Page 1 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle

The Attic Room

T he sign at the edge of the town is faded, salt-blasted, and slightly crooked.

It says Welcome to Easthaven , but it doesn’t look much like it means it.

There’s a cartoon fish, smiling dead-eyed, and someone’s graffitied a tentacle around it, curling up like it’s giving a weird, suction-cupped thumbs up.

I flip the bird as I roll past in my prehistoric rust-bucket of a car.

Gravel crunches under my tires as I pull off the main coastal road, which at this point is barely a road at all.

It’s hot, so I have the windows down, and the air smells like brine and the sweet rot of seaweed in the sun.

I’m tired. I’m wired. I’ve got one bag of clothes, half a paycheck, and absolutely no ability to remain normal about the fact that I just disappeared from my own life.

Apparently, locals say not to rent the attic above the bait shop.

So that’s exactly what I did, of course.

The streets here are narrow and cobbled. The buildings lean in like they’re listening. I see exactly one person in the half hour it takes me to weave through town—a woman sweeping her porch, eyeing me suspiciously like she thinks I don’t notice. She is not as subtle as she thinks.

I smile, but she doesn’t smile back.

It smells like low tide and damp history.

It reminds me of field research, and I wonder if maybe I could set up a project or fieldwork study here.

It’s the perfect location—all coastline, and very little else.

There’s the bait shop, one diner, and a bookstore.

That’s why I came here. It’s quiet, and I can keep my head down while I figure my shit out.

Or I could end up spiraling dramatically because the silence drives me to madness.

Either way, I guess the view’s not bad. I can see all the way to the horizon from the front stoop. Tiny silhouettes of fishing boats dot it, haloed in orange.

I have to go through the bait shop to get to the attic room apartment, which at first I thought might be too much socialization, but the property manager reliably informed me that the owner is reclusive as fuck, and I probably won’t even see him.

The key I pull from the envelope is an old, brass skeleton key. It sticks in the lock. I kick the door, but it won’t budge. I try turning the key while pulling the door, while lifting the door, and while pushing the door. Still nothing.

“Come on ,” I groan. My head tips back, and that frantic kind of energy builds up in me like static under my skin. It doesn’t take long until it has to burst out. I lunge forward, slamming my weight into the door.

It still doesn’t budge, and all that momentum I create ricochets me back. I fly off the stoop, fully prepared to fall on my ass in the street—maybe that’ll make the porch-sweeping woman smile—but that isn’t what happens.

A wall of soaked hoodie and solid muscle absorbs the impact without moving an inch. I bounce back toward the door like a ping-pong ball, all the air knocked out of me. I stagger a step, hand grabbing for the railing, and wheel around wheezing.

Holy shit .

The first thing I notice is that he’s fucking huge .

At least six foot six. Broad, dripping, massive hands hanging loose at his sides.

The front of his hoodie clings to his chest, soaked through.

The fabric shapes tight over him, and it leaves very little to the imagination, which I am fine with, because damn.

He’s built. Hard planes of muscle, but bulky in the middle.

His jaw is shadowed with stubble, and his mouth is pressed into a flat line.

He has his hood pulled forward just enough to shade his eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice is low and rough, like he’s barely spoken yet today.

I hold up the key. “I live here.”

His expression doesn’t change even a bit. I wonder if he’s heard me at all as he continues to study me warily.

“Upstairs,” I clarify. “The attic apartment. You know, the one everyone warned me not to rent. Sounded fun.”

His jaw tics. “You should leave.”

That pulls a laugh out of me, short and sharp. “Nice to meet you, too. Are all the locals this friendly, or just the wet ones?”

His mouth twitches at the corner. It’s demonstrably not a smile—but it’s not not a smile, either. Something about it feels a bit like winning.

“It’s nice to meet you, too!” I affect a mock-polite tone, holding out my hand. He doesn’t take it. “I’m Neviah. And you are?”

A low rumbling sound rolls out of him, like it’s coming straight from his chest. I think this giant man just growled at me.

“Calder— Cal .” He frowns to himself, as if he didn’t mean to give his full name. “I own the shop. And the attic.”

Of course.

I glance down at the puddle forming beneath him, then back up. The guy’s a storm come ashore. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel him trying not to look at me. It’s been a minute since anybody’s known what to do with me, but I know when a guy is trying not to think ungentlemanly thoughts.

“You don’t like tenants.” It’s an observation, not a question. He’s not exactly subtle.

He pops a massive shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t like broken doors.”

I snort. “Did you just make a joke?”

“No.”

I turn my back to him. “Well, Cal, maybe if you don’t like broken doors, you should have installed one that opens.”

Behind me, there’s a long pause, then a rustle of movement, and the creak of the step as he follows me up onto the stoop. I feel him at my back as he steps in close behind me—heat, damp air, the low sound of water dripping from his sleeves.

Why the fuck is he so wet? It’s not even raining.

“Give me that.” I don’t know why he even says it, because as soon as he does, he plucks the key from between my fingers. A pulse zips through my chest as his skin grazes mine.

Jesus. It’s been too long since I got laid. Next I’ll be asking him to show me a little ankle .

I bet he does have nice ankles though.

I shake my head to dislodge the thought. The lock clicks immediately when he tries it, obviously, and the door swings open. He stays there, right behind me, close enough that I feel the breath I don’t think he means to exhale against my throat. My entire traitorous body prickles with awareness.

He takes up so much space. He’s massive. He could doubtlessly pick me up and carry me inside like luggage, and there’s not a damn thing I could do about it except ask him to do it again, please.

I shake my head again, harder this time.

A soft breath huffs out of the giant behind me. “Are you okay?”

I jerk my head around to look at him, because I swear he just laughed, but his face is impassive when I meet his eyes.

He’s standing so close I can see them under the shadow of his hood now.

They’re a very fitting stormy gray color, and a bit too nice for someone who clearly never smiles and maybe doesn’t even know how.

“Thanks.” My voice does something weird on the way out of my throat, so I clear it. “Very hospitable.”

“You’ll find the attic loud,” he says. “And drafty. The water runs close.”

“Sounds atmospheric,” I chirp as I swipe up my duffel and step inside.

He doesn’t respond right away. I glance back at him over my shoulder, and he’s still standing there, arms crossed, rain trailing off the edge of his sleeves in slow drops.

Then he tilts his head, the corner of his mouth ticking down. “Are you always this…” He trails off, gesturing to me with a large hand.

“Delightful?” I offer.

His expression doesn’t shift. “Relentlessly chipper,” he corrects flatly.

“Yes,” I deadpan.

This earns me my third lip-twitch that still isn’t a smile, and it makes me want to earn the smile. He’s handsome as hell, there’s no denying it. The urge to tell him he’d be prettier if he smiled is almost overwhelming—but I’m a feminist, so I don’t .

I drop my bag in the entryway. There’s a long, tiled hall with bare white walls.

One door at the end, which I assume leads up to the attic, and one door to the left.

I guess that one leads to his shop, since it’s on that side of the building.

The last one, close to the door at the end, is painted black. Two deadbolts.

Yeah, he gives me a ‘two deadbolts’ vibe, for sure.

“I don’t like noise,” he imparts from behind me. “Or damage.”

“I’m very well behaved,” I say solemnly, turning back to him.

Achievement unlocked: Fourth lip twitch.

He rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to shrug off the urge to smile. “You’re a bad liar.”

Another silence stretches between us. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask.

Cal quirks a brow, an expression shift I only see because it pulls the rest of his features up. Just the barest lift. It’s clear he’s trying very hard not to have expressions at all. “Yes. But you’re in my way.”

I glance over my shoulder at my new front door, then turn back to face him fully. I don’t move. He’s still on the stoop, but now he has one huge shoulder leaned on the frame. He’s so broad he almost blocks out all the wet, blue light coming through the doorway.

I hum a lazy little noise. “I bet a big guy like you could move me anywhere you want.”

A beat passes between us, loaded as hell. Cal takes one slow, solid step into my space. I lift my chin, and the temperature in the hallway spikes at least five degrees.

“You want to test that?” he says, voice low and even.

“Yes please,” I say brightly, because I don’t know when to quit. “You look like you’re good with your hands, too. Your place or mine? Although, I’ve been told my place is loud and drafty. Might ruin the mood.”

He looks at me with that same flat expression, but it absolutely does not match the rampant heat suddenly humming off his body.

Then he leans a little further into me so we’re almost touching, arms still crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly to one side like he’s working out whether I’m fucking with him .

For the record, his guess is as good as mine.