Page 44 of Tourist Season

Arthur ignores my protests as the couple continues to talk and laugh, his aggravation deepening with every moment of their existence.

Though I try to pull his attention away, he seems happily steeped in his irritation, and maybe a little worn out by the emotion of our conversation.

So I let us slip into companionable silence.

Before long, Nolan returns with a box of popcorn in one hand and two cocktails balanced in the other.

“One Orbit-uary,” he says, passing me the drink with a flummoxed expression. “This place is fucking bizarre.”

“That’s what’s so great about Carnage. It’s unapologetically weird,” I say.

Nolan seems to ruminate on that as I take the popcorn from him under the guise of making it easier for him to get settled next to me, but when he reaches for it, I hold it beyond his reach.

“Where’s yours?” I ask with faux innocence.

“You didn’t forget it at the counter … did you? ”

The flat glare he gives me tastes better than the sweet cocktail I take a sip of. His eyes drop to my lips and darken. I can feel the hunger in him that has nothing to do with sugar and salt. A lick of heat coils deep in my belly. I’m flirting with him. And it’s working.

Hold on a second …

I’m flirting with him .

And it’s—

“Have you had dinner?” he asks. It looks as though it takes effort for him to peel his focus away from my mouth. I shake my head. He reaches over and wraps his warm palm around my forearm and reels it in until the box is resting on my lap. “We’ll get dinner after.”

My brows hike. My heart is flip-flopping in my chest like a fish drowning on air. “Don’t we have work to do?”

Nolan just shrugs. He keeps his attention on the stage as the lights lower and a hush descends across the crowd, but I still feel the pull of his thoughts, as though he wants to meet my eyes but denies himself the indulgence. “We need to eat,” he finally says.

Right. It’s just eating. Normal human biological stuff.

It’s not as though it’s a date or anything.

We haven’t even really gotten past the whole McMillan thing from the other day, despite my apology last night.

A bit of empathetic hand-holding and some popcorn doesn’t fix a murder-induced argument. Probably.

I’m not sure my heart gets the message. It reminds me of its existence with every thunderous beat.

It only gets worse as the show nears the end and Lukas’s Beast is shot by Gaston in a spray of blood, falling onto a crash pad just behind the set.

Belle gets her revenge by bodychecking Gaston into a fire, and in a halo of pyrotechnics, the dramatic climax moves swiftly to a happy ending.

I’m barely invested in the song-and-dance finale, despite the juggling act of severed limbs, not with Nolan taking up so much of my thoughts.

With the final bow from the cast, I help Arthur out of his seat for the standing ovation, looping his arm through mine so I can keep him steady.

When I look up at Nolan, he’s watching me as though he doesn’t quite know who he’s looking at.

People start filing out of their seats. I move to pull Arthur with me as I start following Nolan down the row, but Arthur twists free of my arm and sits back down. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Waiting here for Lukas,” he replies, settling his cane against the empty seat on his other side. He keeps his eyes on the stage. “Go to dinner with the tourist man.”

When I hesitate, he waves me off. I’ve been dismissed, but not without the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Nolan waits at the end of the row when he realizes I’m not right behind him, and that perplexed expression is there again, as though I’ve defied some kind of expectation and he doesn’t know what to make of me.

There’s still no sign of Sam among the crowd as we pass through the foyer, nor on the street as we head outside, where a warm evening breeze envelops us with a faint scent of the sea.

Many of the attendees make their way toward the Buoy and Beacon Pub for the Beauty and the Beast –inspired karaoke and half-price drinks.

Others head toward Main Street or the shoreline where the fancier bistros and restaurants will be open late.

But Nolan and I move as though caught in our own slipstream, drawn to somewhere darker and quieter in the opposite direction of the crowd, ambling slowly away from the voices and laughter and the glow of the ornate Victorian lamps that line the street.

Nolan stays close to my side, and though he doesn’t touch me, the heat of his presence warms my skin like a phantom caress.

“Are you going to tell me what got you rattled on your failed trip for popcorn?” Nolan asks, looking down his shoulder at me.

I let out a long, slow breath as I tamp down the urge to scan our surroundings with obvious panic. “It was Sam.”

“You saw him?”

“I more than saw him. I talked to him.”

A flicker of unease passes over Nolan’s face, a muscle fluttering in his clenched jaw. “About Arthur?”

I shrug, pressing my nails into my palm to keep myself from biting my bottom lip. “About me.”

“About you ,” he repeats, his voice incredulous. Fury cascades from him in thick waves. “Why? What did he want?”

“My story.” It’s not a lie. But Nolan watches me as though he knows it’s not the truth either. “He wants to interview me for his documentary. I think he’s still convinced that Arthur is La Plume. And he definitely knows there’s more to Cape Carnage than meets the eye.”

“Do you think when it comes out more widely that this McMillan guy is missing that it will throw him off course?”

“That’s what I’m hoping, but I don’t know,” I reply.

“I thought that if it happened while Arthur was clearly in the hospital, it would be a perfect alibi that could finally put that whole ‘Arthur is La Plume’ theory to bed. I’m sure another disappearance will keep Sam interested in Carnage, but at least Arthur will be safe, and I figured that if he doesn’t have a body or the suspect he wanted to pin everything on, he’d be forced to leave eventually.

But what if Sam’s too distracted to focus on anything other than the story he’s determined to tell?

Maybe this has all been a waste of effort. ”

“It’s not.” Nolan takes my hand. There’s such a relief in the warm touch. I don’t know what’s changing between us, or why. I can’t understand the tortured expression he gives me. I just know I don’t want this feeling to end. “I’ll find a way to steer him on the right path.”

“The ‘right’ path leads straight to me. Maybe I …” I swallow, looking away to the growing shadows that surround us. “Maybe I made a mistake. Let my emotions take too much control until I talked myself into making the wrong choice.”

“The ‘right path’ leads out of this fucking town. And that’s exactly where he’s going to go.

That’s a fucking promise, Harper,” he says, his voice low and laced with a vicious edge.

His hand tightens around mine. When I look up at Nolan, there’s no doubt written in his face, no trepidation.

He’s not a hero. This is not a promise bound by morality.

Nolan Rhodes is a villain. He’ll lie, he’ll manipulate, he’ll even kill for this promise.

He would burn this town to ash to keep his word.

“You did what you had to do, and he’ll leave when he doesn’t get the story he wants. We just have to stay the course.”

I give him a weak smile, a nod. But I know it will be hard to refocus Sam on one injured quarry when he’s already closing in on the bloody trail of another.

Nolan might not know the full details of my encounter with Sam, but I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing when he keeps hold of my hand as we follow a winding path of packed gravel that leads to an empty playground.

Or maybe he’s thinking about all the ways he intends to throw Sam off course.

Though I steal glances at him from the corner of my eye, I can only see stern determination in his expression as he keeps his sights on the path ahead.

And maybe I shouldn’t trust too much in his promises.

But as we slow to a stop and look down over the trail we took to get here, I find that I do believe him.

I might not have faith in heroes. But I trust the man at my side to make a vow and keep it.

For a while, we just stand in silence to observe the town and the growing dark.

From our little hill, we can see the attendees making their way in different directions.

The sea shimmers in the distance, picking up the last light of the fading day.

“We should let them all figure out where they’re headed,” he says.

“So we don’t have to fight for a table somewhere. ”

I sit on one of the swings, rocking back and forth. “Though I’d like to see a fight to the death over the Buoy’s nachos, I agree. I’ve eaten my body weight in popcorn anyway.”

Nolan gives me a faint smile before taking the swing next to mine.

For a long while, we don’t talk, letting the swings squeak in harmony instead.

I spot Lukas emerging from the theater with Arthur.

He helps him to the curb, and though we can’t hear the words, I can make out the body language clearly enough to see that Lukas is about to chuck himself under the judgy bus.

When Arthur pops his grandson on the head with the handle of his cane, I snort a laugh.

“How did you meet him?” Nolan asks as we watch Lukas jog down the street toward the nearby public parking lot.