Page 20 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

I look at her, wondering what she’d think if she knew I caused a woman I was half in love with to break half the bones in her body.

That’s what Mabel said. She said “your ‘dream girl’”—she’d used air quotes, since that’s what I’d called her when I first saw her—“broke a bunch of bones and had to be transported to Vancouver, but she’s okay.

” Mabel told me she moved away after that, and I didn’t need to obsess about it anymore.

“Let this be a lesson to you—think about your own safety,” she’d said.

She seemed happy. She didn’t like me riding the dirt bike.

She said I was going to smash my million-dollar face.

Mabel never talks about it now. Or the other thing.

But I never stopped thinking about her. Not until Chris. And the shittiness of knowing another woman made me forget someone I’d called my dream girl so easily? No matter how incredible that woman is?

“I’m fine,” I say to Chris. “Can you move, please?” I sound like a fucking robot.

Chris steps aside, and I open the door to the spa. The soft music, which is supposed to be soothing, feels like needles in my ear.

The spa receptionist abruptly stands when I enter the room, and I hear the smash of something hitting the floor. I watch her swallow. “Hello, sir. Mister Donnach. Mr. Hopper.”

Great. A superfan. “Yes,” I say. “It’s me.” I know I sound like an asshole. But that’s who I am, right? Chris had me feeling for a moment like I was good, but she doesn’t know.

The way the woman flinches makes me want to die.

“What he means,” Chris says, “is ‘Hello, how are you?’”

“What the hell is the matter with you?” she whispers to me.

Fuck, she’s beautiful. That mole by her hairline, like God got a little paint there but decided to leave it because it looked so goddamned pretty.

But when I focus on her eyes again, there are a thousand things there.

Anger. Confusion. Hurt. And something I swear looks a little like deep, real concern.

I close my eyes. I need her to stop being good to me. “Nothing’s the matter with me. I just want my fucking massage.”

“And you can have your fucking massage. But first I’m going to need you to tell me what just happened.”

I harden my expression. And even though it feels like hell, I harden my voice, too. “Enough, Chris. You’re forgetting you work for me, not the other way around.”

I hate every word that just came out of my mouth. But I never should have let myself relax around her. Better to nip this shit in the bud now. Keep things professional like it’s my goddamned policy to do.

When she won’t stop staring, I say, “All you have to do right now is not ask questions and enjoy a spa day. Okay?”

Chris’s eyes are so steady a stranger might think I haven’t affected her.

But even though I’ve only known her for a few weeks, I’ve been a student of Chris Maplewood.

I can see every minute shift in her expression, each shade adjustment in her skin.

There’s a pink I haven’t seen before now.

But it’s not a good one. It’s pain that I caused.

I look away, like a bad dog. Good. This is good .

“Hopper,” Chris says.

I don’t look back at her. If I do, I’m worried I might break into pieces right here in the spa waiting room.

Luckily, just then, a door in the back opens and a familiar gray-haired, brown-skinned woman in a spa uniform appears.

“Manaia,” I say, the same way I might say Mom. That on its own slices a very specific pain in my chest. Manaia helped me out after the incident here. She told me nothing fazes her, since she has five grown sons.

“Hello, honey,” Manaia says in her rich Samoan accent. Her eyes go from me to Chris. She picks up instantly on the tension there. Or maybe she sees the receptionist who’s sitting there looking so awkward I think she might cry.

“Looks like you came in at just the right time,” Manaia says to me.

Chris is still staring at me, still looking at me like I’ve turned into some kind of ugly monster. Which I have.

“You going to use the spa, sweetheart?” the older woman asks her.

She finally tears her eyes from me, softening for Manaia. “Oh…no. I’m okay. I have a book.”

“You sure? It’s on his bill. You don’t need to book any services. We’ve got plunge pools, a steam room, an aromatherapy sauna…”

“It’s fine. I didn’t bring my suit,” Chris says, looking like she wants to walk out and never look back. I’d get that. It would be for the best. I can handle my shit on my own. Go back to that old therapist Mabel said we could trust .

“There’s no one else here,” Manaia tells her. “You don’t need a suit.”

“Or if you prefer, we can give you one of these,” the receptionist pipes up to say. She points to a rack full of skimpy bikinis.

“No,” Chris says sharply. Then, seeming to sense the intensity of her tone, says, “I mean, I don’t wear those. But honestly, I’m fine with my book, thank you. Hopper, I’ll meet you at the car in?—”

“An hour and a half,” Manaia says. “Shall we, love?” she asks me.

Manaia opens the door. I should follow her there, to get my back broken and put back together again. But Chris’s fists are clenched at her sides, her knuckles white. I have the sudden urge to go over there, to drop to my knees and beg her to forgive me for being me.

Instead, I tilt my chin down. “Let’s go,” I tell Manaia. Ever the uncaring asshole.