Chapter 17

Grams’s house is officially on the market! The photographer got the photos back to us this morning—I hired him for his advertised twelve-hour turnaround time—and Eugene worked all day (by which I mean I had to go to his house to help his technologically challenged self) to get the photos uploaded and captioned.

And now it’s done! I’ve visited the listing website more than two dozen times this morning. I have no idea why. Probably because I’m going through work withdrawals. While I was busy with getting the house ready for sale, I had enough to keep me busy. Now? I’m just waiting for Eugene to let me know when we get a showing request. Or for Beau to text me to come along for a work call.

It’s misery. So much so that I actually compose an email to Meredith to check in—again. I never heard back from her last time, which I assume means things are going fine. But inside, I’m getting worried.

Before I can press send, I slam the laptop lid shut. “I need to get out of here.”

I shove my laptop under a pillow—out of sight, out of mind—then grab the cart keys and head outside. I stop short on the porch.

The birdfeeder. It’s not where I put it. And it’s not where it was when I ripped it out of the Palmers’ grass either. It’s on their side of the fence again, but this time, it’s set farther back in their yard—and farther in too.

Like that’ll stop me.

Beau’s cart is nowhere to be seen—which also wouldn’t stop me, to be clear—and I march over and work at pulling the feeder out. He’s put it in deeper this time—show off—and it takes me a minute to jimmy it out.

I made sure it was still in its place when I got back after dark, so he probably did it late last night. I walk it back to Grams’s property and take it even farther back the side yard than Beau did.

“No trespassing, Officer,” I say as I work to get it situated again. I don’t have Beau’s muscles, but I do a pretty good job.

That item of business done and dusted, I head to Seaside Oasis to hang out with Grams. It’ll keep me busy, and I’m realizing that once I leave in a few days, I don’t know when I’ll see her again next. I kind of hate that thought. She’s getting old. The type of old where every time you say goodbye, you have to make sure you’re doing it right so you don’t end up with regrets.

Grams is still using the walker, but she’s not happy about it, as evidenced by the way she talks to it like it’s uniquely responsible for every bad thing in her life. I’m just happy we haven’t had any other incidents since the fire alarm. It’s probably why she’s so irritable with the walker—she’s got pent-up mischief.

That’s why I don’t even think about bringing up the community pool issue. But I don’t need to. She does it herself as we’re walking to the center’s quilting group. She’s got some cuss words sprinkled in as she talks about it, but she’s surprisingly calm. I guess she’s used to the underhanded way things get done on the island. “As long as my tax dollars aren’t funding it, they can do what they want.”

My heart rate kicks up a notch when an email from Meredith comes in around four, but it’s short .

Gemma,

Everything is under control.

Meredith

She’s always been very to-the-point, so there’s no way to tell if it’s true or if she’s just trying to reassure me so I don’t freak out that I’m going to come back to little fires needing to be put out with a half-dozen clients.

I stick around the retirement center after dinner because what else am I going to do? I’m half tempted to change my flight to tomorrow, but a quick look at the fares and the change fee nip that idea in the bud. Besides, I’d like to stick around until I’m sure we’ll be getting offers on the house. Ideally, that’ll happen very soon so I can be here to help Eugene with whatever negotiations need to happen. If Grams gets involved, it could get ugly. From a couple of things she’s said, I get the feeling she’s sadder than she lets on to be selling the house. She’d never say so, but I kind of wonder if she wishes someone in my family would buy it. Dad’s her only child, though, and he’s always flown Grams to California rather than come back here, so that’s a nonstarter.

And much as I love that woman, I can’t do it either.

Grams and her friends are still going hard at ten o’clock, dancing and laughing on the terrace by the pool. I’m not sure why Grams would ever feel the need for alcohol when she has this much fun with a glass of lemonade in hand. She’s the life of the party, and she has us all in stitches with her strange combination of antique and modern dance moves, all done with the walker close at hand for emergencies.

I yawn and check my phone. Never thought a bunch of old ladies would outlast me, but here we are, ten o’clock on a Tuesday night. I snatch a kiss from Grams’s cheek and head back home.

Is it silly that half of me is disappointed when I find the birdfeeder in the same place I left it? It is. As silly as the growing embarrassment I feel at Beau’s radio silence. Maybe he changed his mind about wanting my help. Or maybe he came to his senses and is looking for a job elsewhere.

My phone is gasping for its last breath, so I plug it in and get ready for bed, wondering what in the world I’ll do to fill the time tomorrow if there are no developments with the house. What if no one wants it? I mean, it’s not the prettiest house on the market, but it’s cute, and it’s on a good street with prime canal access. All the important parts of the island are walkable from here.

Listen to me, talking like a Beau Palmer or a Jane Hayes. Next thing you know, I’ll be in a commercial for Sunset Harbor.

A knocking sound has me pausing my electric toothbrush. I stay still, listening to see if it repeats. Right when I turn the toothbrush back on, it happens again. Maybe my brain is inventing noises out of fatigue and boredom. I put down the toothbrush and wait.

I tense when it happens again, but it’s not knocking on the door. It’s my window being pelted with what I can only assume are rocks. I hurry out of the bathroom and over to the window, squinting into the dark. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust enough to see Beau at the bottom, waving at me in his uniform.

I undo the latch and pull up on the window. “What are you doing?” I hiss. “You’ll break the window!”

He grins widely. “Good evening, Gemma Girl.”

“I gave you my phone number for a reason, Beau Boy .”

“Ooo, I like that! Hadn’t even thought of it, but it’s a perfect companion to GG. And I tried texting and calling you, but there was no answer.”

“So you try to break my window the day the house goes on the market?”

“No windows were harmed in the making of this romantic gesture. I’m very gentle. See?” He tosses a rock up, and I barely dodge it. It drops right back into his outstretched hand.

“It’s not a romantic gesture when it’s unwelcome,” I say, but it’s not totally true. I am, dare I say, happy to see Beau. Just because it makes me feel less embarrassed about the whole list incident.

“I got a call to handle something up at the Belacourt property,” he says. “You in?”

“Right now?” I look down at my pajama shorts.

“Yup. The cart’s already on, and Xena’s waiting.”

“Do I have time to change?”

“Nope. You look great. Come on.”

I hesitate, my head and heart battling. I’m really curious to see Beau handle whatever situation this is. Are pajamas my ideal outfit of choice? Not by a long shot. But if they’re the difference between going and staying home, pajamas it is. “I’m coming down.”

“Meet you at the cart.”

I pull on my sneakers and slap on some lip tint on my way out. According to beauty experts, adding some color to your lips will instantly make you look put together. I’m not sure if that holds true for people sporting pajamas, but I’m counting on it.

Xena lets out an excited yip at the sight of me, and Beau pulls her closer to him to make room. It’s a bit tight with three of us on the bench, so I put my arm around her.

Beau glances at it as he presses the gas. “You trying to make a move on her?”

“Not trying,” I gloat as I pull her toward me. “Succeeding.”

The cart glides down the street like a whisper on the wind. I forgot what a normal engine feels like, and I’m wondering if Beau would notice if I switched out his cart for Grams’s. The lack of the word police printed across the body might give it away, though .

“Won’t your street cred be damaged showing up with me like this?” I ask.

He looks amused. “Glad to know you think I have any of that.”

“Oh, I don’t. But I figured you think you do.”

He chuckles and looks over at me. “I missed you.”

My heart shoots into my throat. It takes me a few seconds to form a response. “And yet you waited until tonight to have me come along to one of your calls. Or have you really not worked for the past three days?”

“I took a quick trip to Miami. Got back yesterday.”

“And the island didn’t burn to the ground while you were gone?”

“It was a close call,” he says.

“Uh- huh . And you’re surprised the city council won’t pay you a full-time salary plus benefits when the island’s only law enforcement officer can up and leave like that?”

We pull up at the Belacourts’ swanky resort, and he parks and turns off the cart. “Officer Driggs from the mainland was on-call.” His brows draw together. “Are you wearing lipstick and pajamas?”

“What? No! My lips got sunburned.” Yeah. My lips sunburn salmon pink. And now my entire face looks like it did too.

The sudden sound of laughter catches our ears, and our heads turn toward the beach.

“Let’s go,” Beau says. “Come on, Xena.”

I follow him toward the sounds of laughter. Drunk laughter, specifically. Even more specifically, drunk laughter that’s become familiar over the past couple of days because I wake up to it a couple of times a night. You don’t forget a machine gun laugh like that.

We pass around the south side of the resort, Xena following at Beau’s heels. I know he’s easygoing, but I half expect him to put his hand on his holster, at least. He doesn’t. He walks toward the group of shirtless, beer-wielding men like he’s just late to their party.

“Hey, guys,” he says, completely pleasant. “Looks like we’re having a good time.”

I hang back slightly, my phone out.

“Whoa,” says one of the guys, stumbling back slightly as he looks at Beau. “Good evening, Officer.” He does a lazy salute, drawing laughs from the other five guys.

One of them reaches down to the almost-full six-pack and pulls out a can, offering it to Beau.

Beau’s amused gaze flits to me. I snap a picture, and the corner of his mouth twitches. That’s got to be the last thing he wants to show the city council—him accepting alcohol from drunk trespassers while on the job.

“Thanks,” Beau says, “but I’m good. How are you guys liking the island?”

One of my brows goes up. I was under the impression we were here to kick these guys off a private beach, not shoot the breeze. But this is Beau Palmer we’re talking about here. I can’t imagine him angry or acting in an authoritative way. Which is why his being a cop still doesn’t compute.

For the next few minutes, I watch as Beau charms the pants off—not literally, thank heaven—these guys. He’s got them laughing and playing with Xena. The way he smoothly slips in that this is a private beach they don’t have permission to be on and that, while drinking on beaches is against the law here, they’d be welcome to continue their night at the Beach Break Bar and Grill? It’s, quite frankly, masterful.

They pick up and start leaving not just without a fuss but actually thanking him, like they were having the worst time here, and he just gave them a hot tip on where to find the slickest underground party.

I call Xena to me, and a couple of the guys look over.

“Hey,” one of them says, like he’s just noticed me for the first time. It’s the same guy who opened the door for me the other day, but his hair isn’t matted from sleep tonight. He shuffles toward me through the sand, and I draw back a bit out of instinct. My impulse is to tell this guy to get lost, but after watching Beau work so hard to keep things de-escalated, I hesitate, my gaze flitting to him.

Some of the good humor slips from Beau’s eyes, which watch the guy intently. I swear I see his hand steal toward his holster, but the approaching drunkard pulls away my attention.

He gets closer, and as his blue eyes move from my face down to my bare legs, his mouth draws up on one side. “You look ready for a sleepover, little lady.” He reaches toward me, but his depth perception is whack, and he’s a few inches short, making him stumble.

I quickly take a couple steps backward, and suddenly, Beau’s next to me, his arm around my shoulders.

He looks down at me with a smile. “You ready to go, babe?”

I stare up into his brown eyes, and a series of images flashes across my mind: sitting next to him on the dock, his arm around my shoulders while I grab my stomach because it hurts so bad from laughing. Walking down the treat aisle in the grocery store with his arm draped around me and mine wrapped around his waist while we debate the merits of sugary candy versus chocolate. Lying on the sand together, my head resting on his arm as he turns to look at me, closes his eyes, and presses his lips to mine.

What in the world ?

Heart racing, I blink. “Um, yeah. I’m ready.”

“She’s yours?” one of the other guys asks.

Beau tucks a hair behind my ear, his brown eyes looking into mine with a warmth that makes me wonder if my brain is still concocting fake scenarios of us. “I’m not sure if she’s mine, but I’m definitely hers.”

Heart thudding, I stare at him, aware on some level that he’s putting on a show to protect me. Nobody’s going to mess with a cop’s girlfriend, right? Even if they are drunk enough to offer him a beer.

But on another level—located somewhere right around my heart—his words are wreaking havoc.

I’m definitely hers .

It takes a few more minutes for the guys to haul themselves off the beach. Beau keeps his arm around me, and even though I’m positive he’d let me out if I made any move to, I don’t. I can’t for the life of me explain why. I’m not actually scared of these guys, so that’s not why I let him keep me close.

Which just leaves one option. An option that isn’t an option.

I slip out from his arm while he works on persuading the guys that they do, indeed, need him to act as their designated driver. “I know right where the bar is, so I’ll just take you,” he says. “Your place is close enough you should be able to walk home once you’re ready. Your cart will be waiting for you at the bar in the morning. They have a great breakfast too.”

That last sentence officially sells them on his plan, and they start climbing into their stretch cart, which has two rows behind the driver’s seat.

Beau turns to me as we reach his cart. “Will you be okay to follow in the patrol cart with Xena?”

I cock a brow. “Will I be okay? Have you ever driven Grams’s cart?”

“I have had that questionable privilege.”

“Then you should know I’ll be fine.”

“Fair enough. You’re not wearing heels, right?” He glances down at my sneakers, and I wiggle my toes in them.

“Oh, um…” I point behind him.

He turns as one of the guys climbs on top of the stretch cart. He blows a breath through rounded lips and looks at me again. But he’s still smiling, and so am I.

“Wish me luck,” he says .

I tell Xena to hop in the cop cart with me, and she hesitates until Beau repeats the instruction. We get situated, and I look over to see how Beau’s getting along.

I pull out my phone and snap a photo of Officer Palmer surrounded by shirtless drunk men on the golf cart version of a stretch limo. There are tanned limbs with sun-bleached hair all over the place. He deserves a promotion to full-time based on tonight alone.

It takes about ten minutes for us to get to the Beach Break Bar and Grill. Beau goes in to explain things to whoever’s working—or warn them, maybe.

He’s talking on his cell phone when he comes back to the cart a few minutes later, pausing just under the lamppost a dozen feet away to finish the conversation. The few snippets I catch tell me he’s probably talking to Noah Belacourt, letting him know things are taken care of. I snap another photo. I can only assume a lot of his job is communicating by phone like this.

I stare at the photo for a minute. He’s leaning against the lamppost, one leg crossed over the other. He looks…very attractive. I swipe to the previous photo: him in the party golf cart as the designated driver. Somehow, he’s even more attractive in that one. And it’s not even his looks, though those don’t hurt.

Beau Palmer isn’t the jerk I expected at all. In fact, he’s almost too perfect. Nothing ruffles him. Everything’s a good time. Things roll off him like water off a duck’s back. I’ve seen him disappointed one time—and that was mild. Does he ever really fight for something? Or someone?

“Oh, jeez,” he says, surprising me with his sudden appearance next to the cart. “You’re not planning on using that for my PR campaign, are you?”

“Absolutely I am,” I say. “And this one too.” I swipe to the photo of him being handed a beer .

“So, this is a smear campaign.” He tries to sit down in the cart despite the fact I’m still in the driver’s seat.

I move to avoid becoming a human seat, helping Xena scoot over too. “Hey, I’m just capturing what I see.”

He reaches past me and scratches Xena around the ears. “Which just happens to be the moment before I turned down the beer.”

I shrug. “Gotta be careful about appearances, BB. Why are you smiling like that?”

He sits back, his narrowed eyes on me. “What did you call me?”

“BB. Beau Boy. Remember?”

“Hmm,” he says, slinging his arm on the top of the seat behind me and looking over his shoulder to reverse. It brings our faces close, eliciting a flashback of the kiss that never happened—and never will happen.

“ Hmm what?” I prod. He sounds like he doesn’t believe me or something.

“That’s just not what I heard,” he says, like it’s a matter of opinion.

“And what did you hear?”

“I very distinctly heard you call me baby .”

“Have mercy.” I look up at the heavens. “Aren’t cops required to pass some sort of hearing test?”

“My hearing is great. Twenty-twenty.”

“That’s…not how it works.”

“You get what I mean. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my hearing.”

“Except for hearing what you want to hear instead of what’s actually been said.”

He shrugs as we pull onto our street, lifting his chin as the wind blows through that perfectly sun-kissed brown hair. “I respect your opinion. Baby .”

“My opin—” I stop myself. It’s no use arguing with this man. In the words of Mrs. Bennet from Pride & Prejudice , he delights in vexing me. The world hath never seen a tease like unto Beau Palmer.

He passes his driveway and pulls up to the curb in front of my house.

I glance at the birdfeeder, content to see it in its place. I consider bringing it up but decide against it. There’s something kind of fun about this unspoken battle.

“Can I walk you to your door?” Beau asks.

“No,” I say flatly, kissing Xena on top of the head.

Beau lowers his head like he’s hoping for the same thing, and I give him a rough noogie, then climb out.

“I’ve got some paperwork to fill out at the office tomorrow,” he says as I walk toward the door. “Plus whatever pops up over the course of the day. Want to tag along?”

I scoff lightly. If he expects me to follow him around while he drives me nuts like this, he’s got another think coming.

“What time?” I hear myself ask.