Finished, she secured her camera in its bag and pushed down on the pedal. Her bike chain snapped and, with a sickening jolt, the pedals went limp. She caught herself just in time to keep from sliding into the soft marshy grass on the shoulder.
“Are you kidding me?” Holly hissed. “Not cool, Betsy. Not today.”
Hopping off, she walked the bike to the gate and propped it against a palmetto tree. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, her Nikon camera thumping against her ribs. As she reached down to inspect the grease-covered mess of the chain, a thin, pathetic whimper caught her attention.
Holly froze. She followed the pitiful sound toward a bank of azaleas that framed the landscaping in front of the fencing. Creeping closer, she spotted a small, shivering cloud of fur huddled under the shrub.
“Well, hello there,” she said, using the soothing tone that calmed skittish sources and stray kittens.
Her interview momentarily forgotten, she knelt in the dirt, ignoring the prospect of grass stains. The little fluff ball was a Maltese, or something close, although right now it bore a closer resemblance to a discarded mop head. What she assumed was a white coat when clean was matted with burrs and grayed by marsh mud. Large, dark eyes looked up at her with a mixture of terror and hope.
“You are a long way from a groomer, little guy.” Holly reached out her hand, letting the dog decide what to make of her. She didn’t recognize him at all, which worried her. After a moment, she felt the dog lean into her palm, still trembling.
He shifted, but couldn’t get closer. On a yip, he sat down and she realized his collar was stuck. Slowly, making reassuring noises, she eased under the shrub until she had him free. He scrambled right into her lap and she tucked him close, trying to warm him up.
The collar, high-end, buttery soft leather, had a nameplate smudged with mud. She wiped away the grime and the silver gleamed in the dappled sunlight. “Digby?”
He perked his ears as he stared at her.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Though she checked for tags or a phone number, it was just the name.
“Don’t worry, Digby. TheBugleis on the case.” She stood, gathering the small dog into her arms. He was surprisingly light, his heart racing against her chest. “I’m sure Mr. Sterling will give you some water until I can sort this out.”
The most likely explanation was that Digby belonged to Sterling. She just didn’t see a dog this small traveling too far from home.
With a deep groan, the gate panels slowly parted. The scraping sound of the iron against the rollers was jarring in the pleasantly quiet afternoon. Holly held the dog tightly as the gate opened to the long drive lined with ancient oaks.
And standing in the center of the drive, was the story itself.
She’d seen a few photos of him, taken years ago apparently. Right now, Sebastian Sterling looked nothing like a man worth more than the entire Brookwell municipal budget. He wore a faded Metallica concert tour t-shirt, the sleeves cut off to reveal arms that were roped with lean muscle. His joggers were splattered with stains, and his dark hair was a chaotic nest that suggested he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration for hours.
But it was his face that stopped Holly’s breath. Even through the stubble of a “leave-me-alone” beard, his features were strikingly sharp. He had the kind of bone structure that photographers dreamt of: intense, brooding, and currently set in a mask of pure irritation.
“Digby?” He shook his head. “Traitor.” His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, the kind of sound that sent an involuntary shiver straight down Holly’s spine.
She was living one of those enviable moments from a romance novel that she and her book club friends enjoyed. But in real life, she was feeling more edgy than excited.
“I believe you’re looking for this,” Holly flashed her most disarming smile, the one that usually made people forget she was holding a digital recorder.
He didn’t smile back.
She practically felt his gaze like a touch as he studied her. She knew the instant he saw her camera because his shoulders went stiff and his eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he demanded. Blunt, defensive. “And why are you holding my dog?”
CHAPTER 2
Seb froze as he studied the woman holding his sister’s dog and tried to wrestle his thoughts into some cohesive order. Seeing Digby was a relief, but what the hell was he supposed to do now? She had a camera at her hip. Obviously, she’d been snooping.
His smart watch chimed, kicking him out of the fog of frustration. “You have to go.” He stepped closer and reached for the dog.
She tucked Digby closer to her chest. The road behind her was empty. Where had she come from and why? How had the paparazzi found him already? He’d thought Brookwell Island would be different. One of his best friends had headlined their big summer music festival a couple years ago and she had sworn the locals were chill.
This woman didn’t look chill, she looked increasingly wary, though he was sure that smile worked on most people.
He was not most people. He did his best to avoid most people. He made a mental note to contact his personal security company and get them back on the job.
“Holly Brooks, editor of theBrookwell Bugle,” she replied, sticking out her hand.
He had no intention of touching her.
