Chapter Three

Natasha

One Year Ago, July

The old flip phone vibrates so loudly, I jerk, and coffee soaks the front of my white t-shirt. "Son of a bitch!"

The ringer could wake the dead, but "silent" mode is even worse. Maybe I should consider that smartphone Clancy keeps offering to buy me. But those can be tracked. This ancient brick doesn't have GPS. And the battery life is amazing. I can go four days without a charge.

I don't need a smartphone. I rarely leave the island. Gladys lets me use her computer whenever I ask, and Clancy pays for a couple of movie channels.

That's enough contact with the rest of the world.

I open the text message from the resort's reservation system.

Campsite 4: D. Reynolds

Arrival time: 12:00 p.m.

Length of stay: Two days

Damn. That's the fourth guest this week—and it's only Wednesday. When I took this job, all I had to do was hand out keys for the five cabins on the property whenever someone rented one—which wasn't often. But then Clancy's daughter discovered the joys of online advertising, and since then, the cabins are booked solid every weekend, and he turned a couple of acres into campsites.

Stripping off my t-shirt, I scowl at the coffee staining my bra. Why didn't I do laundry yesterday like I'd planned?

Because the asshole in the Orca Cabin clogged the toilet. Then spent almost two hours telling me everything he thought was wrong with the place. The air conditioner makes too much noise. The sheets are scratchy. There's an odd smell in the utility closet.

Yeah. Cleaning supplies.

I snag one of my sports bras from the hamper and give it a quick sniff. Passable. As long as I don't have to get too close to anyone. Shouldn't be that hard. Campers don't need much hand holding. I'll show D. Reynolds to Site 4, make sure he—or she—knows they have to wear a life vest if they take the canoe out on the Sound, and warn them about the mosquitos this time of year. Then I can take one of the kayaks and paddle until I'm so exhausted, maybe I'll be able to sleep through the night.

Hauling the laundry bag down to the basement, I wonder if I should run again. Four years, six months, and eleven days on Blakely Island. It's starting to feel like…home. More than anywhere I've been since I was twenty-one and enlisted in the army.

The fresh scent of the detergent reminds me of my childhood. Of weekends spent hanging laundry in the backyard on the base. Of folding clothes with my mom. Of my brother taking me trick-or-treating wearing mom's best flat sheet—after he'd cut eye holes in it. Mom was so angry, she grounded both of us.

I'd give anything to go back there now. Even just for an hour.

But I can't. Everyone I love—everyone I've ever cared for—is gone. Because of me. Because five of the men I served with were corrupt pieces of shit who thought they could get away with trafficking drugs and killing innocent civilians. Woman. Children.

"Stop it, Natasha. Don't go there."

The last time I let myself travel down memory lane, I ended up cracking the seal on the bottle of bourbon I keep behind the oatmeal. Then drinking until I couldn't see straight.

Gladys practically had to break down the front door to wake me up the next morning. Which, for an eighty-two-year-old woman who's all of four-foot-nine, is impressive.

Rather than dwell on the past, I pull on a tank top, shove the ancient flip phone into the back pocket of my shorts, and grab my ball cap before I head for the small ATV parked in the driveway. The entire island is only six miles across, and while we have a small airstrip and a marina, the main roads are more or less…suggestions.

By the time I get to the little boathouse in the center of the campground, my teeth feel like they're about to vibrate out of my skull. A drop of sweat rolls down my back. July usually brings a long stretch of warm weather, but this summer has been brutal. Maybe I'll skip the kayaking and swim instead.

I shut off the ATV, pull off the ball cap, and wipe my brow. At the bottom of the hill, Puget Sound sparkles in the sun, a million diamonds glittering all the way to the horizon.

Gladys sits on the wraparound deck, a massive insulated cup balanced on the arm of her Adirondack chair, and a scowl twisting her lips.

"I thought you were headed to Seattle to see your niece?" I ask when she fixes her steely gaze on me. In reality, Bella is her grand-niece, but reminding Gladys about her age will only get me a lecture about how you're only as old as you feel.

"That girl is on my shit list." Her voice carries the sultry depth of more than eight decades spent living—as she calls it. I call it smoking, drinking, and fucking everyone she could get her hands on. I've heard so many stories I'll never be able to forget. Including the one time—before she married—that she made out with a certain now-disgraced movie star on the red carpet at his movie premiere.

"What did Bella do this time?" I lean against the wood pillar at the edge of the steps and stare down at the water. If Logan had lived, would I be an aunt now? He always wanted a huge family. A husband. A white picket fence. Three kids. A couple of dogs.

My eyes start to burn. Why did he have to come back that night?

Because he didn't want you to testify. Because he knew what it would cost you.

If only he'd known it would cost him even more.

Gladys snorts and takes a swig from her tumbler. I bet she's got something a hell of a lot more potent than iced tea in there.

"She had the gall to suggest I might embarrass her at her company picnic. Me!" Pushing to her feet, she waves her hand up and down. "There ain't nothing embarrassing here."

I stifle a laugh. Gladys has two full sleeves of tattoos, orange and purple stripes in her short-cropped white hair, and her t-shirt has "Fuck Me Sideways" emblazoned across her boobs. She's also clearly not wearing a bra.

Her niece is a corporate lawyer.

"Gladys, Bella loves you. Don't be too hard on her."

I've heard all about Ms. Bella Cavalli, Esquire. Top of her class at Harvard Law School. Polished and professional with shining blond hair, legs for days, and a stare that makes her opponents wither in fear. But she's only twenty-seven. She hasn't hit that "life is precious" stage yet where she'll realize Gladys won't be around forever.

The older woman snags her tumbler and takes a healthy swig. Yep. I can smell the vodka. "If my sister Maisy were still alive, she'd set that girl straight right quick. Embarrassing, my ass."

"Gladys—"

We see the man at the same time. Six-foot-something with a neatly trimmed, gray and white beard, black pants, a light blue t-shirt, and a large ruck slung over one shoulder.

"Now that's a tall drink of water if I ever saw one," Gladys says. "He taking one of the cabins? Or a campsite?"

I'm still too shocked to speak and tug my ball cap a little lower over my eyes. Greeting campers and renters is risky. But I've done as much as I can to change my appearance over the years. Chopped off most of my long black hair, had my Ranger tattoo covered with flowers and hearts, put on twenty pounds—though that wasn't intentional. Perimenopause is a bitch.

If the wrong person recognizes me and reports my location to Bastian, it won't matter that he's locked up tight in Leavenworth. He'll find a way to end my life. But this—along with taking care of Clancy's house—is the job. A job that lets me live in peace on this tiny island so far north, I can see Canada from its highest point.

Mr. Tall and Silver ambles up the boathouse steps. His gaze slides from Gladys to me.

"I'm looking for Nat."

Oh, God. Even his voice is sex-on-a-stick. Deep and smooth, with a hint of the East Coast. Boston? Or New York? I was never very good at accents.

He swats a mosquito on his bicep, and my gaze is drawn to the tattoo winding around the bulky muscle. A parachute over an angel, with four words underneath.

That others may live.

Holy shit. He's Air Force Pararescue. Or was. PJs are the most unhinged sons of bitches on the planet. And the best trained. My squad never needed them, but I've heard stories. Lots of them.

Gladys elbows me in the side. "He's talking to you, Nat."

I blink hard and peer up at the man. "Sorry. That's me. You're Reynolds?"

"Doc," he says. "Doc Reynolds." He offers me his hand, and I place my fingers in his. They're warm, his grip strong.

I risk a quick glance up at his eyes. Dark blue with copper flecks. There's almost no emotion in them. Like he's shut down. Like he's been shut down for a long time. I know the feeling.

"You're at Campsite Four…Doc. I hope you managed to fit a tent in that ru—err, backpack. Because all we provide is a fire pit and a single electrical hookup."

His smile fades, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. "Got all I need. Just point me in the right direction and I'll be out of your way."

Well, that's a dismissal if I've ever heard one. I shouldn't be relieved. Not with the way his chest fills out that t-shirt.

Or maybe that's exactly why I should be relieved.

"Follow the path down to the water. Each campsite is clearly marked. You'll find a canoe propped against a huge piece of driftwood between sites three and four. Paddles and life vests are in the boathouse here. Bathrooms and showers are around the back." I jerk my thumb over my shoulder and catch sight of Gladys.

My God. She's practically drooling.

"If you find yourself in need, young man," she says, straightening to her full height, which still leaves her almost a foot shorter than me, "you call the number you got from Clancy. Nat will take care of you."

It's been forever since I've blushed—since I've had an excuse to—but two minutes with the handsome "Doc" and I might as well be a teenager again. My body's reaction pisses me off. I shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts and stare down at Doc's hiking boots.

"That number is for emergencies only," I mutter, then thrust a map at the man. "Clancy doesn't pay me enough to teach you how to build a fire or stake your tent. You don't know the basics, you're on your own."

"I can handle myself," he says, an edge to his tone. He nods at Gladys. "Ma'am." Turning, he glances back over his shoulder briefly. "Nat."

I've never called a man's voice "growly" before, but…whoa. I need a minute. Or…longer. Even if he is an ass.

Gladys sidles up to me, and we watch him head down the path in silence. He's built like a grizzly bear—barrel chest, strong biceps, a long, loping gait. Too bad his ruck is so big it mostly hides his ass. I'd bet it's a damn fine ass. With a pair of green feet tattooed on one of those tight butt cheeks. PJ tradition.

"Well, don't just stand there," Gladys says. "Go after him!"

"Wh-what?" I sputter.

"I swear, it's like you're trying to be alone for the rest of your life. That man is a fox."

With a huff, I turn away. "Fox or not, he's a camper. He'll only be here forty-eight hours. And I'm not looking for anything. You know that."

"He's a doctor."

My brows shoot up toward my hairline. "He said his name was Doc. For all you know, his parents could have been fans of Bugs Bunny."

Gladys takes me by the arms, but I jerk back. I'm not big on human contact. Not anymore. Too many years without more than a handshake.

"Baby girl." Her use of the term of endearment drags me back to the present, and I meet her tired, hazel eyes. "That man is lonely. And so are you."

"I'm not?—"

"Bullshit. You've been on this island for years. And I'm the only one you talk to."

No one fucks with Gladys when she's in full "mama bear" mode, so I stay quiet and let her say her piece.

"This is my home. Where Donald and I were supposed to live out our days together, sittin' on our porch with our morning coffee, watching the cruise ships go by." Her tone turns wistful, and her gnarled fingers run over her wedding ring—the one she's never taken off, even more than two decades after her husband's death. "But he went and had a heart attack at fifty-three. Round about the same age as that silver fox you just let walk away, I reckon."

Her gaze softens as she sinks back down into her creaky, wooden deck chair. "I don't know what brought you here, Nat. Why you stay in that big house all alone, fixing shit Clancy shoulda' taken care of a long damn time ago. He's lucky to have you. So am I. But you're too young to give up on life, and that's exactly what you're doin'."

My shoulders stiffen, annoyance prickling along my spine. "I haven't given up on anything. I like it here. I like my privacy. And I'm not interested in a one-night stand. Even if the guy is hotter than the surface of the sun. My Magic Bullet does me just fine."

She huffs. "Shitsicles. That toy won't keep you warm at night. Or make you chicken soup when you're sick."

"That's what I have you for." Over the years, Gladys has inserted herself into my life in so many ways I should never have allowed. More than once, I've been tempted to tell her my story. My real story. But she'd call her grand-niece and try to "fix" all my broken pieces. I can't let that happen. Because she's the one who would end up shattered.

"Baby girl…"

"No. I'm done with this conversation. I saw Mr. ‘Doc' Reynolds to Campsite Four. Or…pointed him in the right direction. And in two days, when it's time for him to go, I'll wave him off and that'll be the last of it."

Gladys is still sputtering and cursing under her breath as I stalk away from the boathouse. She'll forgive me. Eventually. She always does. We have a variation of this conversation every few months. Whenever one of the renters looks single—and isn't a total dick. Though Doc scored pretty high on the dick scale.

So why am I thinking about him for so long, I almost miss the turn back up the hill to my house?

Stop it, Natasha. He's hot. Nothing more.

Except Gladys is right. My Magic Bullet can't hold a candle to Doc Reynolds.