawling, wind-sculpted madrona trees, kitschy garden sculptures and bird feeders, and a by-God hammock big enough for two, perfect for daydreaming.
“Well, at least we’ll be comfortable in our solitude.” As soon as she unfastened Snoot’s harness, he sprang out and put his nose to the ground. Tail wagging, he snuffled through every inch of the front yard.
For the moment, Addy left the luggage in the open trunk and eased herself into the hammock. She gave an experimental push with her toe, and the canvas began to sway.
“Well, universe,” she asked the cloud-dotted sky, “what’s it gonna be? Another tour of duty, or do I slink back to Bumfuck, Nebraska?”
No answer came—except a soft whine at her elbow. Snoot gazed at her, his liquid brown eyes so full of concern she had to smile.
She patted the hammock. “Come on, boy.”
He hopped up and nestled against her side with a contented doggy sigh. Addy stroked his thick brown fur. Mom would hate Snoot, would refuse him entry into her overstuffed house. Hell, she’d probably give him a swift kick when Addy’s back was turned.
One more reason to avoid her childhood hometown.
But it would take a helluva long list to outweigh the most important reason tugging her back, the force that had driven her life for the past eleven years.
Duty.
Chapter Two
KieranGallagherproppedhisboots on the metal railing atop Gull’s Point Lighthouse and slurped his tea—strong, dark Irish breakfast brew, none of that wimpy supermarket swill. In most ways, he’d long ago adapted to life in the States, but a proper morning cuppa was sacrosanct, ditto a proper full Irish breakfast—minus the black pudding, nearly impossible to find on the Washington coast. He’d tried making that from scratch once, and it took days to get the burnt grease smell out of his cottage.
No bad smells today, though, especially at this early hour, when wisps of mist clung to the shoreline and a bracing breeze ruffled his beard. This was his favorite time of day. The lighthouse didn’t officially open until ten, giving him a few precious hours to drink in the view, breathe the crisp sea air, and let his thoughts roll by unheeded. His therapist called it meditation, but to Kieran, it was simply the art ofbeing.Learning this skill had saved his sanity—and probably his life.
Down on the beach, a dog raced along the waterline, a comically large stick in its jaws. The big brown pup sprinted in joyful figure eights, kicking up puffs of sand, then dashed back to its human—a woman with dark hair, dressed for a blustery autumn day in a windbreaker and jeans, with sandy runners on her feet.
Intrigued, Kieran leaned over the gallery railing for a closer look. He’d met most of the locals in Trappers Cove, but he didn’t recognize this one.
The dog dropped its stick at her feet. Moving with relaxed grace, she picked it up and flung it far, sailing end over end.
Maybe he should get a dog of his own, another warm creature to keep him company during his solitary nights. Not that he craved much interaction after a long day of entertaining tourists, but dogs are simple, undemanding souls. Empathetic, too, though he’d probably terrify the poor beast when he bolted upright in bed, screaming, “Get to the lifeboats!”
The woman’s laugh carried on the wind, a mellow, musical sound.
Maybe he should get one of those too—a proper girlfriend to share his cozy cottage at the base of the lighthouse. Since that horrible day, he limited his encounters with women to harmless flirtation and the occasional services of a sex worker. Why get attached to someone who’d inevitably flee when the terror came back?
