5. CHAPTER FIVE

It hadn't even been twenty-four hours, but being housebound was already driving Brooke up the wall. It wasn't the little girls. They were lovely. She just hated being cooped up indoors, in a house that wasn't hers, without any of her things—not even her phone—and not knowing what was going on in the world. Add in the fact that someone out there wanted her dead, the world thought she was dead via suicide, and Brooke wasn't doing as well as she thought she was when the afternoon rolled around.

She and the three little girls did mani-pedis, then they colored, then they made bracelets with beads, then they did watercolors. And as much fun as it all was, Brooke was exhausted.

"How about some lunch?" she offered, tidying up the kitchen table of their latest art endeavor. Their paintings were sitting on the kitchen island to dry, and the girls were putting the paints away.

"Mac ‘n' cheese?" Aya asked.

Emerson and Talia nodded.

"Sure. Just point me in the direction of the pantry."

They all grinned, and Brooke got to work making them lunch. She was just adding the sliced cucumbers to their four plates while the pasta steamed in their bowls, when the front door opened.

"Dad, Brooke is the best," Talia said. "Can we keep her?"

Brooke snorted.

It sounded like Clint snorted, too.

"She's not a stray puppy, Tal," Clint said, a chuckle in his voice and one of those dimple-showing smiles on his face, as he came up behind his daughter at the table and tugged on one of her braids.

"I know," Talia said. "But I still really like her."

Brooke brought two plates over to the table and set them down for Aya and Emerson, then brought the other two back for herself and Talia. "There's more if you're hungry," she said to him, that familiar heat from earlier filling her cheeks. "I hope you don't mind that I cooked. Not that it's really cooking. I'm pretty sure mac ‘n' cheese from the box is foolproof."

"I was just coming in to make them something for lunch, so thank you. And, I grabbed a bite at the pub, but thanks."

The kids dove into their lunch.

Brooke watched the girls eat because she didn't want to look at Clint. His eyes were like two warm laser beams on her. A trickle of sweat meandered down between her breasts, reminding her that she wasn't wearing a bra.

She swallowed, and as covertly as she could, brought her arms up in front of her chest and crossed them, drying the sweat at the same time. "Any news on my death?" she asked, tossing in a hint of sarcasm when she finally worked up the courage to look at the devastatingly handsome single dad.

Clint's mouth hitched up higher on one side of his face than the other.

Her belly did a little flutter. "There are several candlelight vigils being set up all over the country for tonight. One even here on the island, since you jumped ship so close to San Camanez."

"She didn't jump," Talia said emphatically.

Clint rolled his eyes. "Figure of speech."

"Whatever that means," his daughter said, shaking her head.

Clint opened his mouth, about to argue, but seemed to think better of it. He just shook his head and smiled down at his cheeky offspring before tilting his head to the side, indicating that Brooke should follow him.

They left the kids in the kitchen, and continued on into the living room, the foyer, and eventually outside onto the quaint porch. "Nobody can see up here," he said. "We're safe from prying eyes. My brothers all know you're here. But that's it. Well, them and the kids. But the kids know to keep their tiny traps shut."

"The girls are so lovely."

Pride infused his face, and his broad chest puffed up a little. Then his smile faltered. "But?"

She dropped her gaze to her feet. "But, I'm going a little stir-crazy. I know it hasn't even been a day, but ..."

"You're used to space and—"

"My own things."

He nodded in understanding. "In addition to making lunch, I came here to get a shopping list from you. I'll pop to town and pick up a few things. Just make a list."

She smiled in appreciation. "Thank you. I don't want to be a burden. And you letting me stay here means the world. I just—"

"You're feeling lost."

There he went again, reading her mind and finishing her sentences.

Normally, when a man cut her off, she got angry, but with Clint, and in this circumstance, she didn't. It was because he understood how she felt. And she liked being understood.

Flynn never really did understand her. Never really got her.

Nobody did. Nobody but Inez, anyway.

And between Inez and her damn good PR team, her traumatic past and information about her broken family remained under wraps.

Fear spiked through her. Was all that about to change now that the world thought she died? Not that there was a gag-order on talking about her past or anything, but now that she was presumed dead would the media start digging deeper into her life before Hollywood? Would they try to track down her family?

"What just happened?" Clint asked, worry in his blue eyes. "You had a smile on your face, then it dropped to your toes."

She shook her head and pasted on the smile she'd perfected over the years. The smile she used when a reporter or journalist asked her the most asinine and insulting question, while her male co-stars got the more stimulating ones. "Nothing. Just ... tired."

It didn't look like he quite believed her, but he also wasn't going to press for more. He nodded. "You're more than welcome to go lie down upstairs in the guestroom. It's yours until you don't want it anymore."

This man was just so freaking nice.

And here, after Flynn, she thought all the good guys were taken. That just cads and rakes remained in the cesspool known as the dating pond.

"There has already been a reporter at the pub," he said. "Jagger is in charge of the media, so he's handling it. Saying they're free to roam the beach, and that we're all on the look-out just like everyone else, but patrons are not to be disturbed."

Her gut swirled. "Thank you."

"Any more clue who it could have been?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to say that it was Kendall, because why? What would she have to gain from my death? But I can't think of anyone else. I don't want to sound like a pompous ass, but I didn't really have enemies."

Clint huffed a laugh and brought that dimple back out. "That's not pompous."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. I can't think of anyone who would want to kill me."

"No deranged fan? A stalker? Maybe ... another actor who got passed up for a role that was given to you?"

Brooke pressed her lips together. "I mean ... maybe. Inez handled most of my fan mail. I used to, but it just got to be too much. So I had her take over. Both the email letters and the physical ones."

"And she'd tell you if she found something suspicious?"

"I trust Inez, yes. She wouldn't keep anything threatening from me."

"Okay." He stroked his chin. "Go in and make a list of what you need. Then I'll head into town. Maybe you should go take a nap upstairs. I agree, the girls are great, but they're exhausting."

"They're wonderful ..." She fought a yawn and lost. "But, yeah, they are."

He smiled and shoved his hands into his pockets, tipping his gaze up to hers in a way that made everything inside her get hot, tight, and twisted. "I want to help you, Brooke."

She swallowed. "Thank you."

His smile was small and thin, then he nodded and together they went back into the house, but she could feel his eyes on her the entire time she walked ahead of him into the kitchen. Like two blue balls of fire warming her back just right. Not to the point where she got burned or felt pain. But just comfort, arousal, excitement even.

She sat down beside Talia, who was almost done with her lunch, and Clint put a pad of paper and a pen beside her.

"What's that for?" Talia asked.

"I'm going to pop to the store and pick up a few things for Brooke. Do you need anything?"

"Can you buy a watermelon?" Talia asked.

"I'll see if they have any good ones."

Brooke wrote down a few items of clothes, deodorant, face wash, moisturizer, a pair of sandals, a bra, and underwear. In reality, her list could have been ten pages long, but she didn't want Clint to think she was high-maintenance. And also, having to write down her bra size for him was mortifying enough.

He glanced at the list and made a noise in his throat.

"I think that's it," she said. "And I don't really care about brands."

"Good. Because the Town Center Grocery Store usually only carries two varieties. Unscented and scented."

Oh lovely.

He focused on Talia. "Tal, be good. Your uncles are down at the pub if you need anything."

"I know, Dad."

"And the emergency cell phone is plugged into the charger. Text me if you need anything."

"I know, Dad." She rolled her big blue eyes, then turned to Brooke. "He acts like I'm five."

Clint tugged on Talia's braid. "And I'll start treating you like you're five and sending you to bed at a time for five-year-olds if you keep throwing all this sass at me."

She tipped her head back and stuck her tongue out at him, but it was all in play. "Drive safe, Dad."

It was barely noticeable, and it disappeared almost immediately, but Brooke caught it because she was studying the man like a bug under a scope. His expression changed to one of intense pain the moment Talia told him to drive safe. Like someone had run him through with a spear.

But faster than Wolverine, he recovered, the wound sealed up, and it was like it never happened. He pasted on a big smile and nodded. "Always, kiddo. Be good." Then he graced Brooke with another one of those delicious dimply smiles and was on his way out.

"After lunch, let's go pick wildflowers up the hill," Emerson suggested. "Make bouquets for the tables in the pub."

The other two girls nodded.

"It's behind all our houses, so nobody will see you, Brooke," Emerson said. "You'll be safe."

Brooke smiled, and her head bobbed, though her mind remained on the man who was outside and starting up his truck. There was immense pain there. Grief and guilt, too. She saw it all in a flash in his expressive eyes. But it was practically tangible, and it rocked her to her core. Like seeing her family's pain in someone else's face. Her throat grew tight, and tears burned the backs of her eyes.

"Brooke?" Talia asked, resting a hand on Brooke's arm and bringing her back to reality. "You okay?"

Brooke flashed them all a big, happy smile. "Sounds wonderful."

The Town Center Grocery Store was more than just a grocery store. It was the hub for all hardware, food, clothes, houseware, gardening, pharmaceuticals, tech and everything else you could think of. What started out as a small general store for food, quickly developed into a sprawling monstrosity with additions built onto additions until the place was two-stories tall and resembled a contorted octopus from the sky. Add in the fact that there was also a big courtyard with food vendors, an ice cream shop, a newly opened kombucha shop, a cannabis store, a liquor store, and various tourist trinket shops, and the place was always busy, with parking nearly impossible to find.

However, Clint knew a secret parking spot—as did many other locals—and he pulled off down an alleyway one block away from the town center. It was a one-way street, and a dead-end, so tourists didn't really venture down the road. But if you drove ahead, there was a small gravel pullout that could accommodate six vehicles if the drivers didn't park like inconsiderate idiots.

And today, they weren't.

He snagged the last spot, angle parking like the rest, and hopped out of his truck.

Brooke's list grew damp in his palm as the sun beat down overhead with zero remorse. Even though school wasn't out yet, swarms of tourists loaded the ferries every Friday to come and take in the magic and quirkiness of San Camanez. There were several campsites on the island, as well as cabins and bungalows to rent—like the ones Clint and his brothers owned—but a lot of people just came over for the day as well. There was plenty to do on the island. Hiking, biking, beaches, wine tours, cidery tours and every Saturday and Sunday the field across the street from the Town Center Grocery Store had a farmers' market where anyone who grew or made anything could come and peddle their wares.

That was half the reason the parking lot was so full right now. It was Sunday, and the field was jam-packed with people looking to buy homemade pies, kitschy bracelets made of beach shells, and Seth Griswold's "WORLD FAMOUS" no-meat jerky.

He nodded and waved to over a dozen people as he hoofed it down the narrow shoulder of the road to the grocery store.

Everyone knew everyone on the island.

And that also meant that everyone knew everyone's business.

He and his brothers would have to remain extra vigilant to keep Brooke's existence a secret.

"Hey, Clint," came a gruff but friendly voice behind him.

Clint spun around just as he was about to climb the worn wooden steps up to the grocery store. He'd recognize that voice anywhere.

Hugh Tapper. A long-time islander who ran a pottery studio out of his home. He did well for himself, making most of his money from expensive commissions made by wealthy tourists. He was known for his strong opinions and blunt ways of delivering them.

Clint made sure to throw on a big smile and thrust his hand out. "Hugh, how are things?"

Hugh's grizzled mouth beneath his bushy gray mustache dipped into a deep frown. "So sad about ol' Bonn, huh?"

"Terrible news," Clint agreed. "Even though we knew he wasn't well, a part of me really thought ol' Bonn would live forever."

"I think we all did." Hugh nodded.

Another thing about Hugh, he always had his finger on the pulse of the island. He knew what was happening almost before anyone else.

So it was serendipitous that Clint should run into him. Hugh would know when Bonn's celebration of life would be.

"The island elders are meeting tomorrow to discuss Bonn's land, huh?" Hugh said, but in a way like he was confirming this news with Clint.

Clint frowned and shrugged. "Are they?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they are. Celebration of life will be next weekend. Apparently, Bonn organized everything right before he died. Down to what kind of food he wanted served and even the music."

Clint chuckled as melancholy over the death of such a prominent island figure scraped the back of his throat. "Good ol' Bonn."

"Anyway, you take care," Hugh said, glancing behind him when a child made a sudden high-pitched screech in delight. "Gotta get back to the studio. Got a big commission."

Clint clapped Hugh on the shoulder over his checkered flannel. Even in the dead of summer when it was over one-hundred-degrees in the shade, Hugh always wore flannel and jeans. "Be sure to text me a picture of the finished product."

Hugh waved his hand in dismissal. "You know I don't like that texting stuff." He disappeared into the crowd.

Chuckling, Clint climbed the stairs to the grocery store, holding the door open for another familiar face.

"Thanks, Clint," said Mrs. Delaney, a woman in her mid-fifties who had inherited land from her grandfather and moved her and her family over to the island about ten years ago.

Clint smiled, nodded and continued into the store, welcoming the waft of cool air from the A/C. He waved at the cashiers and the employees stocking the shelves, followed by ten or so patrons in the store he recognized. Thankfully, because everyone knew everyone, they didn't feel compelled to always stop and chat. A simple wave or nod usually sufficed. That didn't mean there weren't eyes on him, though.

There were always eyes.

He made his way to the back of the store, where stairs headed down to the clothing and hardware section.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, he hung a hard right, then a left, and into a big room full of clothing racks, shelves full of pants, shirts, and shoes. It was well-stocked and with a good selection, too. Nothing high-end. No Gucci or Prada, but you could get a pair of Levi jeans for cheap.

He went to the women's section and could feel eyes on him.

Clearing his throat, he ignored the burning sensation on his back from all the attention, and opened up the list Brooke gave him.

Oh for fuck's sake. A bra? Panties?

His face grew as hot as a sidewalk in the sun as he made his way to the undergarment section. He picked up a black lacy bra. Then checked the size Brooke gave him. 34C.

But the one in his hand said 34C push-up. The one beside it said bralette. And the one beside that said extra support-plunge. What the hell was the difference?

Then he started to hear the whispers.

Everyone knew that Talia was only eight. No way in hell would he need to be shopping in the women's section for his daughter, yet. And even so, he ordered her underwear online. Let her pick out the patterns and they were delivered in two days.

He spun around and booked it away from the bras, only to knock over a pedestal bin of two-for-one thongs.

Underwear went everywhere.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Growling, he bent down and started to scoop up the underwear, trying his hardest not to grab them by the string that goes up the ass crack. Not that the other part of it was much better. Or that he was touching anyone in particular's underwear, but it still felt like a weird violation to be touching a piece of string that would eventually floss someone's crack.

He needed to get the fuck out of there.

"It's okay, Clint," came the voice of Shelley Diamond, one of the employees at the store. She kneeled down beside him. "I got this."

Huffing out in frustration and embarrassment, Clint stood up.

Shelley finished putting the underwear back in the bin, then stood up and faced him, a big, albeit curious smile on her round face. "What can I help you with?"

He didn't have to look around the clothing room to know that all ears were tuned in and all eyes were on him. The entire island knew about the death of their wives, and that none of the brothers had dated or had girlfriends since their wives' passing. Clint buying women's clothes, had to have the gossip mill just spinning.

He cleared his throat and shook his head. "Uh ... nothing. Sorry, Shelley, I misunderstood Talia. All good. You have a great day." Then he ran out of there and took the stairs back up to the grocery section two at a time.

He didn't even bother to check to see if the watermelon he grabbed on his way to the cashier was a decent one or not. He just needed to get out of the store. But to go in and not buy anything would be even more suspicious. Plus, his kid asked for something healthy and delicious, so he wasn't going to deny her.

And because the universe seemed to be in one of its taunting moods, he got stuck behind Gertie Redmond, one of the oldest residents on the island. She was even older than Bonn Remmen. But she wasn't on the council of elders. Or at least she wasn't since Clint and his brothers moved to the island. It might be because she was pretty much deaf, blind in one eye, and rarely remembered what day it was, let alone what year. She was also incredibly slow and liked to try to haggle with the cashiers for every item in her cart, even though haggling wasn't allowed.

"I can take you over here, Clint," came the voice of an angel from the next till.

Gertie was still loading her groceries onto the belt, the poor cashier looking equal parts bored as well as nervous as she watched with experienced fear what was going to happen next.

Clint stepped over to the next till. The cashier, Jordana, a pretty redhead with gray eyes and freckles all over her face, gave him a wide, toothy smile. She was a single mom with two little girls similar in age to Talia. Clint didn't know her story, but she was always friendly and a little flirty with him when he saw her around.

"You saved me," he said, plopping the watermelon on the belt. "I'd be completely gray by the time I got to the front of the line. Not just sporting the few hints of silver I have now."

Her giggle was cute as she swept the watermelon across the scanner. "I think the silver makes you look distinguished. Besides, silver foxes are becoming quite the thing." A dark flush slashed her cheeks. "Is that everything?"

He nodded. "It is, thanks."

"Eight-twenty-three, please."

"Let's hope it's a good one for that price."

Her brows scrunched as he paid with his card. Then she knocked on the watermelon and spun it around. "I think it will be. I'm pretty good at picking melons out."

"You'll have to teach me how to pick out a melon one day," he said, accepting his receipt.

Her smile got bigger and her cheeks grew darker. "I'd be happy to."

Clint grabbed his watermelon off the counter, nodded at Jordana, then headed for the door. But it wasn't just Jordana's eyes on him that he felt.

People would be talking about why Clint McEvoy was down in the clothing section of the Town Center Grocery Store and looking at women's bras.

Fuck.

He'd just give Brooke his phone and tell her to order whatever she needed. It'd be there in two days. But like hell was he going to give the island anymore gossip fodder. Because next, more locals would show up to the pub. Eager to catch a glimpse of the woman Clint was "supposedly" seeing. They'd venture up the hill, or peek into the kitchen.

He loved living on the island and the safe community feel, but sometimes the lack of privacy, and the fact that his business became everybody's business wasn't something he'd ever get used to.

It didn't help that his current business involved harboring a believed-to-be dead woman so they could find her murderer.

He glanced at the damp and crumpled list in his palm and sighed. "Sorry, Brooke," he murmured to himself. "You'll just have to pick out your own bras and underwear."

Then it became impossible to visualize Brooke in anything but a bra and underwear as he walked back to his truck. And by the time he climbed into the hot vehicle, he had an erection and an even bigger problem.

He liked the mermaid starlet.

And he had no idea what to do about it.