Chapter 2

What is even happening? Am I truly being pulled over in a golf cart?

I’ve never even been pulled over in a car. But what did I expect in this place? Sunset Harbor has always had it out for Sawyers like me.

Hands gripping the wheel, I keep my face forward until the sound of pattering on the pavement brings my head around.

I look down and find a smooshy-faced, inordinately fluffy Chow Chow staring up at me, its tongue hanging out of its mouth as it pants. Almost hidden amongst the overabundance of ginger fur is a black vest with bright white stitching that says Sunset Harbor Official K-5 . My brain short-circuits at the sight of the quasi-official vest in contrast with what I can only describe as a smile—albeit with a lolling tongue—above it. Aren’t Chow Chows supposed to be the cats of dogs? Aloof and hoity-toity?

A pair of black leather Derbys with standard-issue, navy blue police pants skimming the laces steps beside the dog. My gaze travels upward, passing by the hefty black belt with all its accoutrements, the gold shield pinned on the left of the chest, and up to the peaked hat sitting over a smiling face.

A smiling face that, after all these years, only takes me a few milliseconds to recognize, even without the embroidered last name on the uniform to guide me. Sure, it looks like someone took a whetstone to his jaw, and yes, his arms and chest fill out that uniform much better than they filled out his T-shirts in junior high, but the basics of Beau Palmer are all still there. Soft, brown hair and eyes, and a confidence that comes from belonging to one of the most powerful families on the island.

What you can’t see in that amused face is the Palmer family history of making my family’s life harder at every turn.

The impulse to tug down my pencil skirt and douse my undoubtedly frizzed-up hair with Grams’s hairspray has me clenching my teeth. This is not how I envisioned my first interaction with a Palmer, and believe me, I did envision it a number of times.

“License and registration, please, Miss Sawyer.” The quirk to his lips and the laugh in his eyes saps the words of any bite, but I’d prefer sternness over amusement. From him, at least.

I reach for my purse in the back seat. “You still need my license when you know who I am?” I have no doubt word of my return has spread around the island, so Beau was probably lying in wait for me to make a mistake. He wants to be sure I know who runs this town.

I pull my license out of my purse and hand it to him, then realize I have no idea where Grams’s registration would be kept—or if she even has it, frankly. I didn’t even know registering golf carts was a thing, and Grams isn’t exactly a bastion of civic responsibility.

Beau scans the license, then his brown eyes flick up to mine. They’re distinctly good-natured eyes. Or the type that are used to laughing at people whose hair is much better groomed in their ID than in real life.

I’d put my bet on the second option.

“Just doing my job,” he says, handing back the license. “Don’t worry about the registration. I pulled over your grandma a few days ago. Registration’s good through October.”

“Ah, what a relief,” I say sarcastically, sticking the license in the clear pocket in my wallet. “So, what does a speeding ticket run these days on Sunset Harbor? Or is this a pay-off-the-Palmer-family situation?”

One of his brows quirks, along with the edge of his mouth. “Are you trying to bribe me, Gemma Sawyer?”

“Are you bribable?”

“Are you in the habit of asking that of law enforcement officers?”

This is going nowhere. “How far over the limit was I going?”

“I actually didn’t pull you over for speeding,” he says as his dog goes up on its hind legs and puts its paws on his pant leg. It’s an adoring gesture that I’d normally find charming, but given the slavish adoration so many residents of this island offer the Palmers, it’s annoying.

“Out of sheer boredom, then?” I ask.

Beau chuckles and reaches down to pick up his dog, which is frankly too big to be held. It’s got to be a good forty-five pounds, half of which is fur. “I pulled you over because your erratic driving was concerning. Can I offer some advice?”

“By all means, Officer.” I open my eyes wide and stare at him like I can’t wait to hear what he has to say. I wish I were standing so I wasn’t looking up at him, but I’d be almost a head shorter anyway. Puberty treated Beau Palmer kindly. He was always pretty lanky when we were younger, and he’s still lean, but it’s a sturdy kind of lean where you can see the muscles and tendons in his forearms feather as he pets the dog, his hand disappearing into the abyss of fur.

He nods at my shoes. “Those aren’t the best shoes for driving. Or for Sunset Harbor, really.”

“Probably about as suitable as a Chow Chow is for a K-9, huh?”

His mouth pulls into a smile—it seems like his default expression—and hot dang, the man is attractive. That’s how it goes, though, right? Money and attractiveness are highly correlated. Take the Belacourt sisters—the media darlings from the wealthiest family on Sunset Harbor. People say correlation isn’t causation, but in their case, it might be safe to say that money and beauty have a causal relationship. The rest of us aren’t ugly; we’re poor.

Beau rubs the dog’s ears. “Don’t listen to her, Xena. You’re a magnificent, vicious K-5, aren’t you?”

“K-5?” I ask, barely masking my skepticism.

“She completed about half of her K-9 training, but she didn’t have quite the right temperament for it.”

“You shock me.”

“She’s more evolved than a K-9. More dangerous, more capable.” Xena reaches up to lick under his chin, and Beau laughs. “Not helping your case here, girl. Or mine. Gemma will never take us seriously now.”

“To be fair, any intimidation I might have felt was kind of sapped by the whole golf-cart-with-a-toy-flashing-light-stuck-on-top thing.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of the golf cart.” He lets the dog down, and she hops into my cart, sniffing my heels. I can’t blame her. They’ve probably got LA sidewalk all over them.

“Lemme guess,” I say. “Dax Miller souped the cart up for you?”

“For me ?” Beau puts a hand on his chest, as though I’ve mortally offended him. “For the safety of this island.”

“Which is in such jeopardy,” I quip. “Hours must be long for you.”

He folds his arms across his chest and smiles at me. “Grueling. It’s nice to find someone who understands the pains of a part-time island cop.”

Sunset Harbor has always had low crime rates, but there are other ways people can—and do—make life here miserable. Not to mention this crazy humidity and heat. Couldn’t Grams have moved in January? “Part-time, huh? Do they give you part of a gun too? ”

“Water gun,” he says, deadpanning. He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “We do have holding cells at the city offices I could stick you in for the night if you need persuading that I’m not playing dress-up.”

I scrunch my nose. “Tempting, but I’ve gotta get Grams’s stuff moved over to your family’s renowned establishment.”

“Need some help?”

I scan his face, looking for the catch, but I don’t find anything. I’m just rusty after so many years away. It’ll take a few days for my jerk radar to get back up and running.

Beau and I grew up as neighbors, but given our families’ history and the year age-gap between us, I avoided him like the plague. Or as much as you can avoid a next-door neighbor. Whenever we did interact, Beau had some smart or teasing comment to make about me or my family.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I’ve got it.”

He nods. “You need a little island tour? A refresher after being away so long?”

“Thanks, but I already remember more than I want to about this place—and the people.” I hold his gaze to be sure he catches my meaning.

He narrows his eyes slightly. “If you’re referring to the issues between our families, that’s ancient history, Gemma.”

“Is it?” Easy for him to say when his family came out on top. From winning school board seats and city council spots and community awards to convincing the island to let them build their retirement center on the land that was most important to us Sawyers, they won every battle.

“Anyway,” I continue, “I’m sure you have some urgent police business to attend to—mediating disputes over who took the last piece of pie at the diner, or rescuing cats from palm trees. I couldn’t live with myself if I got in the way of that.”

He snaps his fingers. “Cat lover. I knew it.”

I raise a brow. “Your cop-ly intuition tell you that? ”

“Actually, it was your animosity toward Xena that gave you away.”

We look over at the dog, who’s going to town on some crabgrass on the side of the road. She hacks as a blade gets stuck in her throat. Then she’s right back at it again.

“She’s terrifying.” I can’t help a smile. She’s downright adorable, and if she weren’t Beau Palmer’s dog, I’d be petting her right now. I’m most definitely a dog person.

“We didn’t have the funding for a fully trained K-9, so I got something better,” he explains, looking at her with an affection in his eyes that almost makes it appear his family genetics equipped him with an actual heart. Almost. He glances at me. “So, do I need to have you walk in a straight line? Or can I trust you to drive safely?”

I make a show of taking off my heels, which I set next to my purse in the back. “There.”

He nods his approval. “I’ll go ahead and close out the Driving While Impaired form.”

“We’re all driving while impaired in these golf carts,” I say, turning the key in the ignition.

“You get used to them.”

“Not me.” I smooth my hair back, suppressing a cringe at the feel of all the frizz. I must look like I got electrocuted. “I’m only here for a week.”

“Too bad for you.” He whistles—which is oddly attractive—and Xena scampers over and hops into the golf cart. She jumps onto the seat and sits facing forward, panting happily with a piece of crabgrass hanging from her lips as Beau rubs her head like she’s the cutest thing on earth. She kind of is.

“Oh, Gemma?”

“Yup?” I glance over my shoulder as he reaches up and pulls down the flashing light from the roof of the cart and turns it off.

“Welcome back to Sunset Harbor. ”

I give a little grimace, then press my foot to the pedal as gently as I can. The cart roars forward anyway.