Page 2 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Chris

THREE MONTHS LATER

S mash!

Glass and soda explode in a lethal mess at my feet. I barely jump out of the way in time, hopping over my serving tray, which spins on the concrete floor like a dropped coin. Thank God I wore my Chucks today. I’d have broken my neck in heels.

All eyes in the restaurant are on me, so I do a little curtsy, the bracelets lining my arms jingling like the pain receptors in my shoulder. “Just making sure everyone’s paying attention!” I say cheerily, then fling my dirty blond ponytail over my shoulder.

I get a decent number of laughs, at least.

Still, when I bend down to pick up the glass, my stomach churns with anger at myself.

It’s been three months since my accident, and my shoulder still freaks out on me at random moments.

It doesn’t help that I had that recurring dream again last night, where a man in a motorcycle helmet carries me away from a fiery crash.

And each time I push his visor up to thank him, it’s not a stranger.

I was still thinking about that dream when I saw a kid at one of my tables sitting with his arguing parents, shoulders slumped, a look of defeat on his sweet little face.

I gave my head a shake and made him an extra special Shirley Temple, but just as I was bringing it to him, the door jingled.

When I turned to tell the customer there to seat herself, my shoulder said “surprise!” and shot pain through my whole arm, making me lose control of my tray.

A pair of boots and a broom appear by my side as I drop shards of glass onto my tray.

“Well, if it isn’t the Wicked Warlock of the West,” I tell my boss, Mac.

I expect him to roll his eyes and give me a begrudging grunt at my weak joke.

Instead, when I look up, all I see is concern on his grumpy-ass face.

Well, formerly grumpy-ass face. Since his wedding and the birth of his child last year, Mac’s scowls have been mostly replaced by a “pinch me, I have the best life ever” face.

Which is why I know the caterpillar fight going on where his eyebrows should be is all for me.

“Stop giving me that face,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“Really?” Mac starts sweeping. “Because you came back to work two weeks early. You’re supposed to be working half shifts a couple days a week. And now I hear you volunteered for a double?”

“You’re not supposed to be working today,” I toss at him.

“Neither are you! ”

I stand up and grab the dustpan from him. “Come on, Mac. I’m bored out of my mind at home!” Normally I appreciate Mac’s big brother routine. But not lately. Not when it’s downright oppressive.

“You don’t have to be bored. You can go to physical therapy. Read books. Watch movies like that Flower Duke thing you got Shelby into.”

“ The Duke and his Daffodil !” I exclaim. “Please, Mac, show some respect.” I can recite every line of that movie. Like my favorite: “I may be a scoundrel, but I’d never let an untruth past these lips. And the truth is, I love you, my sweet Daffodil.”

Yes, I’ve fully sobbed. My sweet Daffodil.

“But you’ve heard of too much of a good thing, right?

” I ask. Watching that movie three times a day isn’t healthy.

Neither is taking a break by reading the Duke books for the thousandth time.

Or fantasizing about a man on a motorcycle I’m supposed to hate.

In the hospital, enormous floral arrangements showed up every day, and no one could tell me who’d dropped them off.

A nurse confessed that someone had called over and over again, demanding to know if I was okay.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t tell him anything,” they said, since he wouldn’t identify himself.

As if that person was a danger and not the man who held my hand, telling me he wouldn’t leave me alone.

Until the paramedics showed up, then he vanished into thin air.

“I’m a doer,” I say to Mac now, thinking of how fruitless my “doing” efforts were when it came to identifying my Dirtface. “‘Not-doing’ is messing me up.”

Mac shifts the dustpan so I can stick the big glass pieces in it. “Okay, then. How about just getting out of the house?”

“I like my house.” I rent a little bungalow on the edge of Redbeard Cove, only a five-minute drive to the beach. Mac’s the one who helped me rent it when I moved back to town at eighteen. He and his sister Annie are the closest thing I’ve got to family.

Mac narrows his eyes. “You know what I mean. Walks on the beach? It’s right out there.” He throws a hand in the direction of the big windows that look out onto Redbeard Cove’s prettiest beach, currently a riot of icy November water splashing against gray sand and rocks.

“I walk all the damn time, Mac. With your sister and your wife, actually.” Sometimes.

Lana—who used to work here—is my usual walking partner.

But Mac’s wife Shelby and his sister Annie, my two other best friends, are who I tend to head out there with.

Not that I see any of them as much these days.

Lana and Raph pull the kids out of school every December to do an epic adventure, and right now they’re prepping for Australia.

Shelby’s busy with the baby and her new mom friends, and Annie travels all the time for work.

I understand, and I’m so happy for my friends.

But it’s hard to keep that old, familiar feeling of being all alone in the world stuffed down when it feels like everyone I love is moving on with their lives.

Everyone’s got big plans and beautiful futures—except me.

But I hate feeling sorry for myself. So I stand, taking the dustpan to deal with the last of the mess.

The last thing I want is to confess to Mac that I’m here because I’m fucking lonely.

“My physical therapy is done,” I remind him.

“I’m allowed to return to work.” Part time, the physical therapist recommended.

Desk work would be ideal . “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got customers. ” I shove the dustpan back at him.

Normally, my boss would roll his eyes like any big brother. But right now, he looks almost wounded.

Guilt balls up in my stomach. This is not me, and Mac knows it.

I’m the cheery, upbeat one. The game-for-anything, life-of-the-party girl who rides a dirt bike, dresses in all the colors of the rainbow, and reads spicy duke or motorcycle romances for fun.

Now I can’t ride, read books about riding, or bring myself to wear anything but black and white, and my duke books and movies are emotional support tools.

I haven’t been the same since my accident, and Mac knows it. I know it.

I really do have customers, though, and if I let Mac be kind to me for a minute longer, I’m going to fall apart right here in the middle of the restaurant floor.

Mac sighs, glancing at the poor woman I still haven’t brought menus to over my shoulder in our back corner booth. “Fine,” he says. “But come see me in my office after.”

“I’m not going home,” I say, already walking away.

“That’s up to me.”

I thumb my nose at him, and to his credit, he rolls his eyes like the old days. Mac really is a pain in my ass. But it is nice to be worried over.

I grab a pair of menus and take a deep breath to get back in the game .

The woman, I notice for the first time as I approach the booth, is extremely classy.

Her linen suit is a soft ivory that perfectly offsets the deep brown of her skin.

Her giant dangly gold earrings are all the more dazzling because there’s no hair to interfere with them—what little she has is buzzed a millimeter from her scalp.

She’s also very pregnant, and the glow is real.

“You’re a model, aren’t you?” I say when I get to her table. “Tell me the truth.”

The woman seems surprised by my frankness. Most people are. But it’s true. She looks like she stepped off a runway, which we definitely don’t have here in our tiny Canadian seaside town.

“Not at all.” She smiles. “But thank you. I hope I didn’t startle you when I came in.” She’s talking about the tray I dropped.

“Oh no, I smash a glass for every new customer.”

The woman lets out a chirp of laughter. Then quirks her head. “You’re funny!” She says it like she wasn’t expecting it.

I smile. I already have a friend crush. “I try. Can I get you some water to start?”

The woman opens her mouth to answer, but her phone buzzes on the table.

Which is weird, because she’s still holding it in her hand.

“Sorry,” she says, picking it up and glancing at the text she just received.

I see belatedly that she’s got two phones, both the latest model smartphone.

That’s four or five thousand dollars’ worth of phones in her hands.

I think of my beat-up old model in my locker that loses battery the minute I pull out the charging cord .

“Shit,” she says. “Okay, this is a strange ask. I thought I’d have more time, but the person I’m waiting for is almost here.

Is there any way you could have a couple club sodas with limes on the table when he gets here?

Your biggest glasses. Also…I’ll throw an extra fifty on the tip if you can do that and tell him you don’t serve booze before noon.

Or to tall men or something. Whatever it takes to make sure he doesn’t have a drink. ”

My mood immediately darkens. “Is there a problem? Because we can bar entry to anyone—even a boyfriend or husband. Especially one of those if they’re a problem.”

“Oh, God no. It’s not like that. And we’re not together.” She makes a thank God face. “He’s just a—well, you’ll see.”

Her phone buzzes again. She scowls. “I swear the man would ask me how to take a piss if he didn’t have the apparatus already attached to him.

Actually, I think he did once, at that afterparty…

” As if she can see my confused expression from the side of her head, she says, “Is that a yay or nay on the drinks? How about I make it a hundred?”