Chapter 4

Beau’s mouth pulls into an acknowledging, dimpled smile as I roll onto the floor like a ninja. A ninja with no chill, skin full of splinters, and dust in the nooks and crannies of her lungs.

“What happened?” Mia asks, her tone urgent as I hack up a lung.

“He caught me!” I hiss, like he can hear me through the closed window and thirty feet away.

“Caught you?”

I army crawl away from the window, adding more splinters to the collection in my forearms. “Caught me going all Peeping Tom on him.”

“I’m sure he didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I was very obviously pointing my camera at him. Like a stalker.” I roll onto my back and shut my eyes, cringing. I must have underestimated the cop-ly intuition that informed him I was staring at him.

“Just tell him you were making sure he wasn’t pulling any funny business, like taking that birdfeeder from our property.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” For years, part of the ongoing Sawyer versus Palmer war was the battle over the infamous birdfeeder. Dad and Mark Palmer were forced to work on it together in shop class back in the day, which meant both families felt it belonged to them. It was a hideous thing—shaped like a massive apple with a bite taken out—but instead of throwing it away like they should have, it got passed from house to house. Every time it was on our property, the Palmers would take it and put it on theirs. And vice versa.

I inspect the skin around my elbow and wince. “Okay, I’ve got to remove a thousand splinters and get some dinner before I get back to this.”

“Don’t party too hard there, Gem.”

We hang up, and I get up carefully, ensuring I can’t be seen from the window. Maybe Beau will assume he was seeing things if I never reappear in that window.

A girl can hope.

The next morning, the skin around my elbows is red and irritated, and I didn’t even manage to get all the splinters out. I’ll give it another go, maybe after a quick swim later. I figure if I return to work next week without ever venturing into the water here, I’ll have contravened paid time off law or something. Besides, much as I hate Sunset Harbor, the water is amazing. It makes LA beach water look like a mud milkshake.

I shoot Grams a text, asking how breakfast was (my not-so-subtle way of verifying she’s no longer on the hunger strike), but I haven’t heard back from her when the lunch hour approaches. She’s probably busy at knitting class or something. Seaside Oasis has constant events and classes for their seniors, like they’re kindergartners who need to be kept entertained or they’ll wreak havoc and destroy the island. They’re not far off with Grams.

I’ve got on some of Mom’s old shorts and one of her tank tops, and I debate changing and heading over to barge in on Grams’s lunchtime to check on her. I’m trying to strike the balance between maintaining a presence around her while also letting her develop her new life there, free of an unwanted shadow.

Heaven knows I have enough here to keep me occupied, so I decide to wait for her text, make myself a sandwich in the kitchen, and cross a couple items off my long to-do list.

My phone buzzes, and I frown at the unknown number. It’s local, which makes me instantly wary. But curiosity overwhelms caution, and I swipe to answer, putting the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this Gemma?” It’s a man’s voice. Young but confident.

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Tristan Palmer. From Seaside Oasis Senior Living Center?”

I suppress a scoff. Like I couldn’t figure out who he meant without all that. But inside, my stomach clenches because Palmers don’t call Sawyers for anything good. “Hi, Tristan.”

“Can you come here as soon as possible? We have a bit of a situation with your grandma.”

My chest tightens. That sounds like a nice way of glossing over something potentially awful. “I’ll be over right away.” I don’t even say goodbye, rushing over to the golf cart keys on the entry table.

I grab them and hurry outside, my brain concocting all sorts of scenarios. With Grams, a situation could mean literally anything. Did she find out about the cooking wine? Did she punch another resident? Did her knee give out on her? Did she start a flash mob in the dining hall?

My shaking hands fumble with the keys, trying to get them into the ignition.

“You okay?”

I whip my head around and find Beau looking at me with concern from the middle of his driveway. He’s wearing his uniform, but his peaked hat is tucked under a well-defined bicep, allowing a wave of brown hair to swoop over his forehead in a dangerously attractive way. If his clothing didn’t cover so much of his body, he could’ve easily stepped out of the June glam shot in the Heroes of the Month calendar.

It drives me crazy that I notice these details even in my current, worried state. His golf cart is parked on the street, where Xena sits like she’s ready to cruise.

“I’m fine,” I say, grateful my brain is so concerned with Grams I don’t have time to be embarrassed about the Peeping Tom incident. And yet my hands can’t manage the simple task of getting the key in the ignition.

“Are you going to Seaside Oasis?” he asks.

I nod, impatient with his interrogation as the key finally slides in. I turn it, and the engine sputters instead of purring to life.

“I’m headed in that direction,” Beau says. “Hop in. I can get you there faster.”

I shoot him an incredulous look as I turn the key again. The engine sputters more.

“Come on,” he insists as he takes his seat behind the wheel. “I promise I don’t bite, and neither does Xena.”

I give Grams’s cart one more shot, but it doesn’t even try this time, offering a soft click and nothing more. It’s a testament to how much I love Grams that I jog over to Beau. There is nothing I want less than to be beholden to a Palmer.

Beau sets his hat on Xena’s head, wraps an arm around her, and slides her toward him on the seat to make room for me.

“All right,” he says. “Hold on tight.”

I don’t suspect Beau is a crazier driver than Grams, but I grab the bar next to the seat anyway. The cart roars forward, and it takes me a second to realize I’m clenching my teeth, bracing them against the rattling that never comes.

If Grams’s cart is rocky road, Beau’s is slow-churned french vanilla. Despite our speed, it glides over the bumps in the road with hardly a blip .

Beau glances over at me and smiles like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Sunset Harbor law enforcement needs to be able to get places quickly.”

Xena slumps over, resting her head on me so that Beau’s hat tumbles onto my lap. I have to grab it before it flies out of the open cart. “Can’t have our first responders arriving to Seaside Oasis bingo brawls after everyone else,” I say ironically.

Beau chuckles. “Is that what happened?”

I look over at him. “Did you get a call to come too?” I figured he was heading in that direction—not that his cop services were in need. My stomach plummets even further.

“Tristan texted me to come help out with a Code Sawy—” He clears his throat. “To help out with a situation.”

“Code Sawyer? You have a special code for my family?”

“It’s a dumb joke between Tristan and me. Not an official code. And it’s really just for your grandma. She tends to…get into pickles fairly frequently.”

I press my lips together and stare ahead as the senior center comes into view. Now I’m annoyed but also worried about what pickle she’s in today—and what the Palmers having a code specifically for her will mean for her experience at Seaside Oasis.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Gemma,” Beau says a little more softly, reaching over to pet Xena. He offers a little smile. “Nothing keeps Virginia Sawyer down for long.”

I don’t respond. Of course, he’s right, but hasn’t it been the Palmers doing their darnedest to keep Grams and the rest of us Sawyers down?

“Thanks for the ride,” I say as soon as the cart has come to a stop. I don’t wait for Beau, jogging toward the front doors and trying to decide if I should feel relief there’s no ambulance here. I don’t even know if the island has an ambulance. Maybe part-time.

A woman I vaguely recognize points me down the hallway, and I keep jogging with a racing heart .

I turn my head as I pass the cafeteria, then stop suddenly at the sight of a huge group of people congregated inside. My gut tells me I’ll find Grams somewhere in the middle of that crowd.

My gut is spot on. I shoulder my way through, excusing myself until I reach her side. She’s seated at a table, arms crossed defiantly with a few other seniors beside her. Tristan Palmer stands across the table, leaning forward on his fists. Beside him is Sandra Barry, a known Palmerite.

“What’s going on?” I ask breathlessly.

“Let’s talk about this with your granddaughter in my office, Virginia,” Tristan says. His voice is calm, but there’s frustration in the lines of his face.

Over the tops of the residents’ heads, Beau’s picture-perfect hair weaves through the crowd until he appears next to his brother, looking around to take stock of the situation.

“You can say whatever you have to say to me here.” Grams’s tone is defiant, but there’s something off about her voice. “I won’t be bought off.” She smirks. “At least not unless it’s with booze.”

There are chuckles from a number of the residents, while others share speaking glances.

“That’s not going to happen, Virginia,” Tristan says grimly. “You need to eat.”

My eyes widen. Has she really not eaten? Is that why her voice sounds weird? Because she’s wasting away in the name of a mint julep?

I crouch next to Grams and look up at her. “Come on. Let’s go to his office and discuss it in private.” And stuff your face with some food.

“I want to discuss it here,” she says firmly. “I’m not the only one on strike.”

Sandra Barry turns to the others at the table beside Grams. “Raise your hand if you were planning on going on strike before Virginia Sawyer arrived. ”

No hands go up, and the silence is heavy with awkwardness as Grams shoots glances at her co-conspirators to convey the depth of betrayal she feels.

I grab her hand and squeeze. “Come on. It’ll be a proper Palmer-Sawyer showdown.”

Her gaze holds mine, then flicks to the Palmer brothers. “Fine.”

My eyes shift to Beau, who’s watching me with appreciation that makes my heart sputter like Grams’s golf cart.

The crowds part like the Red Sea, and Grams and I follow the Palmers and Sandra out of the cafeteria with our heads held high. Inside, I’m torn. I want to back up Grams, but I can’t in good conscience support this. Not the hunger strike, and not the demand for booze.

Beau holds open the office door when we get there, waiting while the rest of us filter through.

Tristan runs a hand over his mouth as Beau shuts the door and Grams and I take our seats. Tristan is clearly stressed.

Join the club.

“I understand you dislike our alcohol policy, Virginia.”

“It’s a silly policy,” she barks back.

“And I can respect that opinion,” he says. “But you have to understand that allowing alcohol on the premises increases our liability insurance premiums significantly, which are costs that get passed along to residents like yourself. It’s also led to a number of regrettable incidents endangering our residents, whose safety is our first priority. It’s not just here, either. We’ve eliminated alcohol across all Palmer properties. But the policy is only part of this, Virginia. This is a very serious situation. We cannot have you leading hunger strikes at Seaside Oasis. It puts our residents in serious danger. Mr. Crane’s blood sugar was alarmingly low this morning.”

I feel sick inside. Grams would never knowingly do anything to endanger one of her friends, but when she’s on a mission, she’s hyper-focused on her goal.

“I’m sure you understand we can’t tolerate this type of behavior here,” Tristan says.

“You want to kick me out,” Grams says, almost taking pleasure in the words.

“I don’t want to,” Tristan counters. “But your current behavior may force my hand. I have to protect our residents, Virginia. Including you. I’m sure your granddaughter is worried. Right, Miss Sawyer?”

I don’t know what to say. I’m between a rock and a hard place here. I don’t want Grams to feel betrayed if I side with the Palmers, but how can I do anything else? What will she do if she gets kicked out? The woman shouldn’t be living on her own at this stage.

So, what do I say?

I feel Beau’s eyes on me. He’s using those cop powers to see through me. I can feel it. “Maybe,” he begins, “it would be best if, before we discuss things more, Mrs. Sawyer has a bite to eat and something to drink. Non-alcoholic,” he clarifies before she can offer the suggestion on her lips.

“I won’t eat,” Grams promises.

Beau shrugs.

“If you don’t,” Tristan warns, watching as his brother starts rummaging through a desk drawer, “we’ll have no choice but to have you transferred to the hospital for IV fluids and monitoring.”

Grams’s eyes bulge behind her Coke-bottle lenses. No word strikes revulsion within her like the word hospital .

Beau emerges from his search with a small bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, which he pulls open casually—and loudly.

Grams’s eyes dart to the chip bag, and hunger sparks in them.

Beau pops a chip in his mouth like he’s completely oblivious to the way his snack is affecting the starving old woman in the room. He knows exactly what he’s doing though, and I can appreciate it.

Secretly.

“And I suppose you’ll be the one to handcuff me and take me there?” Grams thrusts her chin toward Beau.

He chews and chews, his brows knitting with the effort. “Mm,” he says, like he’s just now processing how tasty the chips are. He swallows with effort, then looks at Grams. “I’ve got a new set of cuffs, Virginia. Much comfier than the last ones you wore. Padded interiors.”

My head whips toward Grams. “You’ve been arrested ?” I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised, but you’d think I’d have heard about it, at least.

“A witch hunt!” Grams says. “That’s what it was.”

Beau grins like he’s enjoying her as much as he’s enjoying the Doritos. He lifts the bag, tips his chin up, and provides us with a perfect profile view of each Dorito cascading into his open mouth.

The angle of his jaw pulls my gaze, which follows the line up to his chin, then down his tanned neck, a body part I hadn’t realized could be attractive until this exact second.

Suddenly, I feel famished, but I’m not sure whether I’m hungry for the chips or the man eating them.

Wait, WHAT?

I snap my mouth shut and look at Grams, who appears similarly entranced, the Doritos bag reflecting in her eyes.

Tristan watches both of us with slight amusement.

I clear my throat loudly, and Beau’s gaze flicks to me, then Grams. He lowers the bag. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He holds it toward us. “Did you want some?”

Yes , my animal brain says in a husky voice. “No,” I say firmly. Realizing this is a harsh response for a somewhat kind offer, I add, “But thank you. ”

Tristan turns to Beau. “Can you take Mrs. Sawyer for some food while I talk with Gemma?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Beau says.

“I don’t want to eat.” Grams’s refusals are getting weaker each time.

Beau’s brows go up. “Are we doing the hospital option, then?”

Grams glares at him, then pushes herself up.

“Good choice.” Beau offers her his arm like they’re heading to prom. He sends me a little wink, then closes the door.

And then it’s just Tristan and me.