1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

My life feels like a balloon with a pinhole as it slowly deflates—not at all like the ones bobbing in the breeze as I walk toward Pinky's Squeeze, a coffee, smoothie, and juice bar for my shift.

Oh, and we have ice cream because Pinky, the owner, claims everything is better with ice cream.

A cup of coffee? Add a scoop of vanilla. Got in a workout and want a refreshing drink? Add a scoop of strawberry to your berry blast smoothie. On a health kick and drinking freshly squeezed vegetable juice? Get a scoop of chocolate on the side. Wink, wink.

I could use all three right about now.

Okay, it's not all bad. I caught some bomb waves early this morning and Tugger loves me more than he loves my brother, so that's something.

However, I guess having an American bulldog's affection isn't quite the same as that of a human. It's better. Kidding. Joking. I'm not one of those crazy dog people. Much.

A modern sports car with custom vinyl lettering on the windshield that says Move Over revs as it approaches and then slows.

I quicken my pace on the sidewalk, now only a few doors away from Pinky's.

The driver rolls down his window, lowers his sunglasses, and says, "Hey, Kitty Cat. Meow." He literally cat calls, though it sounds more like a feline trapped in a submarine sending a distress call.

"I'd watch out if I were you. I have a dog and you know what they say about cats and dogs," I all but growl at his unwelcome and skeevy attempt to, well, I don't know what. Flatter me? Attract me? Find a mate?

Is it going to be one of those days? Wait. Forget I asked. I don't want to know.

That's not the kind of attention I want. I'm single but do not want to mingle. Especially not with a guy like MO, aka Move Over .

This is a small town and we don't tolerate jerks. I've noticed MO cruising in his bright yellow sports car for the last few weeks. If he's smart, he'll move on.

My body's core temperature is already low from saturating myself with ocean water for a couple of hours early this morning, so the cool blast when I enter Pinky's chills me further, but Shelly's smile chips away at the armor I always have at the ready.

Holding up her hand for me to high five, I pat it weakly because I've never been a team player. In fact, I've been called a frosty, independent beach Gidge—short for Gidget of film fame. Go figure.

"Oh, come on. Play along. I'm tapping you into the ring." Shelly, Pinky's niece and recent transplant from Alabama, bobs and weaves, shadow boxing. She's petite and summer-grown like a delicate bee blossom—the exact opposite of a female boxer.

I exhale through my nose and put a little more oomph into my high-five hand slap while she tells me about a fitness fusion class she's taking at the community center.

"That's the spirit." Shelly, who doesn't need coffee to run in fifth gear, goes on to fill me in on the opening tasks, what we're running low on, and the usual humdrum work details that don't require my full attention. I've worked at Pinky's for five years and have been coming here even longer.

I grew up on the D-side, as in the dirt side, of Palisade Shores rather than the sandy side—that would be the middle-class section leading to Sand Dollar Strand, what the wealthy call their summer playground. The D-side, like a B-side record, is our way of saying the wrong side of the tracks.

Growing up there as a Fisk toughened me up. Before I hit the magical age of eighteen and moved out, I'd been forced to learn to box for my survival—Tammy at the community center has been teaching women to be strong for years. Sure, most of my enemies were related to me, but that doesn't change the fact that my defenses are high and my distrust is deep.

Considering I'm a Pinky's Squeeze employee, one of the perkiest coffee shops slash smoothie and juice joints (and don't forget the ice cream!) on the planet, that might sound odd, especially in the placid beach town of Palisade Shores. But anywhere you go, there's always one bad egg, rotten apple, or villain in a story.

In my case, it's the entire Fisk family.

I'm not proud and would like to change my reputation—I hope one day to change my last name, too—but for now, I'm stuck here, which isn't the worst thing in the world.

A little-known fact about me: okay, it's a secret. Shh. Keep your mouth shut or else... I love this place. I'm happy to call it home, but since the day I was born, it's like everyone has been trying to see me out the door.

Well-known fact about me: I'm stubborn and the angry peasants and townspeople won't drive me out. Nope. They'll have to carry me, my surfboard, rose garden, and motorcycle away kicking and screaming.

I pour myself a cauldron full of cold brew and add a generous splash of cream when Shelly's monologue slides back into my awareness.

"I know all about small towns, but not surfers. Are they usually so grumbly?" Her eyes nervously dart in my direction at the question.

It's a small town and people talk, so it doesn't take a genius to know she's asking about Dune Kent and his personality deficits.

Relatable. Let's just say that my friendliness is a work in progress. "Depends on the waves, conditions, the crowds..." I say, citing facts about my one true love, the sea.

"When I think of surfers, I imagine guys like, well, Sunny." She waves as he enters for his post-surf usual.

On cue, I start making the Coco Nutty Mocha smoothie for Sunny.

"Do they usually have big beards?" Shelly asks, still talking about Dune.

"Surfers come in all shapes, sizes, ages. There are all kinds of kinds, just like there are all sorts of boards, waves, weather," I say as I add the cocoa powder to the blender.

"But you and Sunny look like surfers. Dune looks like a handsome bear?—"

The high-powered blender drowns the sound of my laughter.

Shelly's eyes widen and then her cheeks turn pink when she must remember Sunny and Dune are brothers.

While the former is super chill and laid back, the latter is best described as a grizzly if you can picture one riding a surfboard. He's killer on and off the surf.

Sunny and I chat about our respective surf sessions before Shelly interjects. "Can you guys teach me to surf?"

I wince because the truth is I don't have time or interest in adding another buoy—I mean body—to the already crowded waves.

Wearing his effortless smile, Sunny shrugs and says, "Sure."

"Good, because I also want to talk to you about your brother."

His eyebrows shoot up with concern or suspicion. "Is he in trouble?"

Shelly waves her hands. "No, nothing like that. But I'm afraid that I am." She bites her lip. "I kind of have a crush on him."

Sunny and I exchange a glance because this might be a first. Much like me, Dune is known for keeping people at a distance.

Before either one of us can tell Shelly that a crush on Dune is a terrible idea, a bearded man who isn't Dune walks through the door.

My internal temperature reaches a new low as I stab the blender buttons, trying to turn it off.

Even though time has thickened the newcomer's muscles and broadened his shoulders, I'd recognize him anywhere. He has a certain swagger that remains even if he walks taller than a guy who should have his tail between his legs.

Thankfully, the usual morning crowd of coffee junkies, beachgoers, the self-employed with their laptops, and kids on summer break slow him down as he approaches the counter, giving me another second to stare at Rocco Ferrara.

He's tanned from the sun, which is no surprise, but also tattooed and has a scar climbing his neck from under his taut T-shirt. Though, neither of those should make me look twice. Yet I can't help myself.

Back in the day, I was the town's bad girl and Rocco Ferrara was the bad boy. You'd think we'd be friends or frenemies, at least.

Nope. We're the worst kind of enemies because once upon a time, I let down my armor, and shots were fired anyway.

You know those love songs that chorus, Only You ? My jam is, Anyone But Him .

Once more, Shelly's voice breaks into my thoughts. "Why are you staring hate eyes at that man? His kids are so cute."

The room shifts slightly and I grip the counter. That's not possible. And yet two adorable kids clamor by his side.

Whatever air was left in that balloon didn't just deflate slowly through the hole. No, it's like someone released the twisted end, letting it rip and spurt through the room in an out-of-control whirl of panicked chaos.

That's when I malfunction and climb out the nearest window like I'm being chased by the police. The last time I did this, I was successful. Don't worry. It wasn't me who egged Mrs. Larsham's house. But I did, uh, hang out with some bad eggs. Only this time, my apron snags on the window crank handle and I'm stuck.

I'm certain Rocco and everyone else at Pinky's have noticed my unfortunate position and, um, my butt.