Chapter 8

EIGHT

Jack didn’t know what to believe.

“Play it again, Conrad.”

His brother sat across from him in a massive booth tucked into a corner of Sammy’s Bar and Grill, an iconic sports bar dedicated to the fandom of the Minnesota Blue Ox hockey team. Once a shipping warehouse with high steel beams and brick walls, now promo posters, signed photographs of the greats, and framed jerseys plastered the walls. Flatscreens handing from the ceiling and tucked into every corner, played the various games in the league as well as a rerun of last night’s matchup against the Colorado Sting.

The owner, Sam Newton, still working behind the long oak bar, had once played defenseman for the Blue Ox.

Most of the players hung out here after the games, getting another taste of the cheering. Now, Conrad sat, his dark-blond hair still wet, curly on top and around his ears, his beard full and tinged with rust, wearing a black button-down shirt, a pair of black jeans, fresh from a short practice before tonight’s game. He wore his superstar aura easily, as if it fit him like his jersey, like he belonged under the limelight.

No wonder Penelope had reached out to him.

“That’s not the crazy one,” Conrad said. “There’s another.”

Conrad’s phone sat beside a basket of wings, an appetizer Jack had found Conrad eating when he walked in with Harper.

“Just play the first one again. I want to listen for any duress.”

Conrad pushed play again, and Penelope’s voice came through.

“Hey, Conrad, it’s me, Penelope. I’m heading to Minneapolis tomorrow, so if the offer is still good, I’d love to see your game tomorrow night. Maybe catch a bite afterwards. So, call me when you get this. Toods!”

Conrad paused before the next one started.

“That sounds like Pen,” Harper said. “Just . . . you know. Happy.”

“Except clearly she was planning on driving in yesterday, not vanishing on Tuesday night.”

Jack met her eyes. She swallowed, her face a little pale.

He nearly reached out, took her hand under the booth. “I liked what I saw.” No clue why he’d let that tidbit sneak out. And he should probably forget the way she’d looked at him in the car, her beautiful eyes widening, maybe the smallest spark inside them.

No, no, he couldn’t go back to the past. Three more days, and he would hit the road. Except, the words that he’d shot across the bow to West and Nat had roused inside him during his drive to St. Paul. “I’ve been thinking that it’s time I hang this gig up. Maybe retake the bar.”

And then what? Hang out a shingle in some low-rent building in Minneapolis? Take on insurance claims and speeding-ticket defense?

Or become a prosecutor, maybe, going after domestic abusers and shoplifters?

No. He liked what he did. Even if he did occasionally scrub up against the law.

Still. He hadn’t exactly hated hanging around Harper again.

“She never showed up for the ticket I left at Will Call,” Conrad said. “Admittedly, I never listen to voicemails, so I only got her text.” He opened his texting app and showed them the text of virtually the same message as the voicemail.

He took the phone back. “So when I checked my voicemails today . . . well, you listen to it.”

He put the phone back on the table, jacking up the volume against the noise in the bar—the games, people chatting, laughter.

Muffled sounds, as if the phone might have been in Penelope’s pocket, and then, “No, don’t stop, why are you stopping?” More sounds—a male voice, another yelling—“No!”

A gunshot.

Penny’s scream. And then more muffled sounds, more shrieks?—

The message ended.

Harper appeared stripped, and Jack’s chest turned hollow.

Conrad leaned back, pressed his hand over his mouth. Then, “That’s why I wanted you to hear it, in person. I think she pocket dialed me. My guess is that I was the last person she’d called or texted, so?—”

“So the phone redialed,” Jack said.

“Maybe she did it on purpose,” Harper said, her voice shaking. “Let’s not forget she’s a murder podcaster. She’s probably learned a little about how to leave clues.”

Jack looked at her. “You said she’s disappeared before?—”

“Before, there wasn’t a guy in a coma!”

He held up a hand. “Hey. I was just agreeing with you.”

She winced, looked away, her eyes glistening. “Sorry.”

And now he couldn’t help it—he did take her hand. Squeezed.

Maybe he was a professional nice guy.

He turned to Conrad. “What’s the time stamp on that?”

“Tuesday, around eleven p.m. I was back at the house, my phone off when it came in. It goes onto Do Not Disturb at ten p.m.”

“Good to know. I’ll make sure, if I ever need you, to call before ten.”

Conrad gave him a withering look. “You’re in my favorites, so I’ll get your call regardless. Not that you ever call.” He raised an eyebrow.

Ouch .

“Do we go to the police?”

“We already did,” Harper said. “In Duck Lake. They put out a BOLO.”

“This needs more than a BOLO,” Jack said. “She’s missing, a guy’s been shot, and her last known location was in the car with a shooter? So, yeah . . . now I’m officially worried.”

He still held Harper’s hand under the table, and she gripped it tighter. “What do we do?”

“We need to get Ty Bowman’s phone to Ranger’s hacker friend.”

“What hacker friend?” Conrad asked, leaning back as the waitress came by the table with fresh sodas and another basket of wings, this one for Jack. Harper had ordered fries and now pulled the basket to herself and grabbed the salt and ketchup.

Jack watched as she made a small pool in the middle of her fries and filled it with ketchup.

“Going to have some fries with your ketchup?”

“Don’t judge. My friend is in mortal danger. I need this.”

He glanced at Conrad, who smiled. “I remember you downing chocolate chip cookies like an All-Pro defenseman.”

She gave him a smile despite the pain on her face. “Who can say no to your mother’s cookies? Besides, my mother doesn’t bake. Or cook. She just . . . fixes people’s problems.”

“Why do you think my mother bakes so well? Cookies after every hockey game, a double batch when we lost. Problem solver.”

She laughed, and Jack scurried around in his brain for that memory Conrad had stirred up. But Conrad was three years younger than him, so he’d been a senior when Harper had entered her freshman year.

Jack hadn’t been around to see this side of her.

And by the way, she was not too young for Conrad, then or now, and that truth grabbed hold and twisted. Especially when Harper looked at Conrad, warmth in her eyes.

Aw. Stop . Jack had no claim on her. Besides, his brother might be wise to be with someone like Harper.

He returned to Conrad’s previous question. “Ranger set us up with a white-hat hacker named Coco Marshall. He said she lives in the area and could take a crack at getting information off Ty Bowman’s phone.”

“Ty Bowman? I remember him. Skinny kid. Boo’s grade.”

“ My grade,” Harper said.

“He was the driver who was shot.” Jack had picked up his phone, started to dial Stein.

Conrad leaned back. Looked at Jack, who listened to Stein’s phone ring. “My goalie is married to a girl named Coco.”

“Your goalie?”

“Wyatt Marshall—wait—did you say her last name is Marshall?” Conrad leaned up. “She’s sitting right over there.” He pointed to a booth across the room.

Jack glanced over and spotted a woman with dark hair, purple at the roots, seated with a boy, maybe ten. Across from her sat a bigger man, hockey build, and yes, he looked the size of a man who could stop pucks.

“Is she a cyberhacker?”

“How would I know?”

He pulled out Ty’s phone. “I’ll be right back.” Sliding out of the booth, he wove his way across the restaurant.

When he spotted Jack heading his direction, the big hockey goalie leaned back in the booth, his jaw tight, probably ready to fend off a request for an autograph, or maybe a picture, given that Jack held the damaged phone.

He even slid out of the booth, as if to stop him.

Jack turned then and waved to Conrad, who thankfully had eyes on him. Conrad frowned, lifted a couple fingers in a courtesy wave.

It worked. Marshall relaxed, his hands in his pockets by the time Jack walked up to him. Jack stuck out his hand. “Jack Kingston. Conrad’s brother.”

Marshall met his handshake and offered a smile. “Wyatt Marshall. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m actually here to talk to your wife, Coco.”

Wyatt frowned, and Coco looked up at Jack at the mention of her name.

“My cousin Ranger sent me your direction. Said you could help me with a small problem.”

She glanced at Wyatt, then back at Jack. “He texted me. Something about a phone?”

He handed her the smartphone, now dead. “There’s a missing woman, and this phone is from her Uber driver, who is fighting for his life after being shot in the head.”

Coco glanced at her son, back at Jack, one eyebrow up. The boy played a handheld video game, his earbuds in, but still.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. We usually don’t let him play videogames at dinner, but it’s been a long couple days, with back-to-back games.” She took the phone, then pried off the rubber case and opened the back. “SIM card is still here. I should be able to get the information from it.”

“What we really need is the GPS. His car was found out at the Duck Lake boat launch, but we need to know the route it took on Tuesday before he was . . . um . . .” He glanced at the kid. “Relieved of his driving position.”

Coco arched another brow but nodded. “Okay. It’ll take some time.”

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

“I see.” She glanced at Wyatt.

“I’ll catch a ride home after the game,” he said.

She set the phone down and turned to Jack. “What’s your number? I’ll contact you when I get the information.”

He gave it to her, and she put it into her phone, then sent him a text. His phone buzzed and he confirmed her text, adding her into his contacts. He dropped the phone back into his front pocket. “Thanks.”

“No guarantees, but I’ll do what I can.”

Jack headed back to his booth, and when the waitress swung by, he handed her his credit card to pay for the Marshalls’ lunch.

Meanwhile, Harper had been texting. She looked up. “I’m late for the spa day. Boo texted me. What do I tell her?”

He glanced at Conrad, back at Harper. “Nothing.”

“I’m not lying to my friend.”

“Listen. You’re not lying. You’re dodging.” He leaned forward, including Conrad in his huddle. “The last thing Boo needs to worry about is where Penelope is. You know her—she’s an SAR professional. She’ll activate her search and rescue gene, and suddenly her wedding won’t be on the radar. I don’t want anything to destroy this week for her.”

“She has a right to know?—”

He held up his hand. “Of course. But there is nothing she can do. We’re fresh out of leads. Until Coco comes back with a route, we need to keep this under our hats.”

“What about the police?” Conrad said.

“We already talked with Jenna. Can you forward me the second voicemail? I’ll swing into the sheriff’s office and give her the update.” He looked at Harper. “Without you.”

Her mouth opened. “Why?—”

“Because you have a spa date.”

She pursed her lips.

“And maybe Jenna will cooperate a little more if her nemesis isn’t doing the asking.”

“I’m not her nemesis.”

A beat.

“Fine. Whatever.”

He directed his words to Conrad. “You’re coming back tonight, after the game?”

“Maybe.” Conrad raised a finger to the waitress, who came back around with Jack’s credit card and the check. “It’ll be late, though.”

Jack signed the receipt, then shoved the customer copy into his pocket. Slid out of the booth.

Harper followed him out to the car. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll dodge. But not for long. Keep me posted if you get any information.”

“Will do.” West nudged into his head. “Maybe what you need is a partner, though. A Watson to your Sherlock.”

Stop.

But as they walked out to the car, under the fading light of the late-afternoon sun, he knew one thing. . .

He’d been lying to himself, and his heart, for years.

He’d never gotten over Harper Malone.

* * *

A domestic terrorist didn’t deserve a twelve-thousand-square-foot mansion on the shores of his own private lake, filled with stone fireplaces, leather furniture, and the delicious smell of tomahawk steaks grilling on the massive outdoor grill.

Then again, she wasn’t in charge of fate, and it certainly didn’t listen to her.

Emberly crept out of a closet in a second-floor bedroom, where she’d managed to slip in after Nim’s clever plan had played out.

Emberly had had to do a smidgen more homework—starting with locating the catering company, their location, and the rental vans they’d use for the event, and then posing as a driver.

That got her through the gate. Carrying a tray of thick seasoned steaks got her into the kitchen, and the memorized layout of the house landed her upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms.

Nim had connected her to the security feed, and she spent most of the next three hours watching on her phone as the guests arrived—the Kingston boys, all four of them, swaggering in like they owned the place. Stein came in wearing a pair of black jeans, a form-fitting shirt. No limp, so that was interesting.

But her research suggested he’d actually requalified for operational duty, so maybe she’d overreacted to the whole left-for-dead thing.

Oaken’s SAR crew arrived not long after. She’d done her research on them too. A search and rescue team out of Alaska, and sure, they had the last frontier written all over them. Led by a big guy named Moose—the name felt accurate—who came in with his brother Axel, grinning and slapping Shep Watson on the shoulder as they entered.

So that was Shep. She’d heard stories. Huh .

And with them arrived Oaken Fox and his band. Oaken wore a little less swagger, but he had a quiet confidence about him that suggested he wasn’t intimidated by the military and SAR types around him.

The party also included a couple of Bront?’s cousins—one from Alaska, a dark-haired guy, cool in his aviators, and a local named Ranger. Nim had clued her in on Ranger, and he looked like the former SEAL he’d been, although maybe leaner.

Music played through the house, and the caterers had started the smoker hours earlier, popping in the ribs. She could almost smell the hickory from here. That and the steaks and a tray of homemade brats suggested a man’s party.

Not a piece of chocolate to be seen.

She’d spotted Stone, of course. No feeds to his office, but one in the hallway, and he’d come out of the upstairs roost a couple hours ago. The office sat in a separate wing, in a massive third-floor room with picture windows that offered a 360-degree view of the lake and surrounding forest. According to the blueprints, the roost was accessed by a private set of stairs that connected to the rest of the house via a long balcony landing that overlooked the main floor, the arching two-story picture windows, and the lake.

She’d have to cross the open balcony, then access the room with the thumbprint lock, which might have been tricky had she not lifted the thumbprint and reapplied it to the thumb of a latex glove.

She’d wait until dark—which wasn’t hard, given the early sunset. And according to the screen on her phone, the lake already waxed deep orange across the snowy face.

Meanwhile, the guests congregated on the lower floor, where they played pool. A few had gathered in the hot tub, a few more hanging out in the sauna while the chefs doctored the ribs and prepared the steaks.

Now felt right.

She slid out of the closet, wearing the suit of the local security team. She’d even found a patch and had it made to look like the private firm Stone employed.

No gun—but she did carry a Taser, just in case.

She stopped for just a second to check her attire. Blond wig, although not the one that Nim had suggested. This one was short and utilitarian, and yes, she wore glasses, and green contacts over her gray-green eyes.

Black long-sleeve shirt, black cargo pants, boots.

Slipping out of the bedroom, she stepped into the dark hallway. It led down to the balcony, then opened to the stairwell to the upstairs office.

“Don’t get caught, okay?”

She took a deep breath, then walked down the hall. No need to creep, she was security. Doing rounds.

She paused at the opening to the balcony.

A few men had ventured to the main floor, their conversation lifting. The scent of hickory smoking nearly caused her stomach to give her away.

Don’t look. Keep walking .

She headed across the balcony, eyes on the office door.

It sat recessed in the stair’s landing alcove. She’d already slid on the latex thumb and now pressed it against the lock.

The door unlocked, and she rolled the thumb off and headed upstairs.

Her surveillance yesterday had netted a few pictures of the office from a distance, but now it felt bigger, more open, the night pressing into the windows.

Now this was an office. A seating area looked out to the lake. A massive custom walnut desk wrapped around the other end of the office, with monitors—now dark—that rose from the desk. Sleek, contained, Stone’s weekend retreat.

Probably he didn’t plot all of his terrorist activities here. Just the really important ones, like developing an army of cybersoldiers.

Who could be programmed by the highest nefarious bidder.

She didn’t turn on the light, of course. Instead, she pulled out a night-vision monocular and held it to her eye. Scanned the desk.

Found the charging pad.

No phone.

Breathe .

She should have known something like this would happen. Why hadn’t she just lifted it at the party? She was better than this.

Giving the room one last scan, she found nothing. Turned to go.

Footsteps on the stairs.

She stilled, then pocketed the monocular, and searched . . . There . Behind the stair railing, a small bookshelf, maybe waist high.

Hustling over, she knelt behind it. Tucked herself in.

Please let it not be Stone ?—

The light didn’t flick on, didn’t suddenly expose her, which meant—maybe she wasn’t the only one sneaking around.

This could work for her.

In the moonlight, she caught a glimpse of the intruder—the, ahem, other intruder. Big guy, built, he wore a dress shirt, pants. One of the guests.

Which meant—“Stop where you are.” She’d stood up and grabbed her Taser, held it out.

The man stiffened, turned, his hands up.

And her heart nearly punched through her chest.

Of course. Steinbeck Kingston . She must have left the door open.

He held his hand out in front of him. “Hey. Sorry—I saw someone come in here, and I thought maybe . . . Never mind. I can see I was wrong.”

She nodded. “Are you a guest here?”

“Yeah. But . . . sometimes catering crews can be a front for a different kind of crew—anyway.” He gestured to her weapon, obscured by the dark. “Clearly that was a leap.”

“Clearly.”

It wasn’t lost on her that the longer she stood here, the greater the chance that real security might roll up, and with them, Stone.

Who probably didn’t know who she might be, and if she hoped to get that phone, she needed to keep it that way.

“Okay.” She sheathed the Taser. “Thank you, Mr.—”

“Kingston. Steinbeck Kingston.” He lowered his hand and held it out to her.

Oh no, she wasn’t that stupid. “You can just go back to where you came from. I’ll finish up here.”

He lowered his hand, then nodded, backed away. “I trust Stone is in good hands.”

With friends like Stein, yes.

Except, cold thought slithered through her as he took the stairs down.

Stein wasn’t . . . working for Declan Stone, was he?

Please don’t let him be a terrorist too. She just might give up on humankind. Because she remembered the man he’d been. Or she’d thought he’d been.

She followed him down, closing the door.

Only when she turned did she see that he’d paused at the end of the landing, near the other stairway, watching her.

Then he lifted his chin and headed down.

And as she strode down the hall, descended the far stairs all the way to the main floor, as she got into the rental truck and drove through the gates, it occurred to her.

Steinbeck Kingston was going to be a problem.

* * *

As she sat in a padded chair while a pedicurist filed her toenails, Harper couldn’t shake away the memory of Penelope’s scream through the phone.

Crazy.

Worse, she sat in a puffy white bathrobe, with mud drying on her face and her hair wrapped up, so it wasn’t like she could suddenly jump up and run from the room.

Besides, she had no transportation, Jack having dropped her off at Serenity Spa.

The place smelled of lavender, a waterfall rushing down a half wall that cordoned off the massage rooms. Her skin smelled of lemongrass and eucalyptus, and if it weren’t for the knot in her gut, she might have actually enjoyed the one-hour working of her tense muscles.

Except . . . Penny .

Bront? had asked whether she’d heard from her and . . .

She’d lied. Okay, not exactly lied , but, “Conrad got a text from her. Said she was in Minneapolis.”

So, a half lie.

It burned like a coal inside her, but watching Boo’s face as she leaned back and let the pedicurist massage her feet and legs— yes, her friend needed this day, without fear. Besides, like Jack had said, what could they do? He was probably sitting with Jenna right now, tracking down leads.

As the deputy flirted with him.

Harper closed her eyes, trying to relax into the leg massage.

“Okay, Mom, give us your five best tips for a long and happy marriage.” This from Austen, who sat in the next chair, wearing the same attire, same mud pack. Beside her sat London, who also sat with her eyes closed.

Emily Kingston leaned forward in her chair from where she sat at the end, on the other side of Boo. “Seriously?”

“You’ve been married for nearly forty years, Mom,” Boo said. “Certainly you have some tips.”

“I don’t know. Forgive, maybe? Yes, that’s the right color.” She nodded as her attendant held up a deep red.

“Racy, Mom,” Boo said.

“It’s the only shade I wear. It’s called I’m Not Really a Waitress.” She winked. “Even if sometimes your dad thinks I am.”

“And you think he’s your personal handyman.”

“What? He is.” She grinned. “Okay then, my tips.” She looked at Boo, so much love in her eyes.

Oh, Harper had wanted Emily Kingston for her mother. It wasn’t just the cookie comfort food—although Conrad’s words had struck home. Mama Em listened. Cared. And after Harper had won the sixth-grade spelling bee, she’d found her picture and the article cut out and displayed on the fridge along with the rest of the family’s accolades.

She’d belonged.

So maybe Harper did have something to contribute to Boo’s beautiful wedding week . . . her silence.

“First,” Mama Em said, “remember that men are built to protect. So don’t be whiny and needy, but also let him step in for you when he wants to. Sure, you can pump your own gas, change your own tire, and open your own door, but it doesn’t make you weak to have your man do it for you. In fact, it makes you honored.”

So different from the advice Dr. Phillipa Malone would have offered. “Stand on your own two feet. You don’t need a man.”

“Then, remember that you’re partners, not adversaries. He’s on your side, and you’re on his. Listen to him, seek to hear his point of view, and work with him to solve problems. The more you work together, like a team, the stronger your bond will be.”

And just like that, she could feel Jack’s hand on hers, under the table, squeezing.

“Be team Fox. Just like we were—and still are—team Kingston.” Nothing of the Big Family Fight reflected on Mama Em’s face, and maybe that was the point. Teammates fought, but they didn’t betray each other. And in the end, they showed up.

Like Jack, back for Boo’s wedding, despite the wounds he’d caused.

Harper had clearly misjudged him.

The pedicurist held up a color for Harper. Harper had picked blue but now pointed to the wild red on Emily’s toes. “I’d like to not be a waitress too.”

“Me too,” Boo said.

“Not me,” said Austen. “I’m getting Barefoot in Barcelona.” She held up the pale pink color. “I’ve always wanted to go to Barcelona.”

“It’s beautiful,” London said beside her, her eyes still closed. “Especially for a romantic getaway.”

Harper noticed a purple color on her toes. “What’s yours, London?”

London opened her eyes, wiggled her toes, wearing a grin. “Shaking My Sugarplums.”

Laughter.

Harper wished she knew the story of Shep and London. He seemed so solemn and unshakable against London’s mystery.

“Okay, Mom, that’s two,” Austen said. “I want three more.”

“I did mention forgive, right?”

Forgive . The word ribboned around Harper’s heart. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Oh, why hadn’t she said she’d forgiven him?

“And . . . embrace adversity together. Which means trust each other. Am I repeating myself?”

“Is this like—couples who wallpaper together stay together?” Austen said.

Mama Em smiled. “Yes. And couples who tackle tough things, holding hands through them—they stay together too. You learn to lean on each other but also to hold each other up. And how will you become the dynamic duo without facing challenges?”

And just like that, Harper was back in Grenada, helping Jack rebuild a roof, handing up tiles and nails and . . . laughing with him. Sharing a can of grape Fanta. Hauling water to the worksite together, one hand each on the handle.

“Just keep loving, keep trusting, even if you get burned,” Mama Em said. “Keep believing the best; keep taking risks. And if you get in a fight, be the first to apologize, even if you were mostly in the right. A soft answer turns away wrath, and someone has to go first.”

Not ignore the problem and walk away? Right .

“Most of all, remember this. He’s already said ‘I do.’ Or he will—and then it’s done. You’re his and he’s yours, and now you start to dive deeper into the joy and wonder of your love. You stop trying to earn it and start the tending of it.” She reached out and took Boo’s hand. “And then you live happily ever after.”

They laughed. Even Harper, but for some reason the words lodged inside her.

They finished the pedicures, moved to the salon for their facials, and two hours later, as stars burned in the sky, they headed out to the Lumberjack’s Table.

Harper seemed to have lost her appetite, or maybe the fries from Sammy’s had filled her up. She watched as the other ladies took the mic.

London sang a version of “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston that brought the house down, and then Austen and Boo offered up a hilarious version of “Wannabe”—“I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want?—”

The lyrics managed to add to the quagmire inside. “If you want my future, forget my past. . .”

Even Mama Em got up to sing and brought it home with Celine’s finest. “Near, far wherever you are . . . I believe that the heart does go on. . .”

“C’mon, Harp—you gotta sing.” Boo handed her the song-choice book.

Perfect. But Jack was in her head with words about not wrecking Boo’s wedding week. She gave Boo the list. “Pick one.”

“Anything?”

“I’m living on the wild side.”

“Since when?” But Bront? opened the book, found a song, and went to the front. “Tee up, Bee.”

Harper rolled her eyes but went to the front.

The first bars played, and Boo folded her arms, almost a dare.

And then the song sank in. Seriously?

Boo arched a brow.

Dare accepted. Harper stepped up to the mic. “I heard that you’re settled down. . .”

Adele’s lyrics seemed to land right in her soul, about a woman singing to her first love, the one she never got over.

“I hate to turn up . . . but I couldn’t stay away. . .”

Harper’s throat tightened, but she swallowed it down, belted out the song, her voice rising and falling, even slowing. . .

“Never mind, I’ll find someone like you. . .”

She looked out into the crowd, the room a little hazy in the dim light. Her gaze cast to the door, where a group stood, and for a second, just a flash, she thought?—

No. Jack was with Oaken, at the bachelor party.

She closed her eyes and finished out the song. “Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead. . .”

The song finished, and she hung her head as the crowd erupted. Then she looked up, grinned, and held up her arm.

Met Boo’s eyes and tried not to cry.

She got off the stage then, and Boo walked up to her. “That was amazing.”

“And that was mean.”

Bront?’s eyes widened. Oh, Harper hadn’t meant—“Sorry. It’s just, I . . .”

“Don’t let him go. For you, it isn’t over. And I saw how Jack looked at you last night, when you were dancing. Maybe for him it isn’t over either. I made you sing that song so you wouldn’t have the same regrets. You have two days left. Don’t let him walk away unless you want him to.”

Then Boo pulled her into a hug.

Aw. Harper hugged her back.

Boo’s words clung to Harper all the way home, and even after she’d changed into her flannel pajamas and a sweatshirt, wool socks. She took off her makeup and couldn’t bear the empty bed beside her, so she went downstairs to the fire, taking her laptop with her.

She sat on the plush leather sofa and opened it up, trying to capture today’s events.

In the lush tranquility of the Serenity Spa, reality TV star Bront? Kingston and her closest friends celebrate the dawn of her new chapter with a day drenched in relaxation and laughter. The serene day unfolds with massages that untangle the knotted anticipation of Bront?’s upcoming union with country-music sensation Oaken Fox. As the spa’s natural light filters through gauzy curtains, Bront?’s mother, with eyes twinkling, gathers the group, imparting pearls of wisdom about marriage. “Just keep loving, keep trusting, even if you get burned.”

She stared at the blinking cursor. Then she saved the document and headed over to a different file.

The forbidden file .

A Thousand Summers

Aw, why not? She clicked it open.

Twelve chapters of her unfinished book about the spring break—now fictionalized into one tumultuous summer—that’d changed her life. Not a memoir, but fiction about unrequited love, a forbidden romance, and giving away your heart.

Although, she should probably change the names to protect the innocent. Or guilty.

She opened her last chapter.

The kiss.

The sun sets, casting a golden glow across the beach, turning the gentle waves into molten light. I stand close to Jack, my heart racing as I lose myself in the deep blue depths of his eyes, so like the ocean sprawling endlessly before us. His dark hair catches the breeze, a striking contrast against the sky’s softening hues. I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long, and now, enveloped in the twilight’s embrace, my fantasy edges toward reality.

Jack turns toward me, his expression hesitant yet filled with a longing that echoes my own. He leans in slowly, his lips meeting mine with a tender hesitance that sends shivers down my spine. The touch is a whisper, cautious and exploring. Yet as I respond, something shifts. The kiss deepens, fueled by my eager reply. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, the rhythm of the waves syncing with our burgeoning passion. My mind whirls—this is the man I’ve adored from afar, now kissing me with a fervor as vast as the sea itself. I'm overwhelmed by disbelief and joy, hardly able to grasp that this moment, so beautifully perfect, is truly mine.

She read it again, caught in the memory, the scent of the salty air, sand between her toes, cool to her bare feet. He had smelled slightly of sawdust, a little of coconut sunblock, and tasted of the sweet lemonade from dinner. He’d said yes to her invitation to meet her on the beach through a trail in the lush grasses, and as the sun set, they’d sat, talking. His fingers had combed the sand as he’d told her about law school, and she’d told him about her college classes at Gustavus—just two days a week—where she pursued her associate’s degree.

Yes, she could see now how he might have been confused about her age.

But maybe he’d just seen what he’d wanted to see— “I liked what I saw.” And she’d liked the desire in his eyes, and that, along with the scent of the night, the adventure of their spring-break trip, and even the magic of her crush, had all made her lean in.

She’d invited it, even if he’d reached for her, pulled her to himself.

Magic .

No, not magic. A mistake . A terrible mistake that could have hurt him. Because technically, she had still been in high school and, yes, been too young for him.

No wonder he’d run from her. Boo’s words wound through her. “For you, it isn’t over. Maybe for him it isn’t over either.”

She stared at the crackling fire. “Don’t let him walk away unless you want him to . ”

But maybe it wasn’t up to her. Like the saying went—if he was into her, she’d know.

She opened a new document, watched the cursor blink, but she had no words.

Instead, she opened her email, attached the little blurb about today’s bachelorette party, sent it off to Clarice.

Closed her computer.

The door behind her opened and she turned.

The guys, coming back from the bachelor party. Doyle, laughing, and then Steinbeck, pulling off his shoes and heading upstairs. Shep, and behind him, Jack.

Shep also headed upstairs, behind Doyle.

Jack, however, glanced her direction. The firelight caught his expression, a small flicker of something in his blue eyes, pulled out a few russet tones in his dark whiskers. He’d tugged off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door, then removed his shoes, and now he came walking over to her in his stocking feet, wearing jeans and a thermal shirt that outlined his amazing shoulders.

Sheesh, she didn’t know who she liked better—the Jack of her beach memories, or this one, so much older, his edges a little softened, but still fierce and determined and possessing the ability to sweep her heart from her chest.

“You’re still up.”

She nodded, not sure what to say.

“Good.” He sat down on the chair. “Because I think I found a lead. Wanna do some tracking?” Then he smiled, and all she could think was . . .

“And then you live happily ever after.”