7. CHAPTER SEVEN

Clint made his way down the stairs after tucking Talia into bed.

Brooke sat on the couch, her legs out long, the bandages covering her feet. She held the tablet, and her brows were knitted so tightly together it looked like they were trying to touch. "What has you making that face?" he asked, admiring the long, slender length of her legs. Even in his clothes, she was beautiful. And the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra, and earlier her nipples grew hard—it was impossible not to notice, and certainly impossible not to appreciate.

Yes, he'd seen her topless down on the beach, but that moment had been brief, and he really wasn't thinking about the fact that Brooke Barker was naked. He was more concerned with the fact that he'd stumbled upon a lifeless naked body and he needed to not let the person die. So his memory of her breasts was blurry at best.

"Just reading through the social media posts about me. There's a vigil being held tonight down by Pike Place in Seattle. And a few more in California. One right outside my house in Monterey, too. And one in some field here on the island."

"That's gotta be weird?"

"It is. Everyone but the handful of people here—and hopefully my brother—thinks I'm dead. Including the person who tried to kill me."

"I've been thinking more about that, actually. I think your brother should get more involved. He should fly up here and start questioning the police, get information, and possibly feed it back to us. Can he afford the flight?"

Brooke nodded absentmindedly. "I know he doesn't like it, but I make sure he wants for nothing. He gets paid so minimally for such an important job. I donate money to the sanctuary and send him money monthly. He won't have a problem paying to fly here."

"Once he establishes contact with you, get him to come up here and start hounding the police. It'll make more sense for someone like him to do it than someone like me—a nobody. If anything, they'll find my sudden interest in the case alarming."

Her mouth twisted in a cute way. "You mean it wasn't you who pushed me off the yacht?"

Plunking down on the couch, he snorted. "Naw. Murder isn't my thing." Then he paused. "Well, I mean, it's not my thing. However, I do enjoy watching murder mysteries. Love anything Sherlock Holmes."

"Me, too."

"Shall we put on some Lucy Liu and Jonny Lee Miller? Or are you more of a Robert Downey Jr, or Benedict Cumberbatch fan?"

"I like them all. But definitely Johnny and Lucy. I have to say, his display of character growth and portrayal of an addict is just impeccable. The writers were phenomenal on that show. And anything Lucy touches ..." She made the chef's kiss with her fingers.

Clint's stomach fluttered. "I couldn't agree more." He went to reach for the remote, but then shot back to his feet. "Beer?"

She cocked her head to the side in thought, but then nodded. "Sure."

Hightailing it to the kitchen, with a sudden bounce in his step, he opened the fridge only to find that there wasn't any beer to be had.

"That's not like me at all," he mused, closing the refrigerator and heading back to the living room. "I don't have any beer."

Her mouth opened, and she gasped. "What? Surely that must be some kind of brewmaster sacrilege or blasphemy or something. Will they strip you of your brewmaster title and diploma now? Or is it like a knighthood? Do you have a scepter?"

"It's a chalice, actually. Obviously. And no. It's a three-strike rule. And since this is my first offense, the higher ups will just deliver me with a stern warning. Maybe a slap on the wrist. But little do they know, I like that." He bobbed his brows playfully.

Her giggle and the brightness of her smile warmed him. "Be right back. Just going to pop down to the pub. You liked the white ale, right?"

She nodded. "Unless you've got something new and extra delicious, you want to show me."

Excitement simmered through him. "Oh, Ms. Barker, don't tempt me." Then with a flash of a smile, he slid into his Blundstones and left.

The music from the pub drifted up benignly through the trees.

It was Sunday night, so the place wouldn't be too packed. Not like last night.

They were open to eleven on Fridays and Saturdays, but closed at ten Sunday through Thursday.

It was only eight-thirty, so the place still hopped with conversations and laughter competing with the music. Cars came and went from the gravel parking lot, and patrons that he recognized shot him a friendly wave.

He went in through the back, though.

If he went through the front doors, he'd inevitably be snagged by a local and forced to chat for ten or more minutes. And he didn't want that. He wanted to get back to Brooke.

"Hey boss, thought you were done for the night," asked Cooper, one of Clint's brew apprentices.

"Just grabbing some beer," Clint said.

Cooper was Clint's right hand and the only person Clint trusted implicitly with his beer besides himself. He had one other employee in the brewery—Gladstone—yes, that was his first name, and he was good, but he still made a few mistakes, so they never left him unsupervised. But Cooper had proven himself on more than one occasion that he could fly solo. So that made Clint's life easier. He could have dinner with his kid and take the evening or weekend off if he needed to.

And tonight, he needed to.

Or at least he wanted to.

"It"s not like you to not have beer in the house," Cooper said. "Are you sick or something?"

Clint chuckled as he went to the big walk-in cooler, grabbing a milk crate before he stepped in. He loaded up the basket with a dozen single bottles. All different kinds. This way, Brooke could take her pick. "Just forgot to stock up earlier. Are you getting ready to head out?"

"Gonna stop over on the other side for a pint, first," Cooper said. His gaze turned sad, and he shook his head. "Such tragic news about Brooke Barker, huh? I keep looking out on the beach, hoping that her body doesn't wash up or something here. She was so hot." Panic filled his gray eyes. "And talented. She was a great actress ... I mean, actor."

Cooper was young—early twenties—and neurodivergent, which came out mostly as social awkwardness and a limited ability to read social and facial cues. But he tried so hard and was far less bumbling with his words than when he first started at the brewery a couple of years ago. He was also looking for love and tended to find more weekend romances than anything that lasted past forty-eight hours.

"Yeah, it is pretty tragic," Clint said, laying on the joint sympathy. "So young. So much still ahead of her. I just hope that the fact that they haven't found a body yet, means that she ... I dunno, maybe survived?"

He probably shouldn't plant that seed of doubt, but at the same time, who would Cooper tell ? It just felt weird to talk about Brooke like she died. Because she sure as hell didn't. She was sitting, cute as a button, in his clothes, on his couch right now, waiting for him.

Cooper shook his head, and his brows pinched. "Not a chance. That water is ice cold. And based on where the news is saying she probably jumped or fell in, it would have been at least a mile and a half if not longer swim."

Clint pinned his lips together and shrugged. "You're probably right. Let's hope they find her and bring her family some peace of mind."

Cooper exhaled loudly through his nose and dropped his gaze to his sneakers. "Such a pity."

"Anyway, I got what I came for. So I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good night."

Cooper lifted his head and gave Clint a grim smile. "You, too."

Clint took his basket and retreated out the backdoor. He made it halfway through the parking lot before a familiar deep voice made him stop.

"Ariel okay?" Grayson chirped with a child-like curiosity blended with dry medical follow-up. He approached Clint, his smile wide and showing off his deep double dimples.

Clint nodded to the doctor. "Feet are still pretty beat up, but she put some healing balm on them and bandaged them up again. She's achy from the hard swim." He made sure nobody was around to hear him, but kept his voice low nevertheless.

"Is she awake?" Grayson asked, glancing toward the houses behind the trees.

Clint nodded.

"I'd like to come check on her if I can. Since she is my patient and all. Even if it's off the books."

Clint shrugged, then nodded his head. "After you, doc."

Grayson gave another toothy smile, then the two of them headed up the hill and around the trees to the five houses in a row.

He opened the door to his house to find Brooke on his tablet, a deep frown on her face and an angry red color in her cheeks.

Uh oh.

"You look warmer than when I saw you yesterday," Grayson said, walking into the living room and around the coffee table to perch on the edge of the couch next to Brooke. His big knee knocked hers where she had her legs crossed, and something hot and uncomfortable shot through Clint.

He carried the beer to the fridge and unloaded the basket, then made sure to join Grayson and Brooke back in the living room.

"I think I'll live," Brooke said with a sigh, setting the tablet down on the couch between her and Grayson. "No chills. Just achy muscles from the swim. And of course, my legs and feet." She extended her legs out long in front of her to better show off all the bandages. "Clint's been great helping me rebandage. And he's carrying me, too. Which I've said on more than one occasion, he doesn't have to." She leaned sideways until her shoulder bumped Clint's.

His belly fluttered.

Jesus Christ, how old was he, fourteen?

This was worse than junior high when he developed a crush on Jenny Williams who sat behind him in math class. Would he get a random boner at an inconvenient time, too? Wake up sticking to his bedsheets?

"Can I check your feet?" Grayson asked.

Even though he was doing his due diligence as a doctor, Clint knew when Grayson was flirting. And the man was absolutely flirting with Brooke right now. His smile was more charming, his eyes more ... glittery, or something. Clint wasn't sure how you could make your eyes glitter more, but Grayson was doing something to make himself more appealing. And it pissed off Clint.

Brooke nodded, and Grayson carefully took her legs into his lap. His lips twisted in thought after he peeled away the bandages. "Best to keep off this foot for a day or two. I'm concerned about the cut here on the left foot beneath the big toe. It's in danger of getting infected."

Brooke's eyes went wide in panic. "So ... what should I do?"

"Saltwater washes three times a day, and when it's not in the saltwater, antibiotic ointment and bandages. But feet are difficult because we're always applying pressure to them and the skin is very thick. So it can be tricky for them to heal properly."

Brooke pouted, then swung her gaze at Clint.

Clint felt her chagrin. If the doctor told him he had to stay off his feet for two days, he'd lose his mind. She was probably already thinking about how bored and useless she was going to feel.

"Doctor's orders," Clint said.

"At least I'll have Talia to keep me company," she said with a sigh.

"Uh ... she's still in school, so ..."

"Crap." Brooke's shoulders lifted, then fell dramatically.

"It may only need to be a day. Did you rest today?" Grayson asked.

Brooke's gaze shifted sideways to Clint.

Clint snorted. "No, she did not. She roamed around the hillside with the kids."

Grayson clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Yeah ... that's not going to help you heal."

"I'm a terrible patient," she said glumly.

"You are," Grayson agreed, which made Clint snort. "But you're not the worst. Just rest, particularly this foot for two days, then you should be okay. Can you do that?"

"I'll try."

His smile turned flirtatious again, and he patted Brooke's thigh and pried his big frame off the couch. "I'll check on you tomorrow and bring you some crutches. But it seems Clint is taking good care of you."

"Oh, I don't need crutches," Brooke protested. "Really."

"And I'm fine carrying her. I also have a fully-stocked first-aid kit, seeing as there are several accident-prone children in my life."

Grayson snorted. "Ah, yeah, I remember those days with Celine. Went through a lot of Band-Aids the summer we took off the training wheels."

"Don't you have patients in the morning? Annabel Stone must be due any day now?" Clint asked, shifting his gaze back and forth a few times between Grayson and the front door.

Grayson's smile was carefree and accompanied by a deep, rumbling chuckle. "Yeah, I do." He headed for the door.

"You have a daughter?" Brooke asked, causing the doctor to pause with his hand on the doorknob.

Grayson grinned and nodded. "Yeah, Celine. She's seventeen. She lives in Seattle with her mother, but she comes over to visit often." He opened the door. "You two have a good night, and I'll check in on you tomorrow."

Clint followed his friend onto the porch and closed the door behind him. As much as he liked the doctor, and Grayson was a friend, Clint was glad to see him go. The way Grayson kept looking at Brooke caused unsettling and acidic feelings to swirl in Clint's gut. Jealousy was not a feeling Clint was overly familiar with. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he felt jealous about anything. But he couldn't put a label on the emotion other than jealousy. He was jealous of Grayson and how he was hitting on Brooke.

He had a good life. And a great kid. In his opinion, nobody's grass was greener. Or at the very least, he wasn't hanging his head over the fence to check and compare lawn shades. He had enough on his plate. He was just trying to keep his own grass alive.

"Thanks again," Clint said.

Grayson's smile was knowing, like he knew exactly what Clint was thinking, and how badly Clint wanted Grayson to leave. "Careful, bud."

Clint's gaze narrowed. "What does that mean?"

Grayson's chuckle was deep and raspy. "I see the way you're looking at her. But you're from different worlds. Like Eric and Ariel."

"And they ended up together," Clint blurted out, surprised at the defensiveness of his tone. He hadn't meant to say that.

"After she sold her voice to the sea witch, and both of them nearly died. If she's up for it, have your fun, but her world is glitz and glamour. Jet-setting, parties and red carpets. Your life is ..." He glanced around the property, bathed in the dusk light that filtered in through the trees, "your life is here and it's great. But didn't Jacqueline want something different, too?"

Clint cleared his throat. "Thanks for checking in on her. I'll go make her feet a salt bath now."

Grayson understood Clint was shutting down the conversation, and simply nodded. "You deserve a woman who wants what you want, my friend. We all do." Then with that, he turned and headed back down the hill toward the parking lot.

Clint shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and watched his friend navigate the gravel hill for a moment, contemplating everything Grayson had just said. Then, when the buzzing sound of a mosquito came right next to his ear, he waved his hands around to swat it away before heading into the house.

Brooke still sat on the couch, the tablet in her hands, and the same frustrated scowl as before scrunched her delicate features. "What's got you making that face?" he asked.

She sighed and shook her head quickly. "Just reading more articles about my death."

He snorted. "Bet that's not something you ever thought you'd say."

"Nope, sure isn't."

He went to the closet under the stairs and pulled out a big, empty tote. Then he moved the coffee table out of the way and put the tote next to the couch. "Feet," he ordered.

"Yes, sir." She grinned as she unfolded her legs from their curled-up position, removed the bandages, and placed her feet into the big plastic storage bin.

He went to the kitchen and ran the faucet to warm, then filled up a few pitchers, bringing them over one-by-one and pouring them onto her feet. "Not too hot?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just right."

Then he added the salt. Straight table salt from the box, because that was all he had. "Does that feel okay?"

"Feels great," she said, adding a sexy little moan.

"And beer!" He snapped his fingers because he'd almost forgotten. He went to the fridge and opened it up, rattling off all the kinds he'd grabbed.

"Ooh, hmmm." He could just picture her tapping her finger to her chin. "Let's go with the Funky Peach Summer Sour. That sounds interesting."

"Good choice," he said, grabbing it from the fridge, along with two beer steins from the cupboard. He brought it all back to the living room with him, retrieved the bottle opener from his pocket and poured them each a glass of the Funky Peach Summer Sour. "This was last year's top seller," he said, handing her the stein. He clinked his glass against hers. "To mermaids, beer and—"

"Unexpected new friendships," she cut in, gracing him with a sweet smile that made his heart stutter.

"And unexpected new friendships," he repeated.

They clinked glasses and held eye contact.

She held eye contact firmly even as she sipped. It was intense. But when she pulled away, a bit of froth on her upper lip that he wanted to lick away, she smiled and started giggling. "Do you know that old myth, too?"

He cocked his head. "What old myth?"

"That if you don't hold eye contact when you drink as you clink glasses that it's seven years of bad sex?"

Thankfully, he'd swallowed his beer because he would have choked on it if he'd had any in his mouth. "No. I did not know that one."

"Oh. I thought that's why you were making such intense eye contact with me."

"I made intense eye contact with you because you made intense eye contact with me. I also know it's rude not to make eye contact after you clink glasses. But I had no idea it had anything to do with bad sex for seven years."

Her sweet giggle was back. "Well, even in ignorance, you saved your bacon. No bad sex for you."

He wiped the back of his wrist over his forehead. "Phew. Thank goodness. Dodged a bullet there."

Not that he'd had sex since Jacqueline passed away. And they hadn't had sex for almost a year before she passed. So he was cruising at six years no sex. Was that because he'd avoided eye contact with someone while doing cheers? Was it seven years no sex?

He'd had a lot of sex with himself, of course ...

That couldn't be what it meant.

It was just a goofy superstition, anyway.

Right?

"You're thinking awfully hard over there, Mr. Summer Sour. What's on your mind?" She took another sip of her beer. "This is delicious, by the way. I taste the peach, and it's sour and really ... refreshing."

That compliment about his beer was music to his ears. Yes, he knew it was delicious, but the compliments never got old. This was his life. His livelihood, so when someone said they liked his brew, he stood a little taller, and his smile grew bigger.

"Don't think my compliment lets you off the hook, though. What were you thinking about?" she pressed.

He took a second sip. Liquid courage. "Would you believe it was about the last time I had sex?"

Her eyes widened. "Was it bad? Are you thinking you didn't make eye contact with someone else many cheerses ago, and you're already cursed?"

He chuckled. "Well, yes and no. Not that it was bad, just that it was a long time ago. Six years. Also, is cheerses a word?""

Her eyes widened even more, to the point where it looked like they might spontaneously pop out of her head. "Six years? And it's a word if I say it's a word."

Clint nodded and snorted. "Fair enough. But, in all seriousness, my wife has been dead for five years, but our marriage was on the rocks for at least a year before that. She didn't want this life here. She wanted the city. The busyness. She thought life here was too slow and too boring, and she resented me for bringing her here to raise a family. She didn't believe there were enough opportunities here for Talia. And maybe she was right about that. But I love how safe it is here. How my daughter can run around outside in her bare feet."

"Like a free-range chicken," Brooke interrupted, smiling. "That's what she said you call them."

He grinned. "Exactly like a free-range chicken. No grain-fed, coop-kept chicks on this farm. Their yolks are bright orange."

She did that sweet giggle again. "I think you've mixed up your metaphor, but I get it."

He smiled and sighed. "I just love that she knows almost everyone on the island, so people are all looking out for her. She's also growing up with her cousins. This was the kind of life my brothers and I wished we'd had growing up. So when we saw this property for sale, we poured everything we had into it to buy it."

"Where are you originally from?"

"We moved around a lot. Our father was military, so we bounced around every few years as he rose in the ranks. I was born in Dallas, Texas, though. Then I enrolled in the marines at eighteen. Bennett, Dominic and Wyatt followed. Jagger's the only one who's never worn fatigues. He went to school for football. Full scholarship until he tore his ACL in his sophomore year. He finished his degree in psychology, though."

"So you're an army brat, and a veteran. Wow, I never would have pegged you for either." Her smile dropped. "I didn't mean that as an insult. I hope it didn't come across like that. It's just ... you can usually tell when someone has served. They have a way about them, and I don't really get that from you."

Clint wasn't offended. He'd heard some variation of that from more than one person before. Yes, he liked things a certain way, was a bit of a perfectionist and had a healthy ego, but he and his brothers had all been raised by a wonderful mother who made sure they didn't grow up to be arrogant men.

"There's a difference between confidence and arrogance," their mother used to say. "Learn the difference. Notice the difference in other people. Arrogance deters, confidence attracts. Be confident. Know your worth, but remain humble. That is how you will get ahead in the world. Confidence and humility."

And all five of them carried her words of wisdom with them throughout life.

"I'm not offended," he finally said. "I get it."

God, it was so easy talking to her. He'd spilled his guts, and he hadn't even planned on it. It just happened.

"What about you?" he asked. He'd done a bit of Googling of Brooke Barker since last night, but her Wikipedia page was heavily curated and stuck mainly to her professional career. There was very little in the way of her personal life, besides the fact that she'd been born in Missouri, and dated Flynn Howard until her "death."

Her throat bobbed on a swallow, and she flashed a fake smile. "Not much to tell. Born and raised in St. Louis. I have a younger brother—Rocco, who lives in Brazil. I dated Flynn Howard. I'm an actor. That's it."

She shut him down.

Then she spun away from him to face the television. "Let's watch some Sherlock Holmes. See if he and Lucy Liu can help us figure out who's trying to kill me."

Deflated, curious and confused, Clint nodded and reached for the remote and his phone.

Brooke was hiding something, and she'd hidden it so well, not even the internet knew about it.

Now the big question: was her secret trying to kill her?