Chapter 6

I take Beau’s hand, which is firm and warm—probably because his veins run with blood the temperature of hellfire.

“Should we get this over with, then?” I pull my hand away. It’s not like I can’t handle a not-date with the devil, but I’d rather not draw things out if I don’t have to.

His mouth quirks up at the edge. “I love the enthusiasm, Gemma, but I can’t today. How about tomorrow? Provided there are no island emergencies, of course.”

“Can never predict when those Sunset Harbor gangsters will strike with their sidewalk chalk graffiti, right?”

“Crime never sleeps. I’ve got a meeting with a member of the city council at three tomorrow, but it won’t take long. I should be back around four.”

The city council is a sore spot. I almost ask who’s on it these days—is it made up entirely of Palmers and Palmerites?—but I figure I need Beau on my side today. “That works.”

“Maybe you can just watch for me from your window?” he suggests, looking far too innocent.

My cheeks flame. “I was showing my sister the backyard on a video call.”

“You do realize your property ends right there?” He gestures to a place well inside of the fence. He’s enjoying this so much.

I make the fakest smile I can manage. “Your family hasn’t ever let us forget it. See you tomorrow, Officer.” With a salute, I head toward the house.

My morning is sucked away by a meeting with the best island realtor Sunset Harbor has to offer. Well, not the best realtor. Grams wouldn’t use Vivian Chase because she’s a well-known “Palmer lapdog” (her words, not mine), so she went for the person who does real estate part-time and hasn’t sold a house in a decade. Sounds like a rock-solid plan, right?

Eugene Hawthorn takes some notes as we talk, but most of the time is consumed by my asking questions that he waffles on and never gives a straight answer to, like whether it’s worth staging the house and what exterior improvements might help with curb appeal. The few suggestions he does offer tell me he hasn’t been up on home design in…ever, probably. But I could’ve guessed that from the 70s sweater vest he’s wearing.

He assures me he’ll get to work putting together the listing and schedule photos to be taken as soon as possible. That means I have my work cut out for me. Between all the stuff still in the attic and getting the rest of the house ready? Time is ticking. I’d like to get all the difficult stuff taken care of before I leave. Knowing this town, if I leave anything important until after I’m gone, the house will never actually go up for sale. Grams needs the money from the sale to pay for the exorbitant monthly fees at Seaside Oasis, so this is important.

As I shut the door on Eugene, a call comes through on my phone. I recognize it from yesterday and answer right away.

“Hey, Gemma,” Tristan says. “It’s Tristan Palmer at Seaside Oasis.”’

How many Tristan Palmers does he think I know? “Hey, Tristan.”

“I wanted to let you know that I got out of the meeting with my dad a little while ago… ”

I brace myself.

“…and he’s agreed to allow your grandma to remain here.”

I let out a huge breath of relief. Since Beau dropped me off yesterday, I’ve been thinking through what to do if the Palmers decided she couldn’t stay. Seeing how happy she is there with her friends (and enemies), watching her navigate stairs and a golf cart with her bad knee, and knowing all of her ailments are only going to get worse? She needs the retirement home, and crazy as it is to me, she’s set on this one specifically. The woman would literally camp out on the beach before she’d agree to die anywhere but this island. She has an insane amount of pride in a place that’s treated her the way Sunset Harbor has. Or maybe it’s plain stubbornness. Either way, if I pulled Grams off the island by force, she’d find her way back here.

So, Tristan’s words are a massive relief.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, wondering how much Beau had to do to ensure this outcome. That wording he’s agreed to allow your grandma to remain tell me there’s probably a story there.

“Needless to say,” Tristan continues with a smile in his voice, “she’ll want to be on her best behavior. Stay under the radar for a while.”

I open my mouth wordlessly. Grams is very much an above-the-radar person. “I will…try to convey that to her. Thank you for your help.”

“You’ve got it. Have a good day, Gemma.”

I blow out a breath after hanging up, then grab my laptop and head straight to the attic. I’ve got more sorting to get done before…I have no idea what to call what Beau and I have planned for later.

I’ve made my way through one entire corner and most of the way through the second when I pick up a ratty old towel and freeze.

Lying on the floor is a birdfeeder. The birdfeeder. The red paint of the apple is faded, there are a few persistent seeds sitting in the feed area, and the wood is chipped in many places because that fake, half-eaten apple is a weapon of war. I’m not surprised it ended up with Grams. Attagirl.

But what am I supposed to do with it?

I don’t want to remind Grams of it. She treated that thing like a sacred relic—if people urge their young granddaughters to go steal sacred relics from the neighbors’ yard.

I stare at it for a few seconds, then make an executive decision, walking it over to the garbage box and setting it inside. That’s the third box full of trash already. They’re cluttering up the space, making it hard for me to accurately judge my progress, so I take them downstairs one by one and set them outside by the already-full garbage can on the curb for pickup tomorrow.

As four o’clock approaches, I shower and get ready—and stay far away from windows. Date or not, the man will have to come to the door. Over my dead body will I allow Beau Palmer to see me looking outside to see whether he’s home.

I run upstairs, toss a few things into a box, and bring them downstairs for sorting in a place that has air conditioning and won’t make me look like a poodle with a bad blowout after five minutes.

I’ve given up on business attire and opt for something that won’t suffocate me: a fitted white top tucked into acid-wash jean shorts. I load up on deodorant and spritz myself generously with perfume. There are two categories of people you dress to impress: the people you love and the people you hate.

The knock comes at 4:16—not that I was watching the clock—and I take my time getting to the door.

“Hey,” Beau says.

He’s wearing salmon-colored chino shorts with small white sailboats embroidered all over, while on top, he’s got on a pale blue, linen button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The top button is undone, and I stare at it for a second. I don’t know if I was expecting him to show up in uniform or what, but this? It’s not what I had pictured.

“Gemma?”

“Yeah,” I say, blinking and stepping outside. “Sorry. I’ve been sorting through Grams’s stuff for days, and it’s turned my brain to mush.”

“No worries,” he says as we walk toward his golf cart.

I steal a sidelong glance at him. Maybe it’s the clothes, but something feels different. “No Xena?”

“Not today.”

That’s when it hits me. The missing part of his outfit: his smile. Instead, there’s a slight crease between his brows as we get into the cart.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, for sure.” He turns the keys in the ignition.

I hesitate, feeling certain something’s up. Not that I know him well. Call it a hunch. Maybe his meeting with the council didn’t turn out the way he wanted? I’m definitely not the person he should seek sympathy from for city council issues. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

He shoots me a knowing look. “You trying to wriggle out of your end of the deal?”

“Nope. Just seems like your heart’s not in it. Which I totally understand. I wouldn’t want to spend my evening trying to be a cheerleader for Sunset Harbor, either.”

He laughs and presses the pedal. “That’s my other part-time job. Sunset Harbor cheer squad. I’m hoping you’ll try out by the end of tonight.”

“Dream on, Officer.”

“Captain,” he corrects me.

My brows draw together. Can an island with only one law enforcement officer have a captain?

“Cheer squad captain,” he clarifies .

“Ah, right. The default position when you’re the only one on the squad.”

He shakes his head as we reach the main square. “Very rigorous training and killer squad politics to navigate. Becoming the island’s police chief was a cinch in comparison. All right,” he says, slowing down as we drive through the square. “Here we are.”

I stare at the colorful boxy buildings that surround us. “This is where you’re taking me? I’ve been here a million times.”

“And how many years ago was that again?”

“Irrelevant.”

“We’re just grabbing a little something to take with us,” he assures me, pulling the cart to the curb in front of Sunrise Cafe.

I reluctantly get out and follow him to the door, which he opens for me. I stand to the side so the guy heading toward us can exit first.

“Park,” Beau greets, grinning as the two of them shake hands. “How’s it going?”

“Going good,” the guy responds. He’s got jet-black hair and straight brows that give him a bit of a stern look. But he’s definitely good-looking. He glances at me.

“This is Gemma Sawyer,” Beau says. “An old friend of mine.”

Before I can clear up that massive lie, he’s talking again. “Gemma, this is Phoenix Park, one of my best friends. He took me in until I moved back into my parents’ place with Tristan.” He glances at the bag of food Phoenix is holding. “That for Holland?”

Phoenix is unamused. “Why would you assume that?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Not completely,” Phoenix replies reluctantly. “But it’s for me too.”

Beau squeezes his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Park.” He jerks his head at me, signaling for me to head into the cafe .

“Is Holland his girlfriend?” I ask as the door closes behind us.

“No,” Beau says. “I mean, not if you ask him.”

“And if you ask her?”

“Also no.” He laughs at the look on my face. “Their relationship is…complicated. They can’t go five minutes without arguing, but—hey, Ivy! How’s it going here?’

I stare at the woman behind the counter, putting together the name and the hint of familiarity in her face. She’s got curly, light brown hair that’s tied back. “Ivy Brooks?”

Her eyes scan my face, lighting up with hesitant recognition. “Gemma?”

“I had no idea you were still on the island.” Or still working at the cafe, but I don’t say that. I’d always assumed she’d leave the island and do something sophisticated. She was always so smart.

“Just temporarily,” she hedges, her gaze darting to Beau, who smiles at her in a strange way.

I look back and forth between them, wondering what that little exchange was. Is she here for him ?

“It’s great to see you,” she remarks to me. “You look great.”

For reasons I don’t understand, my eyes dart to Beau.

“It’s true,” he says. “You do.”

Feeling flustered, I press my lips into a thin line at him.

“What can I get for you two?” Ivy asks, wiping her hands on her apron.

Beau orders us steak and cheese sandwiches, and after about ten minutes, Ivy hands him two brown takeout bags. “It’s great to see you both,” she says in a way that makes me wonder if she thinks this is a date.

I can’t have it get back to Grams that I went on a date with Beau Palmer. Especially because I didn’t.

“Beau’s taken personal offense to my dislike of Sunset Harbor,” I explain, “so he’s taking me on an island tour at gunpoint to try to persuade me it’s the best place on earth.”

Ivy looks confused, but Beau just chuckles. “Good to see you, Ivy.”

I hold the bags on my lap once we get back in the cart, pretending the smell coming from them isn’t making me salivate like a Pavlovian puppy. Once the cart starts moving, though, the wind helps, and we make our way back the way we came.

“You can take the food out and put the bag over your head if you want,” Beau offers.

“Huh?” It’s the food I want interacting with my head—specifically making its way into my mouth—not the bag.

“Seemed like you were embarrassed to be seen with me, so I thought that might be a good solution.”

“Hey, I know how gossip works on this island, mister, and you’ll need a lot more than a squirt gun if Grams is led to believe we were on a date.”

“I will, or you will?” he asks as he pulls in front of his house.

My eyebrows go up as the rumble of the engine dies. “Oh, are we done already?” I set the food between us, then grab the handle bar to get out. “Thanks for the island tour, Beau.”

“Nice try,” he says, grabbing me by the wrist until I face him. The edge of his mouth creeps up. “We’re just getting started.”

For some reason, those words send chills down my back.