"I know, right? Practically perfect." She snorted at his alarm. "I have a radio. And a cell phone. I'm isolated, not insane."
"Doesn't sound very safe."
"It's perfectly safe. As long as you know the back door opens straight to the ocean because the stairs washed away decades ago."
"You're right, that sounds like the epitome of safe." He cupped his hot coffee, absorbing the warmth with relief. "So, Beacon'sEnd…what's the town like?"
"Tiny blip on the map. Blink and you'll miss it. One of its better qualities."
"Not a people person?"
"What makes you say that?" She studied him over her mug rim. "What were you doing out there besides nearly dying?"
"Trying out my new boat. The ink wasn't even dry on the transfer papers when that storm hit."
"What kind of boat was it?"
"I don't know. It was small, cute, and old. Smelled like old wood and diesel fuel."
"And you paid money for it?"
"Not exactly. I traded for work. I thought it would be cool to spend the summer on the sea. As it turns out, not as cool as I'd hoped."
She chuckled, sipping her coffee and shaking her head. "Nope."
"So, just so I'm getting my facts straight, you're a woman, living alone, in a lighthouse without electricity, cut off from the only town for miles…and you don't feel that's unsafe? If I were a bad guy... just saying, true-crime enthusiasts would call this a tragic story waiting to happen."
Clara barked a laugh. "Calm down, Dateline, I grew up a fisherman's daughter. I can gut you twelve different ways without breaking a sweat. If anyone should be worried, it's you. How do you know I don't rescue half-drowned men so I can tie them to the bed Misery-style and take my sweet time breaking them in creative and monstrous ways?"
"When you put it that way, I guess I don't."
"No, you don't. Lucky for you, I'm not the torture-and-murder-for-fun type."
"But would you tell me if you were?"
She grinned. "You need food and sleep. You look terrible."
"And here I thought I was making a solid first impression."
"I'm trying to keep you alive so I don't have to deal with the paperwork." She moved to the kitchen. "I had a sandwich, but a seagull stole it. You get soup."
"A seagull stole your sandwich?"
"Thieving bastards, every last one."
He laughed—low and rough—and she ignored what it did to her pulse. She opened a can, dumped it in a pot. Nothing fancy but it would help replace lost electrolytes and heat up his insides.
"So, Jack Callahan. What's your story? Wife at home? Kids waiting for daddy?"
"No wife, no kids. Not even a dog."
"Ahhh, lone wolf syndrome."
"Something like that."
Don't get intrigued by a mysterious backstory, Clara.
The soup heated. When she turned with two bowls, he was looking at her drafting table. At the sketches. She didn't like that but she hadn't exactly planned for a midday rescue.
