I turn on the headlights and make my way out of the parking lot, jerking every few seconds. It’s the most sensitive gas pedal I’ve ever used, and the heels aren’t helping. It’s like trying to press the right elevator button with a jumbo boxing glove on.
I don’t know what Grams asked the mechanic to do to this thing, but there’s no way to start it moving smoothly. Which tracks for her, honestly. She’s very much a zero-to-sixty-in-point-five-seconds type of woman. Or just living life constantly going sixty.
Once I’m on the main drag—theonlydrag, really—I do a bit more experimenting to try to get the hang of things and put this death box through its paces, answering questions like,is there any speed at which the bone-jarring quaking is less?
No, there’s not.
And other questions like,does flooring it make me go any faster than depressing the pedal a fraction of a centimeter?
YES. A definite yes.
I let off the gas pedal, and the cart slows to a roll. But now that I’ve tasted the breeze that comes with full throttle, I can’t settle for less. Ibrace myself and slam the pedal down all the way.
The breeze blows around my face, drying my sweat, and I can’t help a smile, my teeth rattling.
Until I notice the flashing red and blue in my rearview mirror.
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 saysSunset 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 hisT-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 makingmyfamily’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, Ididenvision 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 ticketrun 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.
