Chapter 3

THREE

“This is going to be amazing!”

Penelope Pepper sat cross-legged on one of the twin beds in the guest room to which Boo had helped Harper—and Jack, of course—carry her bags. Because Mr. Save the World couldn’t stop himself from following her outside, despite her protest, and grabbing her satchel and carrying it inside.

Which left her with her backpack and the wedding gift, wrapped and stowed in a large paper shopping bag. Oh, and her blue bridesmaid dress, still in the bag sent to her apartment in Nashville. Boo had grabbed that as she led them upstairs to one of the gorgeous bedrooms. Light-blue velvet curtains, plush twin beds with thick white comforters, bulky knitted blankets at the end, overstuffed pillows, and a vintage restored dresser with a spray of fresh flowers between the beds.

Yes, this was better than a closet.

Penelope hugged one of the linen pillows to herself, looking radiant, her dark-brown hair cascading down her back, a hint of a Caribbean glow on her skin. Clearly, she’d escaped with her family down to their vacation home in St. Kitts, in the Caribbean. Hard times , although Penelope had given it her best go to break free of the Pepper mantle and forge her own path.

Hence, the Penny for Your Thoughts murder podcast.

Harper cast her a wry smile as Boo set the paper bag on the bed next to her satchel. Jack had nearly left a breeze when he escaped the room, and Penelope had raised an eyebrow.

Clearly he was brimming with joy about hanging out with her.

Boo hung the dress in the wardrobe attached to the wall. “I’m so glad you guys made it.” She glanced at Penelope. “Oaken loved the podcast, by the way. He listened to it during his tour last fall. And we’re both listening to ‘The Case of Sarah Livingston.’ I love how you’ve narrowed down the suspects to her ex-boyfriend, her obsessive neighbor, and her so-called platonic friend Kyle. So, who do you think it is?”

“Can’t say.” Penelope grinned. “You’ll have to keep listening.”

Boo rolled her eyes. “Be prepared for Oaken to corner you.”

“I still can’t believe you’re marrying Oaken Fox,” Penelope said. “My sister is a huge fan. Especially after the social media about his attending the birthday party of the girl paralyzed by his sister’s accident.”

“Maggie Bloom. We’re hoping that Maggie and her mom can attend the wedding.” Boo sat on one of the leather benches under the window. She looked at Harper, frowned. “Harp, you okay? You look a little pale.”

Harper felt a little pale. She’d closed the door behind Jack’s escape and sunk onto the bed, her stomach churning, her heart pounding against her chest.

“Yeah. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Penelope added.

“More like a haunting,” Harper said.

Boo stared at her. “Wait—is this about Jack ? I mean, I thought you put that all behind you. That was . . . years. Ages. Eons ago.”

Harper didn’t mean to gape, but, “Really? Boo. I have never been more mortified in my life than when Jack laughed— laughed —at me when Doyle suggested we go to prom together. It’s a watershed moment in my life that still makes me pull the covers up over my head.”

“You asked Jack Kingston to your prom ?” Penelope said. “What is he—four years older?—”

“Six. Six gigantic, millennial years older than me.”

“Which would have made him twenty-four when you were a senior.”

“Actually, at that time, he was twenty-three, but I had only just turned eighteen, so . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “I was young and . . .”

“She had a major crush on Jack most of our childhood,” Boo said.

“Really.” Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Well, what’s not to like? He’s . . . off the charts. Those blue eyes, that dark run-your-fingers-through-it hair, and he clearly works out. What does he do for a living?”

“He finds lost people,” Boo said.

“For money,” Harper added. “He’s a rewardist.”

“What is that?” Penelope shoved the pillow behind her and picked up her phone, as if to search.

“It’s a person who makes a living off the reward money people put up asking for information leading to . . . you know, the recovery of someone who has gone missing.”

“That’s a profession?”

“You’ve heard of Crime Stoppers, right?” Boo said.

“Of course I have. But I thought they just aggregated tips.”

“They also organize all the postings and manage the rewards. Jack has a husband-and-wife team, both lawyers, who find him jobs. Lives in a schoolie that he renovated himself when he finished law school.”

“So he’s like a PI,” Penelope said, putting her phone down.

“Sort of, but he’s not credentialed. So he has to be careful. He can’t make arrests, can’t interfere with a police investigation, and has to share with the police everything he digs up. He was top of his class at the U, so he knows the law, even though he didn’t pass the bar.”

Penelope held up a hand. “Okay, so—I’m going to need more about this prom thing.”

“It’s nothing.” Harper had opened up her satchel, started to unpack.

“It’s obviously something. Why would you ask a guy out of college to your senior prom?—”

“I didn’t ask him. But . . .” She glanced at Boo, sighed. “I did think he liked me.”

“Why?”

She shook her head. Even now the reason seemed so . . . immature. “Because I live in fantasyland—or did at the time—and I’d talked myself into a happily ever after with Big Jack?—”

“Big Jack?”

“It’s a family name,” Boo said. “He’s the oldest and in-chargest. Or was.”

“Was?”

“That is a different, also long, story,” Boo said. “But—the reason that Harp here is freaking out is that she and Big Jack kissed.”

Harper looked at her, horror on her face. “Thank you for that.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. “You did not.”

“Did,” Harper said, sighing. “Again, all on me, but when he found out I was still in high school and that I’d only just turned eighteen?—”

“How only just ?”

“Two days before the trip.”

“Maybe that was my fault,” Boo said. “I had turned eighteen early in the year, and I think he just assumed that Harper was the same age.”

“Actually, after I thought about it, I don’t think he even realized who I was. I was twelve when he went away to college, and he didn’t come home much. I don’t remember really seeing him at all during those years. And I might have changed a little between twelve and eighteen. Got braces, grew out my hair, added some curves.” She shrugged. “And I was part of a humanitarian team that Doyle put together, all from his college buddies, so . . .”

“Wait. When was this?” Penelope asked.

“Senior year, spring break,” Boo said. “A hurricane had ravaged Grenada, and Doyle led a team from his college group to help rebuild a children’s home. I’m not sure how he talked Jack into going, but Harper went too.”

“And he thought you were one of the college kids.”

“I might have tried to hide my age. And when he knew me at the age of twelve, everyone else called me?—”

“Bee.” Boo grinned.

“As in busy bee—something my dad called me. I didn’t hate it until later. But Jack never called me Bee. He called me Pigtails.”

“Cute.”

“Yeah. For a child. When I saw Jack again, I didn’t want him to think that, so I introduced myself as Harper. He didn’t remember my real name.” She hung up a sweater in the closet. “Like I said—my fault.”

“But he kissed you?” Penelope had pushed the pillow behind her, leaning forward.

“Please don’t put this in a podcast.”

She laughed, flipped her dark hair back. “Not unless you murder him.”

“He might be the one to murder me. I’ve never seen a guy so embarrassed.” She hung up a black jumpsuit, then dropped the bag onto the floor. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking my brother was . . . well, Jack’s always been a little larger than life.”

“Yeah. And here he was, donating his spring break to rebuilding an orphanage. We’d had a fun week, laughing, working together. He never once asked me about home, and maybe I thought . . . Good. He’s trying to start over .”

“Get to the kissing part.” Penelope drew up her knees, clasped her arms around them.

“Okay.” Harper sighed, but why not? “It was a couple days before we flew home, and we were working on rebuilding the roof, and he’d come down wearing a cutoff T-shirt, all sweaty and hot and perfect, and I just said, ‘Hey, will you walk out on the beach with me tonight?’ And he said yes.”

A beat.

“And—”

“And during that beach walk, we kissed. And I thought . . . oh so many things. And then the next day, we were standing in the shade, and he was smiling and laughing and maybe flirting with me a little, and I think he might have even put his arm around me. . .”

She sank down on the bed and grabbed her own pillow for protection. “And then Doyle came up and clamped him on the back, laughing, and said, ‘Hey, Bee, so, looks like you found your prom date.’ And then he laughed and said to Jack, ‘You and Bront? can double-date.’”

“I didn’t know that part,” Boo said. She made a face. “That Doyle.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s when it sort of all clicked. Jack just . . . stared at me. Like I’d slugged him. I could actually see the horror playing on his face as the recognition set in. And then he said, ‘ Pigtails? ’ and his voice shook a little, and I knew, right then, it was bad. Very bad. And then it got worse.”

“Oh no,” Penelope said.

“He was horrified.” Harper said.

Boo turned to Harper, wearing a pained expression. “I’m sorry. I heard the entire thing from Doyle, and he just said you both shrugged it off, no big deal.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because Jack laughed,” Harper said. “Like, really laughed, like it might be ridiculous that he’d even be seen with me. And maybe it was to cover up his embarrassment, but everybody heard it, everybody saw it, and then he shook his head, like, stupid little girl and then never spoke to me again .”

Silence.

“Ouch,” said Penelope.

“I think all he saw from that moment on was me with braces, twelve years old, my hair in pigtails.” Harper looked at Boo. “And now I have to walk down the aisle with the guy.”

“And . . . um, dance with him.” Boo made a face. “Sorry. I didn’t know about the laughing. Or the ghosting.”

“I tried very hard to never talk about it again.”

“Doyle just said that you two had sort of gotten close and that Jack had a crush on you.”

She stared at Boo. “What?”

“Yeah. And then Doyle said that he laughed at the prom joke and I thought . . . oh, Bee, I am so sorry. I didn’t realize it was so traumatic. I can see if we can switch things?—”

“No. It’ll only make it worse. People would ask why, and then the story would have to be told and . . . Let’s just leave it. I’m a big girl. I’ll make it work.” She drew in a breath. “Like you said—it was a misunderstanding, years ago.”

“Well, I can definitely say you’ve grown up since then,” Penelope said, and she waggled her eyebrows.

Harper threw a pillow at her but laughed. And maybe now, with the story out, it wasn’t so horrible. Maybe it was fully in the past. And this was only for five days, and really just a few hours of bridal-party duty.

And then she never had to see him again.

“You can do this,” Penelope said, as if reading her mind. “Maybe even show the guy what he’s been missing.”

“Oh, please. Don’t go there. Jack is so far out of my league.”

“No one is out of your league,” Boo said. “Especially Jack. He lives in a school bus. You write for an international magazine.”

Which, by the way: “Boo, can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure. I mean—if you don’t want to do the dance?—”

“No. Of course I’ll do the dance. It won’t be pretty, however. But . . .” She glanced at Penelope, back at Boo. “So, PopMuse magazine fired me after the Bliss article.”

Boo’s eyebrows rose.

“Bliss is mad that I did research. Talked to her dad about the death of her mom and her relationship with Chase Sterling?—”

“I loved him in Eclipse Protocol . I heard they’re coming out with a sequel.”

“Yeah, well, they were on and then they weren’t, and her publicist shut down all my queries—anyway, I might have dug too deep, and now I need a gig. A good gig. Something that will make PopMuse or Inside Nashvegas bite.” She took a breath. Here went nothing. “Can I have the exclusive on your wedding story?”

Boo stared at her, then frowned?—

Oh no .

“What exclusive?”

“Oh . . .”

“Really?” Penelope said. “The one that the entire world is waiting for? Don’t tell me that you haven’t been approached by People magazine, or Vanity Fair .”

“I have no idea. I’ve been head down, working on the wedding. And it’s way out of control, with all of Oaken’s country-music buddies showing up. Did you know that Benjamin King will be here?”

“Oh, I have all of his albums,” said Penelope. “I can’t wait.”

“Yeah, well, there are so many security requests that we had to hire our own crew out of Minneapolis. A recommendation from my cousin Ranger, so they gave us a discount, but—no. No exclusive.”

Oh . Harper drew in a breath.

Boo’s eyes widened. “I mean—not from People magazine. I’ll talk to Oaken and see if he knows what you’re talking about. Maybe Goldie’s been handling all those requests. But yes, if it’s up to me, of course you can write about the wedding, Harp.” She stood up. “In fact, if there has to be an article, I want you to write it. I know this is crazy talk, but I’m trying to keep this wedding as tame as I can. We got the guest list to less than a hundred, and I’m hoping to keep it drama free.”

“That’ll be hard with all the paparazzi.”

“No paparazzi. All of Oaken’s friends and family are at Grover House. My family is here at Doyle’s, and Dodge and Echo and the rest of the Alaska Kingstons are staying with Dad and Mom when they arrive. Security will be on-site the day of, checking off guests with their digital invitation . . .” She sighed. “Maybe we should have eloped.”

Harper came off the bed, walked over to take her friend’s hands. “Listen, as your friend, I promise to keep anything I write sweet and chaste and perfect. You’re going to have an amazing, drama-free week. I promise.”

“I don’t think you can promise the drama-free part, but . . . thanks.”

“Well, don’t worry about me and Jack.” She glanced at Penelope. “And I’ll make sure Penelope doesn’t run off with one of your brothers.”

“What? Me?” But Penelope grinned. “It’s hard to be beautiful.” She tossed her hair.

It worked, because Boo laughed. “Okay. I’ll meet you downstairs in a half hour. Dance rehearsal is in town, with dinner for the entire party at the Moonlight Supperclub.” She glanced at Harper. “I’ll make sure you don’t have to ride in Jack’s ancient green Geo Tracker.”

“He still has that?”

“Saw him pull up in it today.”

Harper laughed. “Be still my heart. I used to think that car was so cool.”

“I think he still does.” Boo winked and headed toward the door.

Which left Harper the next twenty-eight minutes to stare at the stupid party outfits she’d brought, wondering which of them might make her feel less naked in Jack’s arms.

She finally decided on the one-piece black jumpsuit with wide legs, and a long-sleeve white turtleneck, short boots. Felt like enough armor.

Of course, Penelope rocked her outfit in a white V-neck shirt, matching white pants, and an oversized black suit jacket, the sleeves rolled up. She wore her dark hair down, spike boots, and looked like she’d just walked off the runway.

So not fair .

Penelope hooked arms with Harper and leaned in. “He’s going to regret laughing.”

Sweet, but hardly .

They came downstairs, where Boo had divided up rides. Doyle’s SUV took Austen and Penelope, Boo’s hockey-star brother Conrad, Harper, and former SEAL Steinbeck. He climbed into the back seat next to Harper, and she barely fit against his broad shoulders.

Why all Boo’s brothers had to be built like action heroes, she didn’t know, but Steinbeck had actually been one, for a while.

“I didn’t know you were back.”

“Couldn’t miss Boo’s wedding.” He looked over at her with those blue Kingston eyes. He still had a tan and maintained his military build.

“So you call her Boo too.”

“Why not?”

“After the fight between her and Jack?—”

“Yeah, Jack was way out of line. Doyle and I—and Austen—call her Boo. It was a nickname her Marine team leader gave her, and she liked it, so . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “Mom and Dad and Jack still call her Bront?. Jack can’t get past the Boo thing?—”

“They seem to have gotten past the fight, though. They’re pretty friendly now.” In fact, Boo was riding with Jack in his crazy little Geo.

Steinbeck’s mouth tightened. He shrugged.

Interesting .

They rode into town. So much had been remodeled after the tornado, including the old supper club, now with a new exterior of stone and reclaimed wood beams, probably from the previous building. It sat on the edge of town with a panoramic view of the lake and stars.

Austen parked, and as they got out, Harper spotted Jack in the moonlit parking lot. He wore a pair of jeans, black boots, and a leather jacket. Not a hint of a smile on his face.

Yeah, well, me too, pal .

They went inside, where Boo talked with one of the managers, who then ushered them to the adjoining ballroom.

Harper stopped off on the way to the coat-check room— isn’t that a blast from the past? —and left her black puffer jacket there.

Country music drifted from the ballroom with its gleaming, polished wood floor, chandeliers dripping from the timber ceiling, and round tables pushed to the sides.

A man waited for them, wearing a pair of black dress pants, a white shirt, and a vest. He clapped his hands. “My name is Julian, and I’ll be your instructor over the next few days. We’ll be learning two dances. The two-step, so everyone can keep up with the groom and his bride.” He glanced at Oaken Fox and Boo.

Oaken might be even more handsome in person with that dark-blond hair, the way he stood behind Boo, his hands on her shoulders, grinning.

“And then the Dirty Dancing crew dance.”

She stilled. Wait — what ?

“Okay, everyone grab your partner. We’ll start with the two-step.”

She still couldn’t move. Especially after Jack turned to her, his face stiff, like he might be walking toward execution.

Nice .

He held out his hand.

She took it, horrified that hers seemed clammy and slick.

And then, because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, or maybe her brain had already fled the building, she heard herself say, “Looks like we’re going to get that dance after all.”

Oh no, no ? —

He flinched. And she froze. And then, before she could flee, he took her hand and said, “At least you’re not in high school.”

Maybe Penelope would have new fodder for her murder podcast after all.

* * *

At least you’re not in high school.

Those words. They’d just sort of fallen out of Jack’s mouth, probably because they’d been sitting in his head—or his heart—since the moment Harper walked in the front door.

Seeing her took him out. Really, he simply had nothing—no breath, no heartbeat, no thought. Because sure, his mother had let down the boom, but . . .

Harper was, well, not a high schooler by any stretch of the imagination. .

First, she’d changed her hair. A little blonde pixie cut that turned her cute, like Tinkerbell or something, and made her pale blue eyes zing right through him.

And she had curves. Not that he’d missed those a decade ago, but it seemed she’d grown into her adult body, strong and lithe but with hips and . . .

Oh boy .

And then there was that little spit of determination, almost anger, that he hadn’t seen before but maybe deserved because, well, he’d been a jerk. His over-the-top laugh had burned inside him like acid for a decade.

Now his hand brushed her back, his arm outstretched so she could rest hers in the cup of his hand, and he tried not to step on her toes as Julian directed them to move in a circle around the room, two-stepping.

So far, so good. He didn’t want to think about the next dance. Because suddenly all he was thinking was . . .

That kiss . And other things he’d shut away. And probably shouldn’t think about ever again. Like what-ifs and tomorrows.

“You’re a good lead,” she said, looking at his shoulder.

“Thanks. Mom’s instruction in the kitchen as a kid. All the boys know how to dance.”

She nodded, casting her gaze around the room. He followed and spotted Conrad dancing with Penelope Pepper, who practically glided along the floor, and then Steinbeck and Austen, who had that twin thing going on that made them immediately in sync. And finally his eyes landed on Bront? and Oaken. Bront? was laughing, her eyes light, and the look of it twisted inside him.

Yeah, he’d been a jerk, and not just to Harper.

Harper stepped on his foot and they nearly tripped.

“Oh! Sorry!”

He grabbed her around the waist, moved her out of the circle while they caught their balance. “It’s okay.”

“Aw, this is stupid. I can’t do this.” She untangled herself and walked away.

Could be she was talking about the dancing, but maybe?—

“Harper. Um, can we talk?”

She looked at him, her eyes wide. “No. No, we’re good. It’s fine. Let’s try it again.”

Oh.

She came back to his arms, and right as they entered the circle, Julian clapped his hands.

“Okay, that’s enough for today. We’ll pick it back up tomorrow with the Dirty Dancing routine.”

Harper let go of Jack like he had a lethal disease and walked away.

And there went that chance at redemption.

“So. You apologize to Boo yet?”

Jack sighed and turned to Steinbeck. The man wore a pair of dress pants, a white oxford, and despite the fact that Steinbeck was younger, he could crush a man with a look. Now he leveled it at Jack.

Who gave him the same look back. “We’re good.”

“Maybe, but you threw a cluster bomb into the middle of this family. I think that’s going to take more than just a we’re good .”

Jack shoved his hands into his pockets, glanced toward the door of the restaurant. “I was wrong, okay?”

Steinbeck blinked at him.

“I didn’t want her getting hurt.” And mostly he was talking about Bront?.

“She served with the Marines—” Steinbeck started.

“As a Navy corpsman. Vast difference between what you did and her job.”

“She still deployed into combat zones. Still had to keep up. Keep a pig alive, if you remember.”

Of course Steinbeck had to go there.

“I remember,” Jack growled.

“Even the part when you said she could barely keep herself alive?”

He shot his brother a look. “Not here.”

Steinbeck’s eyes narrowed. “Four years is a long time to let something fester. Boo might have acted like it’s all good, but you left an open wound when you basically dared her to go on that reality show.”

“I didn’t dare her?—”

“‘Bront?, you couldn’t keep a pig alive—’” Steinbeck finger quoted the words.

Jack held up his hand. “I know what I said. At the time, I thought it would keep her from doing something stupid.”

Steinbeck cocked his head. “You do know her, don’t you? You might as well have driven her to the audition.”

Maybe he didn’t know her. Maybe he just thought he did, based on his own fears and assumptions. But it wasn’t like he’d stuck around..

“That show completely derailed her, wrecked her life.”

“I know.”

“So, could be it might take more to get to a we’re good .”

“You guys need to be separated?” Conrad had walked—no, swaggered—up, the hockey hotshot he was. He wore a black button-down, black pants, his hands in his pockets, and now bumped shoulders with Jack. “Glad to see you made it.”

Steinbeck held up a hand. “Apparently it’s all good.”

Conrad raised an eyebrow. He’d grown his ruddy beard out, his hair behind his ears, deep in the middle of hockey season. “Boo’s changed.” He looked at Jack. “You might consider that she’s grown all the way up, big bro. She’s not the little girl who got lost in the woods when she was eight.” He clamped him on the shoulder, squeezed. “Doesn’t need you to find her anymore.”

Jack nodded. “I know.”

“Hey. Was that Aggie I saw sitting in the market parking lot?” Doyle came up, wearing a blue dress shirt, a suitcoat, dress pants. Looked like he might be on his way to a fundraiser.

Probably wished he was.

“Yeah. I stopped in Ankeny last night to see West and Nat and forgot that I use water in my radiator hoses.”

Even Steinbeck made a face.

“You blow the head gasket?” Doyle asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I might need a tow to the inn.”

“If you can find a parking space,” Doyle said.

They headed toward the dining-room entrance.

Conrad’s attention seemed to fall on Penelope, who stood by the entrance, talking with Harper, of course.

The Pepper woman was a heart-stopper for the right guy.

Which, of course, was why Conrad stopped to talk.

Jack headed inside the restaurant. The party had rented out the entire space, and now long tables held candles with greenery nestled around gold chargers. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and country music played in the background. A fire flickered in the massive hearth on the other end of the room.

Servers walked the room with silver trays of appetizers. Fish on a cracker, white cheese, arancini with ham.

Bront?—the name Boo just stuck to his mouth after their epic fight—stood with her hand in Oaken’s. He wore black dress jeans and a crisp gray shirt, a fancy bluish suit jacket. Her fiancé seemed fit, with light-brown hair and an affable smile. The tame side of country music, apparently. He was missing his Stetson, though.

They talked with a man with brown hair, early thirties, holding hands with a woman wearing pants and tied-back auburn hair.

Jack walked over, waited until Oaken stopped talking, and then stuck out his hand. “Jack.” He nodded at Bront?. “Oldest brother.”

“I know,” Oaken said, but smiled. “Good to meet you. We missed you at Christmas.”

Him too? Wonderful .

“This is my friend Axel Mulligan, from Alaska,” Oaken said. “And his girlfriend, Flynn.”

Jack shook hands. Then Axel turned to Oaken. “Later.” He walked away.

Oaken turned to Jack. “So glad you could make it for the wedding.” Oaken glanced at Bront?. “Boo was worried you’d be tied up with a case.”

Jack gave him a smile, his throat too tight. Bront? grinned up at him. Okay, maybe he didn’t have to constantly listen to the guilt. “Just finished one. But it’s not a case, really. I’m not a PI.”

Oaken gave him a blank look. “Oh.”

“I hunt for missing people. I follow leads and unearth information and hand it over to the right authorities.” He gave them a wry smile. “Usually without trouble.”

“Oh, right,” Bront? said, laughing. “What ever . You’re like a basset hound. Trouble is like a steak.”

Oaken grinned.

“I think basset hound might be a little strong, sis.” But okay, the laughter made him breathe. And kept his gaze from drifting over to Harper again.

Maybe he was like a dog with a bone.

“Jack wrote a book about his first find. It was made into a movie. Now he’s famous.”

“Not famous.”

“A super sleuth.”

“No. I just . . . listen. And people tell me things. And most of the time, it’s because they have a problem.”

“That you solve ,” Bront? said.

“Only if there’s a reward involved.”

She gave a huff.

“I’m not the savior you think I am. Never was.” He made a face, feeling the heat in it.

She rolled her eyes. “Tell that to any of my friends. They all fell under a spell when you walked into the room.”

Now he rolled his eyes. She turned to Oaken. “It didn’t help that he was the one who found me when I was lost.”

“I remember the story,” Oaken said, considering him.

“Yeah. It was his face I saw when I climbed out of the sleeping bag. And then he went on to save some Boy Scout two years later. That time, he made the news, local and statewide. Probably what launched his itch to find missing people.”

Her words found a place, warmed him. “First, the kid was a Cub Scout, and that was pure luck. And second, to survive, you have to be smart. Like Bront? was, to dig a hole, climb into a sleeping bag, and stay put. Clearly she knew how to take care of herself.”

Bront? stared at him, a tiny frown playing over her face.

He smiled at her, shrugged. “You did real good, Bront?.”

“You did too.”

He nodded, glanced at Steinbeck, who’d wandered over to the serving bar with Doyle. He’d picked up a fancy drink from a server who’d walked by.

Bront? stepped up and put her arms around Jack’s neck. “It’s okay to call me Boo.”

Right . “Sorry, sis,” he said, his arm around her.

“I forgive you,” she whispered back.

Now, that felt right. And maybe he could breathe deeper.

She let him go. “By the way, Harper told us what went down between you two.”

Oh, right for the jugular when he wasn’t looking. “That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah. Probably you could let that go?”

He nodded. Probably .

“For my sake, please just get along and stay out of trouble. She’s my best friend. You’re my big brother. I don’t want bloodshed.”

“If you make us dance together, that might not be possible. She stepped on my foot twice.”

Right then, Harper came into view, walking with Penelope to the buffet.

She was like an accident—he couldn’t look away. “What is she doing now?”

“Freelance writer. She wants to cover our wedding.” Bront? gave Oaken a side-eye. “By the way.”

Oaken raised his eyebrows. “We’re going to need to talk.”

“And that woman with her—Penelope Pepper,” Jack continued. “I didn’t realize you two were friends.”

“She came to us about six months ago, asked to tell our side of the Mike Grizz attempted murder.”

“She did a great job,” Oaken said.

“I know. I heard it. And I’m listening to the new one.”

“About the girl in Minneapolis who got killed in her apartment? I tried to get the name of the killer out of Penelope, but she wouldn’t tell.” She glanced at a man walking up to her. “Moose, you made it.”

She turned to the big man, dark hair, holding hands with a pretty woman and a little girl, maybe eight years old. He looked like a moose, all burly muscle and dark gray-green eyes.

Jack stepped away as Boo hugged Moose and Oaken shook his hand, and Jack’s gaze fell again on Harper.

That black jumpsuit hugged her body, brightened her blond hair. And her entire face lit up when she laughed, maybe at something Penelope said.

He was about to turn away when another man walked up to Harper, tall, with a sort of regal Henry Cavill jaw and demeanor.

Let it go .

Let her go .

He hadn’t realized until now that he hadn’t.

His father whistled from the front, and the room quieted as he greeted the guests and led them in a prayer for dinner.

Jack stood in line for the buffet and loaded up his plate. He found a seat beside the guy he’d met earlier, the man named Axel, and learned that his girlfriend with the auburn hair was a cop who talked about some drug dealer she was hunting in Anchorage. On the other side of her, Doyle was engaged in a conversation with some blonde woman with a hint of a British accent about the need for funding for more international search and rescue teams. Probably doing his spiel about the tragedy of international trafficking, which of course Jack could agree with.

But he couldn’t tear his gaze off Harper, really.

Sheesh, she’d thrown him off his game so many years ago. Crept inside his brain and sat there, stirring up the what-ifs and should-haves.

Just survive the next five days without doing something stupid .

Toasts, and more toasts, and then the rundown by Bron—Boo—of the week’s activities. Then they were dismissed to the dance floor, the music by some local country band.

Harper had vacated her seat.

Jack got up. Shoot —with the list of activities and a broken schoolie to fix, he didn’t know when he’d get a chance to . . . what? Apologize? Maybe yes, because apparently, he was on a roll.

He got up, bid Axel goodbye, slapped a hand on Doyle’s shoulder, and then headed for the dance floor.

Harper wasn’t in the group of dancers, and he hadn’t really expected her to be, so he rounded back to the lobby. Not there, either, although he did spot Penelope, standing with her jacket on. He came over to her. “You leaving?”

She nodded, her mouth a little pursed, as if stressed, and weirdly, it nudged all his trouble buttons.

Stay out of trouble.

Not his business.

“Have you seen Harper?”

Penelope raised an eyebrow, her mouth loosening into a smile. “Yeah. She’s getting her jacket.” She motioned toward the coat check down the hallway.

So they were both leaving.

He headed down the hallway, back toward the dance hall, and found her at the coat-check booth just as an attendant handed over her jacket.

“Sort of like a car valet,” she said as she reached for it.

The handoff missed, and the jacket fell to the floor inside the booth. The attendant retrieved it again with her apologies.

Jack reached over, took the jacket, and held it open for Harper. She cocked her head. He found a smile.

She shrugged and slid into the jacket. Okay, this didn’t need to be terrible. “Let’s hope they don’t take the coats for a test drive.”

He stood there, blocking her path.

“Excuse me?—”

“Listen. I’m sorry I laughed.”

Oh. Whoops. No preamble. Just like that. But that was the important part, right?

Still, his words must have hit her like a slap because she recoiled, then looked away, as if hurt.

Aw . “I mean . . . I was . . . surprised. And caught off guard. And . . . fine. I didn’t know you were . . . Bee . I thought?—”

“I know. It was my fault.” She looked at him then.

His eyes widened. “What? No. That—what happened was not your fault.” He lowered his voice. “I was there. And I do remember, um . . . well, I was the one who . . .”

“Started the kiss?”

He drew in a breath. “Yes. But to be clear, if I’d known?—”

“Nice. Because of course, you couldn’t fall for your little sister’s best friend?—”

“You were a baby!” He kept his voice low, but just barely.

“I was eighteen . By a whole week?—”

“And still off-limits. C’mon, Harper. You were in high school . . . and you still . . .” Aw . This wasn’t going at all how he’d wanted. “It doesn’t matter?—”

“I still what? Led you on? Came on to you?”

He looked at her then. “You had a crush on me for years. So . . .”

Her eyes widened.

“I didn’t mean?—”

She pushed past him, but he reached out, grabbed her arm, whirled her around. “I didn’t mean you were to blame. I was the older one. I should have thought before?—”

“You kissed me.” She yanked her arm out of his grasp. “Seriously. Listen.” She held up her hand, her voice shaking. “I did have a crush on you. Yep. Guilty. And maybe, yes, when I showed up in Grenada and you were on the team and you looked at me like you’d never seen me before, I thought . . . great. See. Maybe he won’t see Bee. He’ll see someone who . . . isn’t a twelve-year-old girl.”

“You most certainly did not look twelve,” he growled. “I did think you were . . .” He let out a shaky breath. “Older.”

“We aren’t that far apart in age, six years?—”

“It might have been a decade. Don’t you know the math? Half your age, plus seven. You were still at least a year too young for me—and what am I even saying? You were still in high school! You’re Bront?’s best friend . Off-limits. Full stop.”

She just stared at him. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. But don’t worry. I’m so over you, Jack Kingston. Like you said, a decade over you. So thanks, apology accepted, but there’s no need.” She held up her hands as if to stop the crazy. “Let’s just get through this week, and then we can walk away and never talk to each other again.”

“Fine.”

“Perfect.” She swallowed, her jaw hardening, then whirled around and headed to the door.

He watched her go.

Wait.

Um.

“Harper, come back.” He took off after her. Because no way, no how was this what Boo wanted. No bloodshed meant a truce. And the expression on Harper’s face looked like anything but armistice.

Harper had already stepped outside, so he pushed through, out into the cold.

He found her standing in the overhanging front entry, frowning.

“Harper?”

She looked at him, then back to the dark parking lot. “She left me.”

“What?”

“Penelope. She left me. Took the Uber and didn’t wait for me.”

He let the door close. Shivered. “Really?”

“Weird. I mean . . .” She shook her head, clearly flummoxed.

He could solve this. “Wait here. I’ll get my keys.”

She glanced at him. “You don’t have?—”

“No. I’m done with this party. Let me drive you back to the inn.”

Her shoulders rose and fell, and finally she nodded. “But no more apologizing for the past, okay?”

“I can live with that.” He held out his hand. “Truce?”

She considered it a moment, then took it. “For Boo’s sake, yes.”

At least that was a start.

* * *

She’d nearly blown her one chance to save the world.

Maybe she’d assigned too much pressure to herself going in. Because she’d told herself two hours earlier that Emberly—a.k.a. Ashley, for this night at least—had one shot to get this right.

It had started off so easy.

“Ashley, grab a tray and get back out there.”

Orders from the catering boss, Nolan, who engineered the delivery of the walleye cakes, the wild-rice arancini, and the baked cranberry Brie to the guests in the dining room.

She’d picked up a loaded silver tray, held it in one hand, and pushed her way through the swinging door into the room.

Country music played on the overhead speakers, and in the massive dining room, guests of Fox’s private wedding-kickoff bash stood with fluted champagne glasses, signature mules, and hot buttered rum in apple cider.

The place smelled festive, with the scent of a fire in the giant hearth, the cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves from the rum mix simmering in a hot pot near the bar, and sprays of calla lilies and bright pink peonies, probably flown in from places south of the Mason-Dixon.

No expense spared for the wedding of a rising country-music star who looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. No doubt People had photographers lined up, and the paparazzi would be out in droves.

Which added an element of difficulty to this gig. But if Emberly did this right, she’d be in and out, information acquired, and back on the road by tomorrow. She’d make her delivery, disappear, and never again have to look over her shoulder.

At least, in her wildest dreams.

Of course, even as she walked around the room, guests picking up her offerings, her gaze landed on him . Her target.

Declan Stone.

She’d looked at his picture— pictures —for so long she could find him with her eyes closed, simply feel his presence in the room. Dark hair with hints of red, clean-shaven tonight but usually with a thin scrape of dark whiskers to match. Square jaw, a little cleft in the chin, and bone-jarring deep-gray eyes that could look right through a man—or woman—and dissect his soul.

Thanks to his elaborate home gym and the hours he spent there, probably thinking through his cyberweapons-of-war designs, he had barely an ounce of fat on his sinewed washboard frame. Wide shoulders and standing a good six foot two, his mere presence in a room took the air from it.

Or maybe it was simply the way he held himself. Arrogantly confident, slender fingers on the stem of his red-wine glass, his feet braced, listening with a slight cock of his head to a woman in a garish gold dress as she gestured with her hands. As if he might not be actually plotting his next double-crossing move against his country.

The traitor .

Three months of surveillance, and finally, finally , Stone had stepped out of the cover of his Batcave, into the light.

And it wouldn’t last long. Four days, maybe five, max, during which Stone turned from cybertech inventor to dashing philanthropist, glad-handing country-music stars who might endorse his favorite charity, Maggie’s Miracles.

The same charity that groom Oaken Fox helped fund, giving over fifty thousand last year to help children who suffered spinal-cord injuries. She blamed Oaken’s fiancée for the connection—Stone owned an estate on his own private lake some twenty miles east, between Duck Lake and Minneapolis.

Yada yada yada, hooray hooray . She hated do-gooders who tossed out money and then stepped into the limelight.

The real heroes were the people who stayed in the shadows. Who did the grunt work that kept the world from self-destructing.

Emberly had already seen the Kingston parents talking with Stone, laughing, enjoying the wedding festivities.

Everybody happy. Nobody paying attention to the thief—actually, she preferred Artful Dodger, thank you—in the corner.

She spotted the groom now, standing with his pretty bride—short dark hair, wearing a dress, a thousand miles from the tough survival-reality-TV star who’d gotten a bad rap. At least in Emberly’s opinion. Not that she paid attention, but again, research.

There was a reason her country had picked her .

“These are so nummy!” A woman plucked the last two walleye crackers from her tray. Reddish hair, almost like Emberly’s—although tonight Emberly was a dark-haired brunette. “I’d forgotten how good walleye is. Here, Axe, you need to taste one of these.” She handed a cracker to a man standing next to her, dark blondish hair, the build of a man who worked outdoors for a living.

Emberly-Ashley offered a tight, polite smile and kept moving. She just needed to offload the last of the Brie bites, then she’d figure out a way to get close to Stone. Grab that wineglass from his grip.

Step one: fingerprints.

She offered a Brie bite to a woman with long blonde hair, who shrugged and took it. One more to go?—

She turned and nearly crashed into a man standing right behind her. He caught her tray, then her arm as she overcorrected, nearly falling backward.

“Hey—you okay?”

She might call him good-looking, with his light-brown hair, short and tousled. He wore a hint of the same brown on his chin, his five-o’clock shadow kicking in. He wore black dress pants, cinched around a trim waist, and a white oxford, open at the neck, his sleeves rolled up his forearms, like he’d been working. Mr. Reflexes let her go, gave her a smile, and it was then that she noticed his eyes.

Blue—like the color of the ocean at dawn, deep and layered and possessing an ability to capture her.

Look away.

She’d seen him before. She knew it in her bones, like an ache deep inside that she couldn’t place.

“Sorry,” she said. “My fault.”

“No, that was mine. I was looking at my watch.” He held it up.

Nice watch . No, a really nice watch. A Rolex Submariner with a green face, silver cybersteel design, luminescent hands, waterproof at three hundred meters.

A dive watch.

So, a former spec ops guy. Or a wannabe? Even so, the watch landed at a solid ten G’s, so clearly Reflexes was part of the rich-and-famous club.

She might’ve considered lifting it if she weren’t already on a job.

Flashing a quick smile, she stepped back. “Brie bite?”

“They’re really good, Steinbeck,” said the woman behind her.

“Okay,” he said and took the bite. “Thanks.”

“Here to serve.” She winked then— oh, good grief —and walked away. Way to make herself memorable.

But she’d dumped her tray, which meant focus on the job. It was just a matter of timing. She glanced at Stone—he had maybe three, four sips left of his wine, depending on the degree of interest he had in the blonde’s riveting monologue.

She kept one eye on him as she slid by a couple just finishing their mules. They added their empty copper mugs to the tray.

One sip—no, two.

Time to angle toward the hearth?—

“Did you nearly knock over a guest?”

She glanced up, jolted. Nolan had come up behind her.

“Sorry. I turned too fast.”

“Slow down. Be invisible.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” Usually, invisible was her middle name.

“Fill your tray, then help fill the buffet trays in the kitchen.”

Her mouth tightened, but she nodded and yes-sir’d again. Glanced at Stone.

One more sip. Another server had started picking up glasses, heading down his row.

Probably wouldn’t be a good look to hurdle tables. But she needed that glass.

She smiled as she held up the tray to a big man, dark hair, a bit of beard growth, a lumberjack’s build. He gave her his empty can of Diet Coke. Hilarious.

But she’d managed to edge near the hearth.

The other server had stopped to allow a woman to finish her champagne. Bam, and fast-break to the goal.

Emberly stepped out, quick-walking toward Stone and his group?—

Stone left the group, heading for the bride.

And that’s when Mr. Reflexes nearly took her out. How he’d moved from over at the bar to right in front of hearth, she had no idea, but he jerked back, hands up. “Sorry!” He again caught her tray. “I guess I’m destined to take you out.”

She had steadied herself before the empty glasses toppled onto him, and now fabricated a smile. “No problem.”

Except Stone had dumped his glass, and there went her future.

Reflexes had gone to the front, whistled, and introduced his father, who stepped up to pray.

She headed back to the kitchen to regroup.

In the end, it was easier than she thought. She simply walked around after dinner with coffee, sidled up to Stone and offered him decaf or leaded.

“Full strength,” he said, glancing up at her.

She didn’t look at him. Invisible. But as she caught the extra drips with her other napkin, she removed his butter knife.

That should work.

She just needed a thumbprint.

For tonight.

She had four days to get the rest.

It would help if she didn’t feel eyes on her as she finished serving the coffee. If, as she exited the room, she didn’t glance back and see him .

Reflexes—what had they called him? Steinbeck?—his blue eyes on her, connecting with hers— oops! —for a long second before she disappeared into the kitchen.

That was close.

She wrapped the knife into her napkin, then, while the rest of the servers trafficked through the kitchen, she stepped out into the entryway, grabbed her jacket, and exited the supper club.

As she disappeared into the night, toward her rental, she took off the wig and shook out her short red hair. Then she took off the apron and dropped it all into the dumpster.

Now that was what she called invisible.