1. CHAPTER ONE

"Go!" Jagger said, shoving Clint out his front door. "We both know you need this. Your problems won't drink themselves away, and we both know your child sleeps like the dead. She'll be fine. I'm here."

Clint swayed a little on his front porch, his face moving side to side, between the past and reality, with the back-and-forth sloshing liquid in the half-empty bottle of Hardwood Distillery whiskey in his hand. He had started consuming away those problems an hour ago.

"Maybe you'll find a mermaid you can tell your woes to. Or an otter." Clint glared at Jagger but only for a second, since his youngest brother's face turned sad. "I know days like today are hard."

Clint made a noise in his throat to neither dismiss nor confirm what Jagger said.

It was Talia's birthday. His daughter turned eight today, and just like for the last five years, her mother wasn't there to watch her baby blow out her candles.

Or maybe she was ... if you believed in angels and spirits and that stuff.

She was watching over Talia as she swung the T-ball bat at her mermaid pinata, blew out her candles and opened all her presents.

But she wasn't there to hug her daughter. To reminisce with Clint about the day they welcomed Talia—perfect, and covered in goo with a squishy face and curious eyes—into the world.

It'd been five years, and although it got easier, it was still hard as fuck.

And on days like today, Clint put on a brave face until his daughter went to bed, then he hit the bottle hard. Jagger always came and made sure Talia wasn't in the house alone. Then Clint wandered down to the beach to wallow.

"It's a full moon," Jagger offered. "And warm for early May. Seems like a nice night to go drink until you pass out on the beach. Make sure you stay above the tide line, though." He snorted softly, then stepped out onto the porch and rested a hand on Clint's shoulder. "Just do what you gotta do, so you're whole again tomorrow."

Clint grunted, nodded, then spun around, taking the steps off the porch slower than normal.

It was just a ten-minute walk down to the beach from where he and his brothers had their houses all lined up in a row of five on the back of their family property.

The motion-sensor light for the brewery flicked on when he passed under the deck on stilts and made his way down into the sand.

They reserved the primo land with the unencumbered ocean view for the deck of their brewpub. Patrons could come and grab a pint or a flight of beer, snack on some pub grub and watch the boats out in the straight. Then behind the brewpub were six cabins that they rented out to tourists, and beyond the cabins stood a line of trees for privacy, followed by a little hill, with five houses all side-by-side. One for each of the McEvoy brothers and their children.

Except Jagger, the youngest. He had no kids. But he was a damn good uncle.

They each had a small backyard, and beyond that spanned a rolling hillside with tall grass and wildflowers. A place for the kids to roam free like the little wildlings they were. Chase grasshoppers, pick flowers and lay under the sun watching the clouds.

It was everything Clint ever wanted for his child.

His pace slowed, and he wobbled even more as his shoes sunk into the loose, dry sand. He had a favorite piece of driftwood that he liked to sit on when he came down to the beach to wallow and grieve. But they had some pretty wicked winter storms, so there was a good chance his log had drifted out to sea and found a new beach to call home. He'd have to find a new one.

Jagger was right. The moon was full and bright.

Not a cloud floated in the inky sky to block Clint's only source of light as he left the safety of the sand and traversed his way onto the rocks. He continued along the tide line, where the kelp and driftwood nestled close to the overhanging trees. Resilient evergreens with harsh bends in the trunks that took a beating from the wind and sea each and every year yet never buckled hung over the rocks, creating a low canopy.

The madrona, or arbutus to someone from Canada, was his favorite tree. With branches that twisted and kinked toward the sky, and bark that peeled like cinnamon curls to reveal a bright, green, silky skin underneath. They had leaves, but they weren't deciduous. And the berries were edible. It was something they were considering experimenting with at the brewery. Madrona berry ale. It remained in the workshopping stage, since they'd need a lot of berries, but he knew they could make it into something delicious.

Once he was out of sight of the brewpub, he found his log, or one similar enough that it didn't matter, and sat down, tipping the bottle of whiskey up to his lips and taking a long, hard pull.

He rarely drank hard alcohol. He was a brewmaster, so he usually drank beer. But on days like today, he needed to flesh out a way to feel and yet also feel nothing, and whiskey seemed the fastest way to do that and slip away into memories of her.

Their marriage hadn't been good for a while. All they did was fight.

It wasn't that he didn't love Jacqueline; it was that he wasn't in love with her anymore. They had always been better friends than spouses or lovers. And she knew that, too. They just didn't have a lot in common. He was a homebody, and she loved to socialize. She also grew to resent their quiet life on San Camanez Island and kept pressuring him to move to Seattle, where life could be busier and more exciting.

But he loved the island. It was where his business was, where his family was, and it was a safe place for their adventurous and spirited daughter. Talia and her cousins could run around without any shoes on and not worry about stepping on broken glass, a needle, or getting abducted from her front yard. They had property, privacy and most of all, community.

But Jacqueline grew up in the city and became almost immediately bored with island life.

They'd had a big fight right before she went on her girls' trip with her three sisters in-laws. They were going down to Vegas for Remy's thirtieth birthday. Clint fully supported the trip and thought maybe getting to the big city and off the island would be good for Jacqueline. That it would feed her need for busyness. But she saw his acceptance and excitement for her to go, as him happy that she was leaving.

So, while his brothers kissed their wives goodbye, Clint got a harsh glare from Jacqueline as she climbed into Sheila's car.

That was the last time he ever saw his wife.

Their car got side-swiped on the way to SeaTac airport, and all four women passed away. Jacqueline was declared dead on the scene, as was Remy. Sheila and Carla were taken to the hospital in critical condition. Neither woman survived long enough for Clint and his brothers to get to the hospital and say goodbye.

Four men became widowers that day.

Six children lost their mothers.

So, given the guilt he felt about his daughter not having a mother anymore—piled on the fact that he and Jacqueline were at odds and probably on the road to divorce—Clint still struggled with things.

He muddled through the days somehow. Because he had to.

For Talia.

But the guilt still gnawed away at him.

He took another pull off the bottle and stared up at the glowing moon.

At least he still had his daughter.

Precocious, cheeky, brilliant, beautiful and so much like her mother, Talia was his sunshine. His glowing moon, his stars and the reason he hadn't sunk into a deeper pit of despair and nauseating, debilitating guilt. Because he couldn't. He wouldn't. He needed to do right by his little girl, and being both mom and dad for her was how he did it.

Heaving a big sigh, he set the bottle on the marble-like pebbles at his feet and shoved his fingers into his short, dark hair, then dragged his hand down his face, pulling at the stubble on his jaw.

His eyes drifted out to the ocean. The water was calm, and the tide must have been slack because there wasn't the normal whoosh of the surf breaking against the rocks.

Once in a while, a seal, sea lions or otters would splash about, drawing the attention of the brewpub patrons. They'd even been graced with a few orca or humpback sightings. That was always good for business. Jagger—who handled all of their social media—would post like crazy that there were whales in front of the brewery, then people would flock to their establishment.

Keeping his eyes out on the water, he scanned for signs of life.

It was closing in on midnight. Even the seals were probably sleeping.

Where did seals sleep? On land? Or floating around the ocean like a dolphin? That didn't seem safe. They had far more predators than dolphins.

No little heads popped up out of the water, and when he concentrated, he heard no sudden gusts of breath from a blowhole or pinniped's nostrils.

He took another sip. He still had about a quarter of the bottle left, and it hadn't been full when he started.

But he had a high tolerance for alcohol and could—if he wanted to—finish a two-six himself and live to tell the story. After a three-day hangover, of course. Because he wasn't twenty-two anymore, and his body no longer found joy in self-destruct mode. It didn't bounce back as quickly and liked to punish him for a few days afterward to remind him he was a forty-four-year-old man and needed to behave like one.

He continued to scan the beach, glancing down one side, then the other. He looked to the right again and paused.

What the fuck was that?

From where he sat, the shadows and his drunk brain playing tricks on him, he couldn't tell what it was.

Probably a seal.

But maybe something else?

He stood up, left his bottle where it was, but then paused.

Maybe he needed a weapon?

But glass on the beach was a terrible idea. There were rocks. He could always defend himself with a big rock.

He left the bottle on the rocks and started walking down the beach beneath the trees. The rocks were probably slippery, meaning the path of least resistance and ultimate safety was not a straight line. He wasn't so drunk that he would do something stupid like traipse along the slippery rocks in the dark. That would probably cause him to break his neck. Then Talia would be an orphan. He was always in his right mind when it came to her.

He reached the point where he was up at the tide line, but directly in line with the lump.

The lump that didn't move.

Fuck.

He blinked a bunch of times, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the light of the moon a little better, but nothing worked. He needed to get closer.

Careful not to slip, he was mindful where he put his feet, keeping his eyes on the ground as much as he could so he didn't step on a rock covered with slippery green seaweed.

He lifted his head again now that he was closer to the lump.

Oh fuck!

That was no seal.

That was a fucking person.

A naked person.

Was that a mermaid?

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head hard enough that he nearly lost his footing, then blinked them open again.

Or was it a dead body?

Oh God.

"Hello?" he whispered. "Are you a mermaid?"

Did mermaids speak English?

Oh, you drunk idiot. Mermaids do not fucking exist.

Hopefully, the person didn't hear him ask that.

But also, hopefully, they weren't dead.

He stepped closer, his shoes on the rocks making the stones slide across each other and the normally banal noise of pebbles across pebbles suddenly sounded like a foghorn in the eerily quiet night.

"Hello? Are you okay?"

He was only about fifteen feet away now. It was definitely a person. They had legs. Not fins.

And they were basically naked, aside from black underwear—well, more like a black thong. Shit. Long blonde hair covered the person's face as they lay curled up in the fetal position. But when he leaned in closer, he noticed breasts. Fuck. Fuck. It was a woman.

Not that it mattered whether it was a dead man or woman. A dead person sucked either way.

But given that he'd come out here to silently self-destruct over the death of his wife, just added another layer of gravy to his open-faced shit sandwich.

"Hello? Are you okay? Do you need some help?" He crept closer.

He finally reached her and sunk to his knees, rolling her over onto her back. Her hair fell away from her face.

And holy flying fuck.

It was Brooke Barker.

The Brooke Barker. Hollywood sweetheart. Big screen phenomenon. Two-time Oscar nominee, Brooke Fucking Barker.

His jaw dropped.

"Oh God. Oh God. Oh God, oh God." He leaned down and pressed his ear to her mouth to check to see if she was breathing . But he couldn't tell. All he heard was the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently, but forcefully. "Brooke. Ms. Barker, you need to wake up. Oh my God. Fuck."

He sat down on the rocks and pulled her head into his lap, pressed his fingers to her neck. She had a pulse.

Hall-e-fucking-lujah, she had a pulse.

Leaning down, he put his cheek in front of her nose and waited. He couldn't hear her breathing, but this time, he could feel it. Shallow puffs of air hit his cheek.

"Thank fuck."

She was ice-cold to the touch, but she was alive.

He couldn't run back and get help. That would leave her out here longer. She needed to get warm, and she needed to get warm fast.

He wore his typical flannel button-up with a white T-shirt underneath, and dark-wash jeans, so he unbuttoned his flannel and wrapped her up in it, then hoisted her into his arms and headed back up to the tide line.

It was amazing how quickly an experience like this could sober a person because he didn't stumble or stagger once. Back up under the brewery deck, he carried her. Past the brewpub, past the cabins that were only half-full right now since it wasn't peak season yet, and toward the five porch lights beyond the trees and up the hill.

He reached his front door and, balancing Brooke in one arm, reached for the latch with the other.

"Back so soon?" came Jagger's voice from the living room.

"Need fucking help," Clint said with a grunt.

Jagger reached Clint in seconds. His mouth went slack, then he flicked on a light. "What the fuck?"

"Found her on the beach."

"Is she—"

"She's alive, but she's hypothermic. Need blankets and heating pads. I have an electric blanket in the chest at the foot of my bed. And call Grayson."

Jagger nodded, then paused. "You don't want to call 9-1-1?"

"Do you see who this is?" Clint asked with panic, glancing down at the woman.

Jagger looked closer at the woman in Clint's arms, then his blue eyes went wide behind his glasses. "Holy fuck, is that—?

"Brooke Barker? I think so. No need to have paparazzi here. Call Grayson."

Jagger nodded again and pulled his phone out of his pocket as he took off upstairs toward Clint's bedroom.

Clint carried Brooke over to the couch and laid her down gently, then he started grabbing all the throws and blankets that he had in the living room and piled them on top of her.

Jagger came thundering down the stairs with more blankets, the electric blanket and some of those beanbag things you could either put in the microwave or freezer. "Grayson says he'll be here in ten."

"Thanks," Clint said.

"Jesus Christ." The microwave buttons beeped. "What the hell happened?" Jagger called from the kitchen.

Clint shook his head. "No fucking clue." He found an outlet nearest to the couch, then plugged in the electric blanket and brought it over to put beneath Brooke's feet before he covered them with some of the blankets Jagger brought.

Jagger returned to the living room while the microwave hummed in the background. He pulled on his long beard. Even though he was the baby of the family, he had the longest, thickest beard. He kept his hair short and wore glasses. He had what a lot of women called the lumbersexual look, particularly since he liked to wear flannel and jeans like Clint. Clint couldn't let his beard get that long without it getting itchy, but it worked for Jagger, and he certainly had a long stream of female admirers.

"Where the fuck did you find her?" Jagger asked.

"On the beach," Clint said, standing over Brooke, who was now buried in blankets. "She's breathing, but she was unconscious."

"And you found her naked like that?"

Clint gave his baby brother a hard glare. "You think I stripped her?"

"No—I ... never mind. So what do we do now? Does she have a husband?"

"I don't know. Wasn't she attached to some actor?"

"Don't really follow the lives of celebrities. But she has to have a manager or an agent we can call."

Clint stared at the blonde woman, unconscious on his couch.

"Hold off contacting anyone until she wakes up."

Jagger's blue eyes narrowed.

Clint shook his head. "I dunno ... I just have a feeling that we need to wait until she can speak. She was in the fucking Puget Sound in the middle of the night in early May. And she managed not to drown—somehow—and got herself to shore. If you look at what she's wearing—the jewelry and residual makeup, I mean—she was probably at some event."

Jagger peered over the couch to take in the fancy chandelier earrings encrusted with diamonds that hung from Brooke's lobes, as well as the matching necklace. "Surprised she didn't sink to the bottom with those things on," he murmured.

"Maybe she ran from someone? Jumped off a boat? It could have been her only means of escape."

"You're jumping to some pretty radical ideas here, big brother," Jagger said, copping a cheeky smile. "Maybe she was pushed?"

"Yeah," Clint nodded with complete sincerity, "maybe she was."

"Or maybe she tried to commit suicide?"

"Then why didn't she just let herself drown?" Clint mused.

"Change of heart?"

Clint shrugged.

"If she was pushed, where are her clothes?" Jagger asked.

"A gown would weigh her down and surely drown her. She probably got rid of it. Which basically rules out suicide. Because if she wanted to die, she easily could have."

"Smart." Jagger's smile remained playful. Out of the five of the McEvoy brothers, he was easily the most carefree and the least serious. Probably because he had no kids. He was still a child himself. Or at least acted like one a lot, even though he was in his thirties. "You're really honing in on those detective skills of yours. Been rewatching all your favorite Sherlock Holmes shows?"

Heat burned in Clint's cheeks. Yes, he had been, actually. And they were definitely teaching him to be a more observant person. "I'm home now. You can leave."

The microwave beeped. Jagger headed back into the kitchen, but not before tossing over his shoulder, "And miss out on the fun of finding out how a Hollywood starlet ended up on our beach naked and half-frozen to death? I think not." He returned with a warm beanbag, which he handed to Clint.

Clint tucked it under the blankets next to Brooke.

The sound of a vehicle pulling up in front of the house, along with the flash of headlights through the window, alerted him to Grayson arriving.

"You can head back to the beach and finish your wallowing if you need to," Jagger said, a teasing grin tugging at his lips as he went to the door to open it for Grayson.

Clint growled.

Grayson Malone was a tall black man with short-cropped hair, soft brown eyes, and a very long stride. He was one of the three doctors that lived on San Camanez, and in the two years he'd lived on the island, had quickly become part of the McEvoy brothers' extended family. He was a regular at the brewpub, and an unofficial taste-tester of Clint's newest brews. The man was blunt and didn't hold back his opinion when he thought something was too hoppy, not sour enough, or just plain crap.

"April Fools is over, guys," Grayson said, toting his black medical bag with him as he stepped his tall frame through the door.

"I fucking know," Clint said, shoving his fingers into his hair. "But this is no prank."

Grayson followed Jagger and Clint into the living room, and his eyes went wide when he took in Brooke on the couch. "Christ almighty. You weren't lying." He walked around the coffee table, sat down on the edge of it and opened his medical bag. "You say she was breathing when you found her?"

"Breathing and had a heartbeat, yes," Clint said. "But she was ice cold and her feet and legs were all cut up."

"How the fuck she survived out in that ..." Grayson said, more to himself than anybody else. He put the earpieces for a stethoscope into his ears, then pulled back the blankets enough to expose the top portion of Brooke's chest. "Well, she's alive."

Reaching into his medical bag, he pulled out something, then he waved it under Brooke's nose. Smelling salts.

She blinked, opened her eyes slowly and sucked in a few ragged, panicky breaths.

"There we go," Grayson soothed in his deep, rumbly voice.

Brooke trembled and her green eyes went wide as they darted across each of their faces. "Wh-where am I?"

"In the land of the living," Jagger said.

"Do you know who you are?" Grayson asked.

"B-Brooke Barker," she stammered, her lips, still a frightening shade of blue, trembled as she spoke.

"And do you know how you ended up in that water?" Grayson asked.

Her teeth chattered, and she shivered. "I ... I was pushed. Off … off a yacht. S-someone p-pushed me."

Something weird and feral clawed at the back of Clint's neck. Somebody tried to kill this woman. And even though he didn't know her, the intense and consuming need to protect her, to save her, nearly made him nauseous.

What the fuck was that about?

"And you swam to the island?" Grayson asked. Only because Clint knew the doctor so well, did he detect the mild hint of skepticism in his friend's tone. Which wasn't completely uncalled for. That water was freezing, and the current ran strong between the islands.

Brooke nodded. "I removed my dress and shoes. I ... I used to swim in high school. Was state champion."

See, there was always a reasonable explanation for everything.

Grayson's head bobbed. "Do you mind if I examine you? Clint mentioned that you had cuts on your legs and feet."

Brooke's eyes lifted up to Clint. "Are you Clint?"

He nodded.

"And you're the one that found me?"

He nodded again.

Tears filled her eyes, and she swallowed. "Th-thank you," she whispered through her chattering teeth. Then she nodded at Grayson, who gently peeled back the layers at her legs and feet to reveal some pretty bloodied and cut up shins and the bottoms of her feet.

"Probably from the rocks and barnacles," Grayson murmured. He craned his neck around to Clint. "The blankets and heating pads are a good start, but what she really needs is a warm—not hot—bath. Then clothes, blankets and heating pads. But until we know she's not at risk for hypothermia anymore, she needs to stay awake."

"I have a soaker tub in my bathroom upstairs," Clint said. "I can go run her a bath."

Grayson nodded. "That's a good idea."

Clint took off upstairs. All five houses on the hill were styled with wood floors and a blend of modern meets rustic cabin. The wives had a heavy hand in the designs and decorating, and even in five years Clint didn't change a thing. Jacqueline had always had good taste.

He headed to the end of the hall; his hurried footsteps cushioned by the long runner that ran the length of the hallway. Passing Talia's closed bedroom door, he then entered the big primary bedroom with the peaked ceiling, which, like the floors downstairs , was made of wood. The space led to a big sliding glass door that opened onto a private balcony, a sort of second beach for Clint to unpack his anguish.

The bed was made. The room was sparse, tidy, but lived in.

He turned another corner and entered a large ensuite bathroom with a walk-in shower and a free-standing soaker tub that sat on the tile floor in front of a corner made of windows. Only there was a tinting film on the windows so nobody could see in.

He put the plug in the tub and turned on the tap, making sure that the water wasn't too hot, before he headed back downstairs.

"These cuts are pretty superficial," Grayson said. "I can leave some bandages and disinfectant for after your bath, but I don't think you need stitches or anything. Just clean them and dress them. A saltwater bath from time to time is a good idea. They'll heal pretty quick."

"Is there someone we should call?" Jagger asked.

An icy sharp frisson made its way down Clint's spine.

But Brooke quickly shook her head and blurted out, "No."

"The police even?" Grayson asked, curiously.

"No!" she said even louder this time, her eyes wide with panic. "Not the police."

Grayson, Jagger and Clint exchanged looks.

"I ... I haven't done anything wrong ... I just ... I—"

"You don't have to explain right now," Clint said, stepping forward. "You've been through a lot."

"You said you were on a yacht for a party, Ms. Barker. Am I to assume you were drinking?" Grayson asked.

"I-I only had two glasses of champagne, then I switched to lemon water. I don't drink much anyway, and I had the glasses early on in the evening. Well before I ended up in the water. I wasn't drunk if that's what you're implying. I didn't fall into the water like a drunk sailor. Someone pushed me."

Grayson pressed his lips together and nodded. "I believe you."

Brooke went to sit up, but the blankets pooled around her waist and she realized she was topless, so she laid back down and tugged the covers up to her chin. "I—"

"I gotcha," Clint said, nudging Grayson out of the way, forcing the doctor to stand up and let Clint get into position. He bent down and scooped up Brooke and all her blankets. "That way we don't have to scrub blood stains out of the carpets all day tomorrow."

She blinked at him with more tears in her eyes. "T-thank you …ummm?"

"Clint," he said. "Clint McEvoy. And that's Dr. Malone."

"Just call me Grayson." Grayson smiled. "I'll be back in the morning to check on you. But, as long as you stay warm and stay awake until your temperature is back to ninety-eight-point-six, you should be okay."

"You still keep the ear thermometer in the first aid kit in the kitchen?" Jagger asked.

Clint was nearly at the stairs. "Yeah."

Brooke glanced over her shoulder at Grayson. "T-thank you."

Clint paused at the bottom of the stairs and fixed his gaze on Grayson. "Yeah, thanks, man."

Grayson's brown eyes were tired, but he smiled his bright white, genuine Grayson smile. "Anytime."

Jagger returned from the kitchen and handed the thermometer to Clint, piling it on top of the mound of blankets. Clint's arms were beginning to get a little numb from just standing there, holding Brooke and all her layers. If it'd just been her, like before, he'd be fine, but the layers were heavy.

"I'll see Grayson out," Jagger said.

"Thanks," Clint replied, starting the stairs. He reached the top when the gentle rumble of Grayson's truck echoed from outside. "The big bear with the beard is my younger brother, Jagger." All she did was nod and chatter her teeth. He turned the corner into his bedroom, then again into the bathroom.

The tub was about halfway full with a gentle steam. He had a small table beside it with shampoo and soap. Not that he had baths often, but Talia liked to use his tub, so hopefully Brooke didn't mind smelling like watermelon lemonade.

"Nobody can see in," he said. "The windows are tinted."

She didn't say anything, but smiled faintly, then shivered.

Setting her down on the tile floor, he went about getting some big fluffy white towels from a tall cupboard along the wall. "You'll be okay?"

She nodded. "I t-think s-so. T-thank you."

Clint grunted, then turned to go.

"I ..."

He spun back around, his brows lifted, waiting for her to finish.

"I d-don't know w-who I can t-trust."

That clawing feral need to protect was back, only this time instead of being nauseating, it was a burning sensation in his gut that made his fingers twitch and his heart rate spike. "You can trust me," He reassured her, trying to push down a flutter in his throat.

She attempted a smile, but it didn't amount to much. "Can I just ... th-think on things for a bit? Is that o-okay?"

"Anything you need. But you're safe here."

Now, her smile was honest, though still small. "Thank you."

Clint turned to go again, closing the door behind him.

It wasn't long before he heard a terrified gasp on the other side of the door, followed quickly by sobbing. If he were to guess, she'd probably looked at herself in the mirror and saw her makeup. She may have even checked out her legs and feet.

He thought about knocking to see if she was okay, but he also knew that she needed this time to herself to try to make sense of what had happened.

He grabbed clothes from his dresser—a pair of gray sweatpants, a white T-shirt and some socks—then laid them out on his bed for her. He knocked gently on the door. "I've laid some clothes on the bed for you."

"Thank you," she said through the sobs.

He paused for another moment with his ear next to the door. Then he pursed his lips and headed back downstairs.

"Mermaid back in the water?" Jagger's sarcasm was never in short supply.

Clint threw his brother an irritated look. "You can go. Thank you for your help."

Jagger rolled his eyes. "Fine, but you keep me updated, okay?" He headed for the door, but stopped when his hand grabbed the handle. "Scary shit, huh? Being pushed off a boat like that."

"Very scary," Clint agreed.

"What are you going to do?"

Clint shrugged. "Whatever she needs."

"Weird that she doesn't want to call the cops. What do you think that's about?"

Clint shrugged again and shoved his hands into his jean pockets. "No idea. But I'm sure she has her reasons."

"You're being awfully accepting of the situation. Normally, the Clint McEvoy I know is suspicious as fuck of everyone."

"Who says I'm not suspicious?"

"You're suspicious of her?" Jagger pried, tipping his chin toward upstairs. "Doesn't seem that way."

Truthfully, Clint wasn't suspicious of Brooke. But he sure as hell wanted to know who tried to kill her. Of that, he was incredibly suspicious. He was also really fucking tired. "Thanks for watching Talia for me."

"Sorry your wallowing was cut short."

Clint snorted. "Probably for the best."

Jagger glanced toward the stairs again. "You gonna tell the others?"

"Hard to hide her from the rest of the family forever. And Talia is a blabbermouth."

"Oh yeah, how are you going to explain her to Talia?"

Clint had absolutely no idea.

Jagger noticed Clint"s cluelessness and weary exhale. His smile in response was full of sympathy, which Clint appreciated.

"Text me if you need anything."

"Will do."

His brother left, and Clint closed the door. He never locked his door. It was San Camanez Island. Nobody ever locked their door. Everyone on the island was a friend. And even the tourists when they came seemed to understand that the island was a place of peace and the locals would boot them back to where they came from if they messed with the harmonious balance of things.

Fatigue pulled on his eyelids like two anchors, but he didn't want to fall asleep with Brooke upstairs in the tub. So, like an idiot, he made himself some coffee and sat at the kitchen table, thinking he'd be less likely to fall asleep on a wooden chair than he was on the couch.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when he heard the tub start to drain upstairs and his bedroom door opened.

He raced as fast as his tired legs could carry him because he didn't want to force Brooke to walk on her cut-up feet. He met her at the top of the stairs. His clothes swallowed her up. They were at least six sizes too big. It was kind of adorable. She'd braided her long, wet blonde hair down her back and had scrubbed her face free of makeup. Her cheeks were rosy, which was good. It meant warmth had returned to her face. But her eyes were also puffy from crying.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked her.

Her smile was warm but uncertain. "Back to the living room?"

"Sure thing." Then, before she could protest, he scooped her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he easily carried her down the stairs and set her on the couch. Then he bounded back up to his room, where all the blankets were piled on his bed. He grabbed most of them and carried them back to her. He tucked her in and made her some tea.

"You're being very sweet," she whispered, cupping the warm mug in both hands and resting it on her bent knees. "You don't even know me."

"Are you rude to strangers?" he asked.

She offered a cute, but cautious smile. "No, I guess not."

"You've been through a lot, so just let me know what you need."

"I know what you need," she said, giving him a knowing and sympathetic look. "Sleep."

"I'm fine," he said, slumping into the love seat across from her on the couch.

"So am I. I took my temperature when I got out of the bath, and I'm at ninety-eight-point-six already, so no need to worry about me falling asleep and dying on your sofa." She sipped her tea. "Sleep, Clint. I'll be okay."

He nodded and yawned. "Okay, but ... I'll just doze for like ten minutes right here."

"Whatever you need to make yourself not worry."

Her voice was like honey, and it soothed him as he closed his eyes and let the whiskey, adrenaline and grief of his night whip into a cocktail of exhaustion inside of him.

He was out in seconds, giving his weird dreams free rein in his head.

Dreams about a blonde Hollywood It-girl growing fins, then riding an orca around in a bottle of whiskey that had wheels and raced through traffic like a cop car during a high-speed chase. Then the bottle crashed into a concrete barricade on the road and the It-girl—who now had a mermaid tail—begged him to help her.

And he did.

He promised her in his dream that he would help her any way he could.

No matter how much it hurt in the end to let her go.