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Nell’s grin widens. “Interesting.”

“Nothing about this is interesting.”

She laughs and keeps scrolling. “The Hales have been here forever. His dad owns Hale Marine Repair. His older brother is in the Coast Guard. Younger brother is a firefighter.”

“You know an alarming amount about this family.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life.”

Right.

That’s another thing I’m still adjusting to. In San Francisco, I could work beside someone for months without knowing who their parents were. Here, ask one question, and you get three generations.

Nell taps the screen again. “Women love him.”

“I’m sure that keeps him humble.”

She gives me a look. “You don’t sound impressed.”

“I met him.”

She laughs and scrolls to another photo from what looks like a local show. Zander is leaning toward the edge of the stage, smiling down at a woman reaching up toward him, with several more crowded in behind her.

I hand the phone back. “Looks like he’s doing fine without my admiration.”

Nell studies me. “So you’re completely unimpressed?”

“By the fan club? Yes.”

By the way his shoulders look under stage lights, maybe less so, but I’m not giving her that.

By the time I leave Black Fern, fog has started rolling back in from the coast, softening the edges of the buildings and leaving a fine sheen of moisture on my windshield.

I stop for groceries on the way home and spend the drive reminding myself that Zander Hale, being some kind of local celebrity, changes absolutely nothing.

He still plays his music too loud.

He’s still smug.

And now I know there are crowds of women available to tell him how wonderful he is, so I certainly don’t need to contribute.

I turn down my street and have to tap the brakes. A sleek black SUV is parked crooked, blocking half of my driveway space.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Take a deep breath and open my eyes. The SUV is still there.

Resigned, I park further along the curb, grab my grocery bags, and walk up toward the duplex.

Zander is on the walkway.

He’s leaning casually against the SUV’s front quarter panel, talking to a tall blonde in leggings and a cropped sweater. She has a hand draped lightly over his forearm and is looking at him like he’s Mick Jagger.

Zander says something low that makes her laugh, but when I approach, the woman looks up first. Zander follows her gaze.

His eyes track from my face down to the heavy grocery bags, then past me to my car parked down the block.

A faint, knowing curve touches his lips.

I stop at the base of the porch steps. “Is that yours?”