“I’ve been enjoying watching you dance around the room,” he said.
“Should I worry about being stalked?” she asked.
“Probably,” he murmured.
She wasn’t worried in the least.
Around them, conversations dimmed; heads turned. Tosh’s name floated in the background; Torie’s cracked voice followed. Harmony didn’t turn. Her world had narrowed to heat and a fleeting, dangerous curiosity.
“Why don’t we get out of here?” he asked.
“You don’t waste time,” she replied.
“The night doesn’t, either.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. She wasn’t going anywhere—and he sensed it. The flirting had been fun, but shehad no desire to push it beyond that. Disappointment flickered across his features.
He leaned in, kissed her—slow, deliberate, tasting of bourbon and want. The room tilted.
When he pulled back, she smiled and shook her head.
By the bar’s entrance, Deputy Ciscel had reappeared. He wasn’t looking at the man—he was staring at Harmony, his face carefully neutral. He turned away a moment later, but the imprint of his attention lingered like a fingertip pressed to glass.
“Too bad,” the man whispered, then walked away to find a more willing partner.
Harmony leaned back, fanning herself. The island made her want to live on the edge. Reality had a way of pulling her back.
A prickling awareness crawled across her spine. Someone was watching. A pair of eyes fixed on her with stillness and intent. They hadn’t liked the kiss . . . or they’d liked it far too much.
Harmony went outside to cool off. Tosh leaned against the wall, cigarette glowing like a small ember of sin. Moonlight carved his profile into something mythic—charming, careless . . . dangerous.
“You enjoy stirring things up,” he said.
“Observation isn’t stirring,” she replied.
But she knew better. Tonight she hadn’t simply watched the room shift—she’d shaped the direction of every crack. Stirring felt good. It felt natural.
“It feels like it. You say one thing to Torie, another to Candy, and then you stand back and . . . watch.”
“Writers watch.”
“And what exactly are you watching for?”
“Human nature.” She took his cigarette, inhaled, and let smoke curl from her lips.
He laughed. “Am I the punchline in your story?”
She grinned. “You’re the setup.”
That made him pause.
Harmony decided the night had given her everything she wanted. She walked away without going back inside. The streets were nearly empty. The air tasted of salt and something darker. She felt powerful and free, the island settling into her bones.
She smiled as she walked toward her cottage. She’d written the scene exactly as she wanted—dialogue shaped like daggers, affection recast as motive. She could almost hear a voice on the breeze, intimate and low.
Keep writing . . .
The island hummed its approval, steady and alive.
