Page 1 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

one

. . .

Elle

I hate when my mother is right.

The only thing worse than when she is right, is when she’s around to see how right she is. And by see, I mean gloat.

Never leave the house wearing something you don’t want to be seen in, Elle.

Put on lipstick, Elle. You look like death without it.

Failure to do so puts one at a disadvantage.

And as far as my mother is concerned, there is nothing so perilous as to be at a disadvantage.

But as I’ve told her several times over the past few years when she’s forced these pearls of wisdom down my throat, ninety-eight times out of a hundred, I don’t give a fuck what people see me in.

With two exceptions:

a) Her. Obviously. Enough said there.

b) Noah Grant—baby daddy, ex-husband, love of my life, best sex I’ve ever had (and probably ever will)—who left me and our teen twins over two years ago to play cops and robbers with a South American drug cartel. Twenty-eight months since he broke our hearts.

One hundred and twenty-three weeks since I’ve had a cock inside me that wasn’t battery operated, not that I’m counting

Okay, fine—I’m counting.

Something I planned on changing tonight when I have sex with my almost-boyfriend, Jake.

Which is why I’m at the store. Mostly. I need a few things for the Santa Luna Small Business Association (SLSBA) I’m hosting at my house this morning.

And getting the rest of what I need for a kick-ass date-night charcuterie board; plus, wine and condoms.

And since the odds of running into my mother or Noah at my local grocer at this early hour on a Monday morning are less than zero, I left the house in a disadvantaged state.

Only to discover my mother was right.

Because he’s here.

Noah. At the bakery counter. Laughing with the woman in the red apron like they just solved a pastry-based cold case.

I drop into a crouch behind a display of mangoes before my brain catches up.

Okay. Don’t panic.

I’m in public. Wearing leggings, an old Nirvana concert t-shirt of Noah’s, and have dirty hair in a messy bun. Not exactly the jaw-dropping movie-montage moment I’d envisioned when I saw him again. But still, I’m in control. I have this handled.

I ease my tragically uncooperative cart—screechy wheel and all—along the edge of the display and start to duck-walk toward the organic herbs.

That’s when it happens.

A flash of pink tulle shoots past me. A toddler, maybe, beelines for the pickle display, chubby hand wobbling the bottom row so the jars clink in warning. The mom’s back is turned. My brain says I should probably stop that kid, but my feet… don’t move.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

The voice comes from behind me—low, commanding, and so instantly familiar that my stomach does this weird elevator drop.

Noah moves fast. One second, he’s at the bakery counter. The next, he’s got the kid scooped up in his free hand and planted safely in the cart like he’s been rescuing civilians in grocery stores his whole life. The jars rattle dangerously but stay put.

The mom whirls as the kid settles back into the cart, realizing what just happened. She thanks Noah repeatedly, like he just single-handedly prevented the Great Pickle Massacre of Santa Luna, relief pouring off her in waves.

The kid blinks up at him, wide-eyed. “Cookies?” She points toward the bakery box in his free hand.

“I have donuts,” he says conspiratorially.

“I have one with sprinkles?” She reaches for the box, just as unabashed in her pursuit of the sweets as she was with pickle jars.

“I don’t have any with sprinkles,” Noah says, lifting the box lid to show her.

“Kelsey where are your manners?” her mother admonishes.

Noah leans towards the girl and whispers, “These are for some very hungry police officers.”

“Oh,” she says, obviously disappointed.

“And none of them like sprinkles. Silly, huh?”

The girl nods her head vigorously. “Very.”

Of course he’d still be good at all of this. Still be the guy who makes dangerous things look easy and heroics look casual. Still the guy who connects just as easily with kids as he does adults. Like he hasn’t missed a single beat. Like he hasn’t been gone for years.

And—dammit—of course my chest goes tight, watching from my crouch in the herbs, pretending parsley is suddenly fascinating, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the rescue and everything to do with him.

That hero streak was always my kryptonite. Right up there with his hands and the way he says my name?—

Then, too soon, too suddenly, he turns as though sensing my presence. His gaze catches mine across the aisle. It hits like a shot of whiskey—warm, dizzying, and way too much.

“Elle.” His voice dips low, like it’s both a greeting and a plea. He closes the space between us in two steps. “Wow… I—wasn’t expecting…” He stops, shakes his head. “Hi.” His smile is crooked, tentative—as if he’s not sure he has the right to use it on me anymore.

And just like that, any plans I had for seducing my almost-boyfriend tonight evaporate like spilled vodka on hot asphalt.

“Noah.” I stand up too fast, almost launching the parsley into orbit. “Hi,” I manage, though my voice comes out a little too high, like I’ve been caught shoplifting.

Up close, he looks… older. Not in a bad way—God, not in a bad way—but in the life-happened-to-me kind of way. There’s stubble along his jaw, lines fanning from the corners of his eyes. He smells like soap and rain and something I used to bury my face in until I forgot what was bothering me.

And now he’s just standing there looking at me as though I’m both a surprise and the answer to something he’s been asking himself for a long time.

Meanwhile, I’m in leggings and his ancient Nirvana T-shirt with hair that hasn’t seen shampoo in forty-eight hours. Somewhere between crouching and standing, my cart lets out its death-squeal again, and the sound makes us both jump.

“I didn’t know you were back,” I blurt, because if I don’t say something, I’m going to start mentally listing all the places I’d still let him kiss me if he tried.

His smile twitches. “Just got in last night. I, uh, transferred from down south. I left the DEA. Was gonna call, but—” He glances at the empty space between us as if the missing words might be hovering there.

My jaw drops. “You left the DEA?”

He nods. “I’m back in homicide at Santa Luna PD.”

“Wow.” I’m sure I look just as stupefied as I am. “That’s…” make that stupefied and speechless.

“Can I come by? I’d like to see the kids. And you.” He looks hopeful. “Maybe tonight?”

I nod dumbly.

He left the DEA. He’s back in Santa Luna.

There’s a beat where it feels like the grocery store falls away and it’s just us, and the heavy silence of everything we didn’t say when he left. Everything we aren’t saying now.

A voice cuts through the fog. “Ma’am? Is this your cart?”

We both blink, turn. The stock boy is pushing the screechy-wheeled monstrosity I abandoned nearby.

“Yes,” I say too quickly, grabbing for it. My knuckles brush Noah’s abs, the contact is barely there, but it’s enough to jolt every nerve in my body.

Did he feel that too?

“Okay. Great.” Noah sounds as uncomfortable as I feel. “I’ll—uh—let you get back to…” He glances at my cart, his gaze roams the brie, the wine… then the jumbo box of condoms. His eyebrow arches.

My soul tries to eject from my body. “Can’t be too careful,” I blurt, instantly regretting oxygen it took to say it.

Something shifts in his expression—gone as fast as it came—but it’s enough to make me wish I could shove the condoms under that nearby mango display.

“Right.” His eyes flick to the condoms in my cart, and then back to me, scanning in that way he used to—like he’s checking for damage only he’s allowed to fix.

It’s unsettling in that way where I’m not sure if I want to run away or step closer.

“I was going to ask if we could talk, just me and you. About us. But it looks like that’s a no. ”

My brain short-circuits somewhere between why he sounds like that and don’t say something dumb .

“Yeah.” I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder, pretending I’m not clutching the straps like they might keep me from toppling over. He looks devastated.

“I mean, sure, we can talk, definitely.”

His mouth tips into the kind of smile that says he heard everything I didn’t say. His phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at me. “I have to take this,” he says, eyes lingering like a thread that won’t quite snap.

“Grant.” He barks into the phone, already half-turning away.

Of course. Always leaving. I watch him transition to the no-nonsense homicide detective.

And just like that, he turns and is gone, leaving me staring at a wall of pickles and wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to breathe normally again.

It’s not until I’m walking to my car that I realize my mother is somewhere experiencing a psychic burst of smug satisfaction that I did, in fact, run into my ex looking like hell.