Huddled in my coat, shoulders hunched, I settle on awooden bench. The nearest streetlamp has a bulb out, which means this particular spot is in shadow. Which is perfect for me, since my only purpose in being here is to creep on my best friend. Former best friend. I huff, my breath puffing outward in a little cloud of cold, and frown. Shiloh seems to be little more than a ghost that haunts the wharf, as I’ve not once seen him in town while I’ve been here. I would wonder if he was avoiding me if I didn’t remember Shiloh being antisocial growing up, too. Maybe it is a bit of both, though, and my presence in town has pushed him further into hiding. Well, I can’t make him want to see me, but I can make an effort to seehim.
Pulling my hands from the pockets of my jacket to ineffectually blow hot hair on them, I bounce my knee.Hurry the fuck up, I think in Shiloh’s direction. I’m going to freeze to this bench if I have to sit out here any longer. Of course, I don’thaveto be sitting out here at all. But that is neither here nor there, and anyway, it’s a moot point.
Shiloh’s here.
I sit up a little straighter, tucking my hands back into my pockets and watching his truck swing into the lot, headlights arcing over the dark pavement. Two other cars are already there, and I see Shiloh’s head turn toward one of them, his gaze catching. I wonder if that’s Nils’ vehicle, knowing now that they work together. Nils doesn’t seem like the type to drive something that fancy, though, and frankly, I’d be surprised to find he could afford it. The Nils I remember from high school wouldn’t be driving a Porsche.
After a moment, he looks away and slams the door of histruck, the sharp noise loud in the otherwise silent morning. Frowning, knee jogging a little faster, I watch him walk to the opposite side of the pier than where his boat is docked. His slip is on the right. Iknowit is, because I snooped one day after he’d gone. I know, because I’ve watched him go to the right every morning, and Shiloh rarely deviates from his schedule.
I can barely see him in the morning gloom, the lamps lighting the pier weak against the salty fog that hovers over the ocean. He’s stopped next to a boat, that much I’m sure, but I can’t tell what he’s doing. Talking to someone, I suppose, and my stomach clenches in some strange paroxysm of jealousy. I shake my head, annoyed at myself and whoever caught Shiloh’s attention so completely that he detoured from his routine. I’ll have to come back this afternoon and see if I can find out what boat that is, see if I recognize the owner.
Another vehicle rumbles into the lot, the growl of the engine breaking the quiet. As though it’s a reminder of why he’s here, Shiloh walks out of view, and this time, I’m sure he’s heading over to theDrifter. Unable to see the object of my stalking, I instead watch a blond man climb out of the new car and begin pulling things from his trunk. I nearly walk over and offer to help when I see him fumble a bright red cooler. A few moments later, he’s down the pier and out of view, hidden by the shitty lighting and the morning gloom.
Groaning, I rise to standing, shaking out my cold legs and hunching my shoulders. Back to the cottage for another fruitless attempt at sleeping. Back to the cottage, where the walls seem intent upon keeping my worst thoughts and fears contained—nothing but me and failure and Shiloh.
When I get back to the little cottage, I tug the blinds down to fight the rising sun and kick my shoes into the corner. Tired as I am, the moment I lie down, I feel wide-awake. I wait, and wait some more. Finally, after what feels like hours but is really only fifteen minutes, I give up. Curling onto my side, I bring up the Scrabble app Daniel made me download and start a new game.
When I see Shiloh’s truck parked on the street outside of the Temptress, I quicken my steps. I’ve already gotten into the habit of coming to the pub every evening. I’m not coming to get sloshed but to have a beer and food that doesn’t come with oven instructions on the box. I have to admit, it’s also nice to be able to sit at the bar and chat with someone other than Daniel. Apparently, between my PA and the bartender, I have to pay people to interact with me.
Trying to tone down the somewhat frantic beating of my heart, I pull open the scarred wooden door. My eyes immediately bounce around the room like a pinball, searching for Shiloh. Maybe we can have dinner together. Or even just a drink. Hell, I’ll be happy if all we do is exchange a few pleasantries and go our separate ways. I haven’t talked to him since that day in his kitchen, and I feel strung out with the need to hear his voice, to stand close enough to smell the sea.
Ryan is behind the bar, like he’s been every evening I’ve come in. He raises a hand in welcome before going back towiping down the glass in his hand. I barely manage a nod of the head back, too focused on the men standing together at the end of the bar.
Shiloh’s back is to the door, but it’s not as though I need to see his face to know it’s him. He’s got a ratty sweatshirt on, the blue mottled and aged from too many washes, the neckline ripped in places, and a hole near the hem. Knowing him, it was probably his dad’s. Shiloh never had an interest in fashion—function was more his speed, and if something was still wearable in some way, he’d never spend the money to replace it.
The man next to him grabs my attention when I hear the low rumble of Shiloh’s laugh. I feel that laugh low in my belly, like our bodies were pressed together when he did it. I want to hear it again. I want to be the one to make that sound come out of him. I want to shove the man who did incite that laugh back a few steps, because he is far too fucking close to my friend.
The stranger is facing Shiloh, one elbow resting on the bar top in the sort of practiced lean that is meant to look effortless. He’s handsome in the polished sort of way I’m used to seeing in LA—an artful layer of scruff, clear, unblemished dark skin, and closely shaved hair. He’s got nice, shiny, straight teeth and a beautiful smile, which I know because he’s currently aiming it at Shiloh.
Looking between them and where Ryan is waiting, watching me with a raised brow, I try and decide what to do. Casually sit in my usual spot and pretend not to notice them? Act surprised if Shiloh sees me? Or should I just go over and ask what the fuck pretty-boy thinks he’s doing, putting his hand onShiloh’s arm like that?
Both of Ryan’s eyebrows climb his forehead as I make a decision and beeline over toward the pair. He sets the glass down and leans his hands on the bar top, watching as I skirt a pair of tables. He probably thinks I’m about to make a scene. I’m not, though. I’m merely a friendly guy, on his way over to say a friendly hello to an old friend. It’s the polite thing to do, after all, and I’m a polite sort of person.
“Hey!” I greet them brightly, coming to a stop so I’m situated between them. Shiloh turns his head in surprise, eyes widening when he sees me. His friend, whom I’m annoyed to find out is even better-looking up close, has a little smile playing on his lips like he’s gearing up to have some fun.
“Oh,” Shiloh says, staring at me. After a second, he adds, “Hi.”
A somewhat awkward silence descends as we all wait for someone else to speak. Pointedly, I look between Shiloh and the other man, but Shiloh either doesn’t understand the nuance or has no interest in introductions. When he clears his throat, I know it’s the latter.
“You must be the new guy in town,” the handsome stranger says, somehow managing to speak around the smirk.
“I’m a local,” I correct. He tilts his head to the side, the corner of his mouth still lopsided in a way that speaks of a suppressed joke. It’s a grin that saysI’m laughing at you, not with you, and I want to wipe it right off his pretty face.
“My mistake,” he replies smoothly, rising out of his lean and holding a hand out to shake. “Dryden Roy.”
“Ewan Fate.” I don’t squeeze the shit out of his hand, even though I sort of want to. I don’t like this guy. He’s smug and slimy and probably a dick. He stands way too close to Shiloh.
“Right,” he agrees, as though he already knew who I was. Shiloh clears his throat again, and Dryden Roy’s eyes flick over to him. The smirk drops a bit, becoming a little softer around the edges.
“How was the haul?” I ask Shiloh, smiling when he meets my eye. He doesn’t return it.
“Not bad. You here for dinner?”
“Yeah. Want to join?” I offer. His guarded expression drops for a second, but he looks away and back at his companion before I can figure out what replaced it.
“We ordered out,” he explains, and the smirk slides back into place on Dryden’s face. For a second, nobody says anything. It’s Dryden who breaks the silence, tone satisfied and expression arrogant.
“Then back to my place,” he fills in. Shiloh clears his throat yet again, discomfort rolling off him in waves. Back to his place? Dryden watches me try and fit those pieces together in a way that doesn’t mean what I think it means. Something sick and twisted and green with jealousy claws at my stomach.
