Page 14

“You’re not seeing someone, are you?” The words spill from me before I can corral them, and I kick myself.

“What if I am?” my sister challenges.

My go-to in any situation where I screw up is to crack a joke, and this time is no exception. “I’d have to fly down there and meet him. Size him up and see if he deserves the Colby Chase seal of approval.”

“Well, there goes my dream of marrying Prince Charming. No one will ever earn that seal.”

We share a laugh, masking an uncomfortable topic. I move the conversation into safer territory.

While Lindsey and I catch up, my mind strays to whether there’s a man out there who’s worthy of my sister. Then it takes a sudden detour to a hypothetical world. Would I ask Jackie for a date if she wasn’t Harper’s sister? When I realize how far I’ve strayed into Fantasy Land, I shut it down.

By the time the conversation with my sis ends, the rain has run its course, but the sky’s a somber gray that gives the illusion twilight’s descended ahead of schedule. My thoughts inconveniently wind back to Jackie. I wish I’d thought to get her number—not that she would have given it to me—but if I could check in and make sure she made it safely somewhere to spend the night, my worry-o-meter could take a break. The storm wasn’t even close to the worst I’ve seen, but driving in rain like that is dangerous—especially in a junker that probably has bald tires.

Is she okay?

A text pings, and I jump for my phone, hopeful it’s her, which is ridiculous because she doesn’t know my number.

I’m right. It’s Peggy, letting me know none of the parents can help out on Friday. The news is disappointing. I want to take the kids out for a sail, but I need another pair of eyes and hands to look after them while I’m maneuvering the boat. I hate disappointing them, especially when I won’t be back for months.

My gaze catches on a dark lump underneath the table. Crouching down, I pull out the item. Jackie’s backpack. Shit! Doesn’t she need this? It’s small, but it’s zipped up tight, so no peeking unless I purposely open it and have a look. What if her phone’s in there? Her ID and credit cards? Crucial items she’s going to need.

Convincing myself my motivation is to be helpful, I slowly pull the tab, and the zipper’s teeth give way. Jackie’s fragrance hits me seconds before I’m staring into a jumble of feminine fabric. Light colors, delicate material, soft to the touch. The thought of sinking my hand in seems pervy as hell, so I open and rummage around in a front pocket instead, where I hit pay dirt. My hand closes around a card holder, which I pluck out. When I open it, my suspicion is confirmed—a few credit and assorted other kinds of cards and a photo ID I only glance at long enough to confirm it’s hers. I’m tempted to check height and weight but refrain. See? I have self-control. The fact that it’s from California and she’s my age doesn’t escape me, though. Photographic memory, remember?

No matter where the license is from or how old she is, she’s out there driving around without it. That’s bad.

More exploring doesn’t uncover a phone, so I stuff the card holder back in its place and zip the pocket closed. Turning my head to the side, I plunge my hand into the cloud of clothing. Is it weird that every time a puff of her scent is released, I inhale it?

My fingers brush against silk and lace, and I’m tempted for a nanosecond to extract it and take a closer look.

You’re looking for a phone. This does not feel like a phone.

No, it feels a hell of a lot better.

I applaud myself for resisting and move on, finally giving up and closing the pack.

Before I know it, my jacket and truck keys are in hand, her backpack’s slung over my shoulder, and I’m heading to the parking lot. Atlantic Beach is only eight miles away—if that’s where she’s going—and if I cruise by, I might spot her Jeep.

Maybe I’m being a dumbass, but I have a legit reason. She needs the contents of her backpack, and I want to help get it to her, though I’m not normally a guy with a hero complex.

As I fire up my truck, I question what the hell I’m doing. I don’t even want to contemplate the real reason why. I crowd out the voice telling me I might not be as motivated if the owner of the backpack wasn’t a curvy five-two with eyes the color of spring leaves and attitude with a capital A.

Chapter 8

First Mate

Jackie

A few miles from the dock, it occurs to me I have no clue where I’m going, and I haven’t seen a single sign for a hotel or motel—or maybe they’ve been zinging past and I wasn’t paying attention. I pull the Jeep over and look up at the glaring sky. The rain has lightened up, but it’s getting dark and I need to find a place to spend the night. Instead of driving around an area I’ve never been before, I do the only smart thing I’ve done all day and pull out my phone to search for a motel. The perfect one pops up. It’s close to Atlantic Beach, and it’s in my price range.

I dial the number and reach the reservation desk. They have one room left at the cheapo price, and I nearly jump for joy until I look around and realize I don’t see my backpack. Panic surges inside me. Fortunately, I know my credit card number by heart, so I rattle it off. But they’re going to ask to see it when I arrive. That and my driver’s license.

I end the call and duck under the seats. The Jeep doesn’t have many hidey-holes for a backpack, and I scour each and every potential one.

When did I have it last? The answer hits me like a crashing wave, and I know exactly where I left it. Damn it!

Cursing my stupid brain, I make a U-turn and speed back toward the dock. When I discovered the truth about Royal, I asked why he picked on me. He laughed and said that while I might have OCD when it comes to spreadsheets, I can’t keep track of my possessions, much less the shell game he was playing. He was wrong, of course. I suspected what he was up to; I didn’t want to believe it was happening, so I ignored the warning signs.

It crushes me to think there was an iota of truth in his assessment, yet I can’t deny it’s true as I’m racing through the streets hoping Colby Chase didn’t throw my backpack overboard. But the worst part? I’m going to have to admit to yet another human being that I’m a failure.