Page 49 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Hopper

I slip into the shop with a jingle of bells and a curse on my lips. “Fuckers.”

I keep my hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt. A moment later, through the rain-streaked window, I watch as the dark sedan with the telephoto lens sticking out the back window passes by.

I let out a breath and turn around, taking my hat off to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

Then I blink. Because of fucking course I have an audience.

I inadvertently ducked into the Bean Scene—one of the most popular gathering places in Redbeard Cove.

Every time I’ve been in here, the place has been buzzing with people and music and the scent of coffee and fresh-baked muffins.

Not today. It is all those things, but at the moment, you could hear a pin drop. Every eye in the place is on me.

“Hello,” I say awkwardly, since they all know it’s me anyway.

“Hi, Hopper!” says a lady in her sixties at the table next to the window.

I recognize her as one of the owners of the inn where my dad was staying.

I recognize her because I dragged my ass over there two days after he found me at Chris’s, only to find that he didn’t actually stay for a week like he said he was going to.

Because of course he didn’t. The man never did keep his word.

“He left you this, though,” the woman had said, handing me an envelope with my initials on it. As I left, she’d blurted out, “My grandson just loves your Laser movies!” I ended up signing a piece of paper she scrounged up for it and posing for a smiling selfie, despite the turmoil in my guts.

I nod at her, and she must sense my unease, because she claps her hands and says, “Back to your coffees, folks. Nothing to see here.”

To my surprise, almost everyone dutifully obeys.

I give the woman a grateful smile, and she winks at me.

But as I tromp toward the counter, I see her looking around the room, her expression confused.

I see what she’s looking at. The patrons here aren’t exactly going back to their regular conversations.

They’re whispering. Glaring as I pass their tables.

I frown. I must be wearing my asshole face again.

I feel both guilty about this and relieved I’m not going to be mobbed.

I don’t have time for any more delays. I’m supposed to be on my way to the town pier right now.

My suitcase is already in the water taxi, Cindi having cleverly dropped it off an hour ago, with that envelope unopened inside.

The plan was for me to drive to the pier on my motorbike, because the bike will fit on the boat.

From there, I can take the bike directly to the airport in Vancouver.

I was pretty fucking proud of that plan, made entirely by me with only a little help from Cindi.

I’ve been doing okay without an assistant.

Or…two assistants. Sort of. Okay, there have been some growing pains.

Like today’s unexpected crowd of paparazzi at the end of my driveway.

“Did you want to order something? Or are you just going to stand there looking like an asshole?”

I’m at the counter now, and that surly bastard I see sometimes is the only one behind it.

“Wow. Quite the welcome,” I say, irritated by this frosty reception on top of every-fucking-thing else. Isn’t it enough my heart’s been ripped right out of my chest? Effectively by my own hand?

“What can I say?” the man says, leaning over. “You fired Chris.”

Word travels fast. Especially when that word is bullshit. Adrian texted me a photo of a headline when the story broke: Hopper Donnach Fires Entire Team in Shocking Move! saying, “Anything you want to tell me?”

I guess that explains the evil glares around the room. The innkeeper obviously doesn’t read the gossip rags, since she still looks like the only one who doesn’t want to skewer me.

“I didn’t—” I begin. Then I grit my teeth, stopping myself. The man has turned around to plate a muffin from the little reheating oven, which he sets on the counter. “Bob, your muffin’s up,” he booms.

He refocuses his glower at me. I don’t think he’s going to help me.

“Where’s the nice girl?” I ask. “You know, yay high, big blond hair.” This is not my best move, clearly, because the man hulks out at that. “Ex-fucking-cuse me?”

“The woman who normally works here at night,”I snap back.

The man looks like he’s going to blow. He’s not a small guy. In fact, he’s quite large, with a thick chest and middle. It doesn’t matter that I probably have a good fifty pounds of muscle on him; he looks ready to fight.

“I need a little help,” I grit out, puffing my own chest out, “and you don’t exactly look very charitable.”

He does something I don’t expect then. He walks around the corner so he’s in front of the counter with me.

He stops a few feet from me, looking me directly in the eye.

I don’t scare easily, but clearly neither does he.

Then he picks up poor Bob’s muffin, cocking it over his head like he’s going to throw it at me.

“Her name,” the man grits out, “is Dolly.”

The muffin’s fighting for its life in the guy’s fist. “You don’t fucking look at her,” he says. “You don’t fucking talk to her. I don’t care if?—”

“ Miles !” the innkeeper—Diane, I think her name is?—comes up between us, planting her hands on both our chests.

I take the opportunity to reach out and grab the muffin from his hand before he does something he regrets with it.

“Listen, buddy,” I say before he freaks out.

“I don’t want to be here as badly as you don’t want me here.

I want to be in LA. I want it to be tomorrow, enacting a harebrained plan I hope is as big a grand gesture as that time the Duke built a castle by hand for his lady in The Duke Takes A Wife. Although maybe I should do that too.”

“Good book,” someone murmurs from one of the tables. I guess I’ve had my voice raised.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” the man demands. He reaches for the muffin, but I jerk it out of reach.

“I’m saying”—I lean in, muffin out of the way—“I’m not going to steal your lady, asshole. I’m in love with Chris and I need to get to LA so I can win her fucking back. Capisce?”

Gasps and aah s now arise from the tables.

“Hopper!” Diane admonishes me now. “Would both of you just calm down and?—”

The bells on the door jingle, interrupting all of us. Before anyone can register what’s going on, flashes pop. “Hopper!” The paparazzo calls, as if he hasn’t already gotten my full attention.

“Get the fuck out!” Both Miles and I yell this at the same time, in the same roar. Only I add emphasis by hurling the projectile in my hand. The pastry goes flying, hitting the pap’s camera lens and bouncing to the ground.

“Hey, my muffin!” comes a voice from near the bathrooms. Bob, presumably.

“Come on,” I tell Miles. “We need to lock him out. They’re like rats. They always attract more of each other.”

Miles grunts, and a moment later, we’re both barreling over there. The paparazzo actually jumps in the air when he sees us coming. I think if he had a hat, it would pop off his head. The guy bolts, and Miles locks the door.

“Thanks, man,” I say. “Is there a back door or something?”

I guess we’re friends now.

A few minutes later, after Bob accepts a signed napkin—and the hundred bucks I thrust at him—I’m waving goodbye to the now mostly friendly crowd, reassuring them I’ll be back, since I’m still filming here.

I hurriedly promise Diane I’m going to recommend we film at her inn for a scene coming up and sign a few more quick autographs.

Then Miles and I are hustling down a concrete corridor behind the shops.

“There’s a door at the other end of the block that should be clear,” he tells me.

“I’m sorry about being an asshole,” I say as we walk at a clip. “Turns out I’m kind of a shit when I’m in love with someone I might not get to keep.”

“Better than someone who was never yours in the first place,” Miles says. He looks instantly embarrassed, like he didn’t mean to say that. Before I can ask what he means, he says, “Anyway, I thought you were a shit all the time.”

That stings, even though it’s nothing new.

I’m hoping to deal with that soon, though.

Tru and I have been talking. She thinks Mabel was milking my bad reputation, setting me up in ways that would ensure I looked disagreeable.

“She might have thought she was insulating you from threats from your dad,” Tru said.

“Can’t tarnish an already tarnished reputation.

But I don’t think it’s the best approach.

” I should have promoted her years ago .

“Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you read,” I tell Miles now.

“Or see?”

I narrow my eyes at him, and he lifts a corner of his mouth. “Takes one to know one,” he says.

Yeah, I think we might just be friends. When I get back.

But I grind to a halt as I see the door we’re passing. Over the top it says Pink Cheeks. “Is this a bookstore?”

“Yeah. Romance books.”

“This is Chris’s friend’s place, right?”

Miles frowns. “Lana’s, yeah.”

I push through the door, saluting the woman doing stock in the back. “Hello.”

She drops the book in her hand, her mouth gaping.

“Sally,” grunts Miles behind me as he follows me in. “I thought you were in a hurry?” he asks me.

“This’ll only take a sec. The plane will wait.” I grimace sheepishly as I realize what an asshole that makes me sound like. “Only so long. They still have a departure window.”

Miles looks at me like I should be called Prince von Wankerface the Third.

“Never mind,” I say. “Where are the Duke books, please?” I ask the woman at the counter once we get through to the store proper, which is surprisingly large.

She points to a section near the front without looking up from her book.

A Duke book, ironically. I grab what I’m looking for—the latest in the series—and head for the cash. “I’ll take this, please,” I say.

She takes her sweet time looking up.“Sorry, such a good part!” she says, holding her finger over the page, her eyes still moving fast. I guess most patrons are used to this. “Did you know Hopper Donnach is in town? He plays the Duke in the movies.”

“How the hell is she reading and talking at the same time?” I ask Miles.

“You’re gonna want to look up, Barb,” Miles says.

The woman looks up. When she sees me standing there, she shrieks, her book flying through the air. I catch it neatly and hand it back to her, giving her my best smile.“Sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush.”

Her hands flap around her, and Miles lets out a breath. “Hoo, boy.”

“You know what?” I say, pulling out my wallet. “Here. Keep the change.” I throw down a bill. “Actually,” I say, thinking out loud, “could you please also pack up a box of one of each of the other Duke books? No, three of each. You can send them to this address.”

I grab a pen and notepad off the counter and scribble the beach house address on it. Then I set both back and pull most of the rest of the bills out of my wallet. “I think this should cover it?”

“Dude, that’s like two thousand dollars,” Miles says. “Maybe five.”

“Use the rest for coffee breaks,” I tell the woman, who still hasn’t found her voice. “There’s a nice place next door. We good?”

She nods.

I tuck the single book under my arm and jerk my chin at Miles. At the back of the store, I say, “I think I can find my way from here. Maybe you can check to make sure she’s still standing?”

He nods, looking not surprised so much as mystified by my life.

I thrust out my hand. “Hopper, by the way.”

“Miles.”

I back up, heading for the back of the store again before turning around at the door to the stockroom. “Hey, Miles?”

He grunts.

“You’re only an asshole so long as you believe it. Maybe we can grab a beer when I’m back in town? If you’re interested. I could use a no-bullshit friend.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. But I interpret that as a maybe. It’s a start.

I sprint the rest of the way out of the building, and when I see I’m in the clear. I run the whole way to the pier.