Page 20

CHAPTER TEN

Death had a way of following me home—like gum stuck to the bottom of my favorite vintage pumps.

I slammed the CLOSED sign against the door with more force than necessary, sending the silver bell into a frantic jingle that matched my heartbeat.

Charleston had left me with more than just answers—it had awakened old ghosts and created new ones.

“Some partner you are,” I muttered to Chowder, who was sprawled in his window seat, paws twitching in doggy dreams. “I’m chasing down murderers while you’re napping in the sunshine.”

At the sound of my voice, one eye popped open. He snorted, then rolled over, presenting me with his wrinkled backside.

“So that’s how it is,” I said, turning back to the espresso machine. “Just remember who controls the treat jar.”

My hands moved in a familiar rhythm, cleaning the gleaming silver surface until I caught myself humming “Someone to Watch Over Me,” the irony not lost on me.

The memory of Brooks’ haunted expression flickered behind my eyes.

It was only supposed to be a fling, but I fell in love with her. It was impossible not to.

The bell above the door jingled, snapping me from my dark reverie. My heart did a ridiculous little skip before I forced it back to a respectable pace. Right on schedule—so predictable I could set my watch by him—and yet somehow the sight of him still managed to surprise me every time.

“We’re closed, Sheriff,” I called over my shoulder, unable to hide the smile in my voice as I arranged the clean cups. “Even for Grimm Island’s finest.”

“Seems I’ve developed a habit of catching you after hours,” he replied, his voice carrying a husky note that sent a bolt of electricity straight down my spine.

I spun around, retort ready on my lips, but the words dissolved on my tongue.

He stood in the doorway, sunset backlighting him like he was posing for a magazine cover.

Instead of his usual pressed uniform, he wore a gray suit that made him look more like a Wall Street executive than a small-town sheriff.

The jacket stretched across his shoulders in a way that made my mouth go dry.

His tie hung loosened at his neck, collar unbuttoned like he’d been slowly strangling all day and had finally broken free.

His dark hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it in frustration, and the effect was devastating.

“Bad day with the press?” I asked, gesturing to his formal attire, hoping my voice didn’t betray the sudden desert in my mouth.

He raked a hand through that already disheveled hair, the movement causing his jacket to pull tight across his chest.

Sweet mercy.

“Let’s just say I prefer criminals to journalists,” he said with a grim smile that would have sent lesser women to their fainting couches. “At least with criminals, you know where you stand.” His eyes found mine as he moved deeper into the shop. “You never did give me an answer about dinner.”

Heat crept up my neck as I remembered his earlier invitation.

Between break-ins, mysterious stalkers, and treasure hunts, I’d conveniently forgotten to respond.

“Been a little busy,” I said, fumbling with a teacup that suddenly seemed determined to leap from my grasp. “The new sheriff is a real taskmaster.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward, a small chink in his professional armor. “I’ll put in a good word for you. Everyone needs to eat. What do you say? Tonight? I was hoping we could talk somewhere more private.”

My pulse betrayed me, but then I remembered the case. Of course he’d want to talk somewhere more private.

“Right,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “No one knows we’re working on this case. Where did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking my place,” he said, watching me carefully.

“You cook?” I asked, my pulse going back into overdrive at the thought of being with him in his home. Alone.

He grinned and tugged at his tie again. “I’m a champion at takeout. I already know all the best places on the island.”

I was having trouble getting enough spit in my mouth to swallow. “That is a bad, bad idea.” My voice came out in a croak.

“Why?”

“Because my reputation would be shot,” I said.

“There is no mercy on this island. Denise Gruber got caught going to third base with her boyfriend when I was a senior in high school and she’s been labeled damaged goods ever since.

Couldn’t get a date to save her life after that.

She had to move to Colorado and start over.

Finally found a husband last year, but I hear she’s had to pay a fortune in therapy to get her self-esteem back. ”

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“This is the South,” I said. “There are expectations.”

“Who sets the expectations?”

“I have no idea,” I said, having wondered the same thing my entire life. “It’s the way it’s always been.”

“That makes no sense,” he said. “I’ve been here less than a month and I already know more scandals about the people on this island than I’ve ever known anywhere else I’ve lived.”

“So you’ve moved around a lot?” I asked, curiously.

He arched a brow and said, “Nice try.”

“I thought so.” And then I sighed. “Every family on this island has scandals. But everyone pretends they don’t know about them. So they’re secret scandals.”

“Except everyone does know about them,” Dash said.

“Yes, but there are rules. You talk about that kind of stuff behind people’s backs.

You don’t bring it up in the middle of a dinner party.

Unless someone has had too much to drink.

That’s happened from time to time. But then the next day everyone pretends the drunk person wasn’t drunk and that whatever they brought to light never happened. It’s how we function here.”

“That’s absolute insanity,” Dash said, looking at me like I was from outer space. “So won’t everyone pretend they don’t know you’re at my house for dinner and then talk about it behind your back? Why aren’t you allowed a scandal?”

“Oh, I’ve had my fair share,” I said, my lips pinching involuntarily. “Just ask anyone what they thought about Patrick marrying the McCoy girl.”

“I thought McCoy was your married name,” he said.

“No, Patrick’s family name is DuBose,” I said.

“I’d planned to change my name, but we travelled for a lot of the first year we were married, and then when we came back to the island and bought the house I got busy with making it a home.

I figured I’d get around to changing my name eventually, but then Patrick died. We were only married two years.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice almost brought tears to my eyes.

“Thank you,” I said. “It was a difficult time. And my family doesn’t have the island pedigree.

The only reason I’m accepted now is because I’m Patrick’s widow.

In a lot of ways, it’s a lot easier to be his widow than it was to be his wife.

But there are behaviors that are expected along with that position.

I can’t just waltz into strange men’s homes at night without facing the consequences. ”

“You think I’m strange?” he asked, smiling.

I felt heat rush to my face. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t need to be tomorrow’s headline at Grits and Giggles.”

“You’re a grown woman who’d be coming for dinner,” he said. “I’m not asking you to show up naked and make us fried chicken.”

“Well, that would be a terrible idea,” I said. “I’d never make fried chicken naked. At least not without an apron.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling, and in that moment, I couldn’t have told him my name if he’d asked.

“Now that’s an image I won’t get out of my head anytime soon,” he said. “Come on. We’ll go out to dinner instead. How come you’re not worried about my reputation?”

“Oh, you’re an outsider,” I said. “You’re expected to have a sordid reputation. It’s practically a requirement.”

“I had no idea there were so many expectations on this island,” he said, studying me with those dark eyes.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” I said. “There’s a steakhouse on the edge of the island—The Salt House. I’ve heard it’s good.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that too,” he said. “We can stop by your house first to drop off Chowder.”

I hesitated, suddenly imagining Mrs. Pembroke’s opera glasses trained on us from across the street, her fingers already dialing the island gossip hotline.

“That would be nice,” I said, the words emerging surprisingly steady.

Chowder’s head popped up so fast I worried he’d given himself whiplash. His bulging eyes darted between us with an expression of pure canine calculation.

“Don’t worry, boy,” I said, scratching his wrinkled head. “I’ll feed you dinner first.”

After locking up, we walked into the parking lot and I noticed his Tahoe parked next to my car. “I’ll follow you home,” Dash said, his voice a dark promise that sent a shiver down my spine.

Ten minutes later, I stood in my bedroom, looking in the mirror and barely recognizing the woman staring back at me.

I’d chosen a royal-blue dress that had been hiding in the back of my closet for years.

The fitted bodice hugged my curves before flaring into a full skirt that swished satisfyingly when I moved.

A matching fabric belt cinched my waist, tied with a small bow that added a touch of whimsy to the classic silhouette.

I’d painted my lips a deeper red than usual and pinned my hair in soft waves that framed my face.

Pearl earrings caught the lamplight as I tilted my head, examining this strange creature in the mirror.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with something I hadn’t seen in years—anticipation, excitement, life.

The blue made my blond hair seem brighter, my skin more luminous. I looked…awake. Like someone had finally tugged aside the heavy curtains I’d been hiding behind and let the sunlight pour in.