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REN

Siren Song, Maine

W hen Ren recalled his childhood visits to the quaint fishing town of Siren Song, he thought he must be polishing the memory, but he was wrong.

The town was picturesque. Autumn was approaching; the cool air carried a hint of cinnamon, and the leaves of the maple trees that lined the street were tinged with pink.

He parked the car in front of the Cracked Claw diner and scanned his surroundings.

Stella emerged from the passenger seat, clipped on Newton’s leash, and came to Ren’s side. She made a frame with her fingers and said, “Wish you were here.”

Ren laughed. “Everywhere you look is a postcard.”

Main Street ran in a semicircle, following the bay coastline.

The town hall crowned the center, and smaller buildings stretched on either side.

The locals called the main drag “The Hug” because the layout resembled a torso with two outstretched arms. Shops dotted the road, and neighborhoods with charming cottages ran back to the bluff.

Crates of colorful fruits and vegetables were stacked outside the market on display.

White plastic buckets of lilies, tulips, and roses sat on a table in front of the flower shop.

On the water side of Main Street, the row of stores was intersected by a wide dirt road that led to the marina where fishing boats, trawlers, and recreational vessels docked.

The commercial fishermen delivered their hauls in Portland and returned to Siren Song to clean the boats.

Men and women were on the dock in overall waders, hosing down equipment and repairing nets.

A strip of grass and maple trees separated the street from the charming buildings lining it.

The Lobster Trap restaurant featured a wraparound porch and a huge tank containing the town’s most famous resident, a thirty-two-pound lobster named Leonardo DaPinchy.

Ren’s lips tipped as he remembered the story of two teenagers rescuing Pinchy and setting him free in the ocean.

The following day, the restaurant owner found Pinchy on the front lawn beneath his tank.

“You look lost in a daydream.” Stella nudged Ren with her elbow.

“Nothing’s changed. I feel like I’m ten years old again, biking down to Lickity Split for a soft serve. Even the cars are twenty years old.”

“Twenty-five, Grandpa.”

Ren scratched his stubble. “Iggy was an idiot even then. Darting in and out of traffic, playing chicken with delivery trucks. At least once a summer, some driver would haul Iggy back to the house and tell his parents he was going to get himself killed.”

“How did he die?” she asked.

“Just how I would have guessed. Hit and run on his motorcycle, no helmet.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ren nodded toward a cozy diner. “Breakfast?”

“Sure.”

They found a round table on the side patio and sat down while Newton curled up at Ren’s feet.

The waiter was an affable older man with a bald head and a stained white apron tied around his substantial girth.

“Morning,” he greeted them, handing each a laminated menu.

“You guys still do the cranberry french toast?” Ren asked.

“It’s our specialty,” the man replied.

Ren handed back the menu. “And a black coffee.”

“I’ll have the same,” Stella said.

The waiter flipped over the two white mugs and filled them from the pot on the outdoor serving station.

“You all vacationing?” he asked as he poured.

Ren added cream to his coffee. “Yes. We’re staying at Cliffside House.”

The man’s eyes flashed with momentary surprise.

Stella cupped her mug and observed Ren. He didn’t know what it was about the woman across from him, but Ren had to admit he liked being the object of her attention.

“Seems like the house has a history,” Ren coaxed.

The waiter looked over his shoulder, then leaned in. “The old man who lived there died a few years ago.”

Ren wanted to keep him talking. “Yeah, we heard that.”

Relieved he wasn’t sending two tourists running for the hills, their host tucked his order pad in the apron pouch and continued, “Franklin was a nice enough guy. Bit of a hermit—only came to town for necessities. Didn’t care for visitors either.

The local realtor said Franklin stuck a shotgun in his face when he tried to make an offer on the house. ”

“Doesn’t sound very neighborly,” Stella commented.

A foursome of women took a nearby table, and the waiter held up a chubby finger to them. “Yeah, he was a grouch. My kids and their friends used to bike up to the bluff when they were little. Franklin would yell at them from his yard, ‘Watch the road! You’re gonna get killed!”

Franklin had barked the same warning to Ren as a child. Now, as a circumspect thirty-eight-year-old, he saw the wisdom of the warning.

Remembering the remnant of crime scene tape, Ren asked, “How’d he die.”

With a shudder, the man pointed to the treacherous cliff with his pen. “Jumped.”

“Suicide?” Stella didn’t hide the surprise in her voice.

“A real shame.” The waiter ended the conversation. “Your food’ll be out in a bit.”

Stella

S tella watched Ren eat, desperately trying to conceal her attraction. When she posed as Sofria Kirk, she found him good-looking in a general sort of way—handsome, intelligent, kind. Stella Keen was a different woman. She didn’t go for the golden retriever; she wanted a junkyard dog.

Ever since the incident with the trucker, Stella was seeing Ren through a different lens. He had single-handedly—with a back full of buckshot—killed the three men attacking her without breaking a sweat. Afterward, his only concern was for her.

She knew Ren had been a SEAL; she just imagined him sitting at a desk analyzing maps and discussing strategy, not actually in battle. Maybe part of her didn’t want to envision that, knowing the effect it would have.

Then there was the sex—that one blazing encounter on the floor of her hotel room in England.

Stella had spent years smothering her sexuality.

If she had to flirt or date or let a man touch her, it was always as her undercover identity.

Stella Keen didn’t get close to anyone. Stella Keen was a shell, a weigh station between jobs.

Except now it didn’t feel like that. She had allowed Ren an intimacy she had never experienced, and the floodgates had opened.

Stella assured herself that these feelings were physical, not emotional.

She recalled his body over hers—the memories of him moving inside her mingled with his brutal rage in that garage.

It was fucked up, yes, but Stella couldn’t deny the effect because right now, she wanted to lean across the table and lick the glistening drop of syrup off of his lower lip.

“What?” Ren asked as he swallowed the last bite.

“Nothing.” Stella blurted and grabbed her mug, sloshing coffee over the side. “What do people do in this town? Like for fun?”

Ren wiped the tempting sweetness from his mouth with the red checkered napkin. “We can walk around The Hug, check out the bookstore, and grab some supplies at the market. The place isn’t a huge tourist destination, but we shouldn’t attract too much attention.”

“What’s our story?” she asked.

“I was thinking newlyweds who unexpectedly inherited the house.”

Ren left cash on top of the check, and again, Stella found herself staring at his muscled forearms. Her ogling seemed to annoy him. He tugged on Newton’s leash and walked across the patio to the sidewalk before turning to make sure she was following.

REN

R en wanted to punch something. Three years ago, he had been so attracted to this woman that he developed a schoolboy obsession.

Rarely had a day gone by that Ren didn’t imagine touching her.

He couldn’t count how many times he had choked his thick erection in the shower, images of her pliant body racing through his mind.

But as he got to know Sofria Kirk , Ren realized something was missing.

Physically, she was his dream girl, but emotionally, the passion had drained from his attraction like a slow leak in a tire.

Enter Stella Keen. She was nothing like her undercover identity. She had lied to him, spied, deceived, led him on. Sofria Kirk had been a calming, settled presence. Stella Keen was a breeder of discord.

And Ren wanted to fuck her more than he wanted to breathe.

Ren had issues in the bedroom rooted in his unconventional childhood, so he rarely indulged in sexual fantasies and never kink. But Stella Keen had him imagining scenarios that would make a Dom blush.

Those fantasies, colliding with his hatred for the woman who had played him for three years, were the source of his current frustration.

Back on their SEAL squad, Ren and Steady used to play a game: Marry, Fuck, Kill. They’d name three women and then choose which one got which designation.

Stella Keen was the answer to all three.