“Beau, you little…” I climb out of the golf cart. “Wait!” I call to the photographer.
He lowers his camera, looking a question at me.
I stride over to the Palmers’, a woman on a mission. I grab the pole that holds up the ugly feeder and yank as hard as I can. It would be really satisfying if that was enough, but I have to give it a few more yanks and shimmy it around before it comes out of the ground. I take it with me around the short white fence, find a spot just on our side of the property line, then stab the grass with the pointed end of the pole.
I wiggle it and push down until it feels stable, then I brush off my hands. “There.”
The photographer looks at me with an almost-worried expression. “You want…that…in the pictures?”
“Yes,” I say definitively. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. This weird half-eaten-apple birdfeeder increases the curb appeal of Grams’s home exponentially. It adds character and a little quixotic somethin’ somethin’, and it will remain here forevermore. I should probably have a cement truck come to pour a permanent post.
“Okay,” the photographer says in anit’s your funeraltone. “I’ll get to work.”
I head back to the golf cart with a smile on my face—a smile that gets shaken off by the force of the cart’s tremors as I drive toward town. I don’t even have a plan. I’m just happy that progress is happening on the house. It’ll be listed tomorrow, then all the offers will start pouring in. We’ll be drowning in over-asking-price offers, and there’s nothing Mayor Barnes or anyone on this island can do about that.
I pull into a parking space in front of the ice cream shop and wait for my skull to stop vibrating before heading inside. I recognize the middle-aged woman behind the counter: Elaine Pruitt. She’s Team Palmer, but I don’t let that bother me. No one can bring me down right now.
But it doesn’t seem like she wants to. She serves me with a smile and side of small talk, going so far as to tell me she’s glad to see me back. Weirdly enough, I believe her.
I walk out, waving with one hand while I keep my double scoop of mint brownie steady in the other as I almost run smack into someone. I lean back and step away, and so does he.
He’s got brown hair and a tank top showing tattoos on both arms. The hands he has out to prevent us from colliding have remnants of grease.
I know just who it is: Dax Miller, island mechanic and Grams’s cougar crush.
“Sorry,” he says in a kind voice at odds with his bad-boy appearance. “Didn’t see you coming out.”
“It’s my fault,” I reply. “It’s Dax, right?”
“Yeah. And you’re Gemma.” It’s not a question. Not only is it pretty easy to tell who the new people are on an island like this, I was only a grade behind Dax in school back in the day. We’ve both grown up, but neither of us looks that different.
“Grams says you gave her cart a little help a while back.” I cock a brow to let him know how I feel about it.
He chuckles. “She was adamant she needed more power.” His gaze goes to the cart. “How’s it doing?”
“Shaking like a 7.5 earthquake.”
“Yeah, I offered to fix that for her, but she insists she likes it better that way—she said it loosens her joints. Had any more issues with it starting?”
I furrow my brow. I know Sunset Harbor is a hotbed for gossip, but I didn’t think something as mundane as the cart not starting one time would make it to the mechanic. “It’s been fine.”
He nods. “I was pretty sure it was just the one loose wire, but if it gives you any more trouble, let me know.”
“Wait…sorry.” I hurry to take a lick of my melting ice cream. “You mean you fixed it?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Beau had me come check it out a few days ago because it wasn’t starting. I figured he’d told you.”
“Nope,” I say, trying to decide how to feel about it. Beau having the cart secretly fixed is half interfering, half-thoughtful. “Thank you for doing that. I need to pay you, though.” I reach for my phone in the pocket of my shorts, but he puts up a hand to stop me.
“That’s not necessary. I owed Beau a favor. Besides, your grandma tossed me a few dollar bills on my way back from working on some boats the other day. We’re even.”
Oh, Grams. “And here I thought you might be reporting her for voyeurism.”
He chuckles. “She’s harmless.”
“Try telling that to the Palmers,” I say, taking another lick. “I still think you should’ve pretended the cart was past help rather than giving in to her demands.”
“You and Beau both,” he says.
