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  into posing for a “tasteful” nude show at her art gallery.

  The woman needed her hormone levels checked.

  “I’m just out for a walk,” Lucille said innocently.

  Innocent, his ass.

  “My doctor says I’ve gotta put in a few thousand steps a day minimum.” She waved her cell phone. “It’s an app.”

  “Good,” he said, “because for a minute there I thought you were taking a picture.”

  “Of you shirtless?” she asked guilelessly. “On the open street that’s free public domain? Would I do that?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And then you’d put it up on Pinterest or anywhere you’re not banned.”

  “Tumblr,” she said. “I’m at Tumblr now. They don’t have a stick up their ass about tasteful art the way Facebook does.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, and awkwardly—and painfully—yanked a sweatshirt over his head. Then he shoved his feet into another pair of running shoes. It was bad enough that he’d just gotten himself three to four days of leave for being a pussy. He didn’t need to extend the leave by getting sick on top of it.

  “Going running or something?” Lucille asked.

  He just gave her a long look.

  She raised a hand in supplication. As if. “Fine,” she said. “None of my business. Moving on. But remember, call me if you and your fellow hotties change your minds about a show at my gallery. You and Tanner are the last hot single guys in town. That warrants a show, you know. It’s practically a public service.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Chapter 6

  After leaving the boat, Olivia went straight for the old warehouse that was her current home, moving fast. She had a feeling that Cole was going to come after her in some misguided attempt to help her get into her place without a key, and she didn’t want that.

  Correction. She wasn’t ready for that.

  And she couldn’t even explain why; not to him, not to herself.

  Halfway there a call had her phone vibrating in her pocket.

  Her mother.

  Hard to say why Olivia answered. Maybe she was just sick of the badgering about doing a retro show and wanted to get the fight over with. But there was also the daughter in her that needed to be sure everything was okay, especially since there’d been plenty of times when things hadn’t been. Such as last year when Tamilyn had wrapped her car around a pole after one too many drinks.

  She’d walked away from that accident with a DUI and a leg cast, which had given Tamilyn yet another excuse to play the victim. But Olivia had been in touch with the doctors herself and knew that no matter what Tamilyn wanted people to believe, she was fully recovered. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Finally, Sharlyn. My leg’s killing me and you’re taking your damn time picking up the phone. You’ve gotten my texts?”

  “Olivia,” she said, as she’d had to for years now. “You know I go by Olivia now.”

  “I like Sharlyn better. It’s my favorite name. As a baby having a baby, it was the only thing I could give you.”

  How about loving her for who she was instead of what she was worth? “We’ve been through this,” Olivia said. “I needed the change.”

  “You mean you wanted to get away from the paparazzi and the life.”

  The life being the craziness, and yeah. Especially since it’d been of her own making. Fact was, she’d been a Hollywood has-been before she’d even been legal. That she’d stayed in the public eye past that time had been due to—as her mom called it—living the life. Aka, being stupid. “How are you doing?”

  “You know how I am,” Tamilyn said. “So broke I can’t even pay attention.”

  This was nothing new. Her mom had always been terrible with money, always looking for the next get-rich-quick scheme. She’d lucked out once and only once, and that had been the day that she’d heard about the open casting call in Lexington, Kentucky, where she’d been a housekeeper on a horse farm. A director had been looking for an “adorable young girl” for a commercial, and Jolyn had begged and begged to go audition.

  Olivia had been dragged along. She could still remember being on the floor reading in a corner when the casting director had noticed her.

  The next thing she knew, she’d filmed a commercial that had gone national.

  Jolyn still hadn’t forgiven her for that.

  Or for all that came after. Not Again, Hailey! had catapulted them to Hollywood and changed their world, a world that then depended on Olivia.

  “Doing this retro show won’t change your life,” Tamilyn said, “but it’ll change mine. I need a girly surgery.”

  “Save it, Mom. Jolyn already told me you want another boob job.”

  “Well, damn it, they don’t stay perky forever. You’ll see.”

  “If you need money for living expenses, I can help you a little bit,” Olivia said.

  “Oh, no. I’m not a charity case. I just want what’s mine. A fair cut as your manager, is all. Do the damn show. It’s one day of filming. TV Land can start rerunning the series, and we’ll be rolling in the royalties, and you can go back to hiding beneath a rock in Lucky Rock.”

  “Lucky Harbor.” And she wasn’t hiding. She was living. “It isn’t just one day, Mom. If I do this, we both know the drill. TV Land’s going to want a full-blown reunion show, and TV Guide’s gonna want to do a big deal on it, and…” And people here would realize who she was, and then she’d cease to be Olivia. She’d go back to being Sharlyn Peterson, a washed-up child star, complete with the humiliating public shenanigans.

  Okay, maybe she was hiding just a little bit. “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  “Well, think fast. Jolyn’s talking of heading out there to see you.”

  Olivia’s gut hit her toes. “Tell her no. I’ll call.”

  “Soon?”

  “Yes. But right now I’ve got to get to work.” Olivia cut off the call and the usual wave of guilt rolled over her.

  Damn it. She so didn’t want to do the retrospective show. She liked her life just as it was right now.

  Crossing the alley from the docks and beach, she came to the warehouse building she lived in. Once upon a time, it’d been a cannery, and then a saltwater taffy manufacturer, and then an arcade. Sometime in the past thirty years it’d been divided into three apartments.

  Three poorly renovated, barely insulated, not-easily-heated apartments.

  But there were bonuses. The ocean-facing wall was floor-to-ceiling windows that, yes, let in the cold wind, but also let in the glorious view and made her feel like…herself, just a woman who owned a vintage shop and lived as simply as she could here in sweet, quirky Lucky Harbor.

  Olivia entered the building and stopped in the hallway at her front door. She occupied the middle unit. No one lived in the far right one. Her neighbor on the left was Becca Thorpe, soon to be Becca Brody, once sexy boatbuilder Sam Brody got her down the aisle.

  “Not the sharpest tool in the shed today,” she said to herself. Because she hadn’t hidden a key in case of idiocy—such as losing her keys rescuing a hot guy who didn’t need rescuing. She sighed loudly.

  A woman peeked out from the third and supposedly empty apartment. She was in yoga pants and a large sweatshirt, covered in dust from her strawberry-blond hair, which was piled on top of her head—although much of it had escaped its confines—to her battered tennis shoes. “Excuse me,” she said to Olivia, “but are you talking to me?”

  “No,” Olivia said. “I’m talking to myself.”

  The woman smiled. “Gotcha. Carry on. Oh, and I’m Callie Sharpe. I’m moving in this weekend and just checking the place out. The walls are pretty thin.”

  “No insulation,” Olivia said.

  “Well then, I’ll try to keep the wild parties to a minimum. You going to tell me your name, or should we just stick with Not the Sharpest Tool in the Shed?”

  “Olivia.” She didn’t give a last name. She didn’t like new people. Hell, she barely liked old people. />
  “Nice to meet you, Olivia,” Callie said, and like a good neighbor, she vanished back inside without asking a bunch of questions.

  Huh. Maybe Olivia would like her after all. She looked at her front door. Still locked. She eyeballed Becca’s door, blew out a breath, and headed over there, knocking softly.

  God, she really hated needing help.

  Becca didn’t answer at first and Olivia was debating her options—either go around to the back and break in through one of her windows or walk into town in Cole’s big-ass shoes and break into her store—when Becca opened her front door.

  She wore a man’s T-shirt that said LUCKY HARBOR CHARTERS on one breast and, near as Olivia could tell, little else except a dreamy smile.

  Dollars to doughnuts it was Sam’s T-shirt. No doubt he’d been in Becca’s bed directly before he’d arrived at the boat and was solely responsible for her dreamy smile, her mussed hair, and the whisker burns along her throat.

  It wasn’t envy that shot through Olivia, or so she told herself. But it was sure hard not to be at least a little wistful.

  It’d been a damn long time since she’d had whisker burns.

  “Hey,” Becca said, and rubbed the heel of her hand over an eye as if trying to wake up. “You okay?”

  Becca was a jingle writer, the local music teacher, and the only person Olivia knew who was newer to Lucky Harbor than herself. Becca was sweet and kind and unassuming, and at first Olivia had been suspicious of her because she didn’t think anyone could really be so nice.

  That was the city rat in her.

  And the bitch.

  But Becca had proven to be genuine, and they’d become friends as Becca had acclimated to Lucky Harbor. And yeah, acclimation was required. It was hard to believe a place with cozy, inviting Victorian architecture and a majestic mountain backdrop—a town that resembled a postcard picture—could actually exist.

  But so far, it was living up to the promise. “I lost my key,” Olivia admitted reluctantly. “Any ideas?”

  “I’m a pretty good lock picker,” Becca said. “Let me go get my tools.”

  Olivia was impressed. “You’ve got lock picking tools?”

  “Bobby pins. Give me a sec, I also need something else.”

  “What?”

  Becca blushed and tugged on the hem of the tee. “Panties,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, well, feel free to add a pair of pants to go with,” Olivia called after her.

  Two minutes later, Becca was back and they were standing at Olivia’s door. Tongue between her teeth, Becca concentrated on breaking and entering.

  “I appreciate this,” Olivia said.

  “You should, as I’m trying really hard to mind my own business. I know you’re really private, and also that you can totally kick my ass, but…well, let’s be honest, I’m dying of curiosity here. And also, I’m so not good at minding my own business.”

  No kidding. “I appreciate it, it’s sweet of you,” Olivia said. She was watching the hall and starting to sweat, getting nervous that this was taking so long. “Not to kick a gift horse in the mouth, or jeopardize the minding-your-own-business thing, but any chance we could speed this process up?”

  Becca slid her gaze up, eyes sly. “Maybe.”

  “Did I say you were sweet?”

  “Sweet’s overrated. Spill. I want to know why your hair looks like you just went for a sea salt bath and you’re wearing men’s clothing.”

  Olivia slid another look down the hallway—and thank you sweet baby Jesus, it was still empty. “How about I give you a rain check on the explanation?”

  “Pinkie swear.”

  “What?”

  Becca thrust out her hand, pinkie first. “Pinkie swear you’ll tell me later.”

  Olivia stared down at Becca’s proffered pinkie. “Seriously?”

  “Yes or no?”

  Olivia sighed and wrapped her pinkie around Becca’s. “Pinkie swear.”

  Thirty seconds later, Becca clicked the lock open on Olivia’s apartment just as the door to the building opened at the end of the hall.

  Olivia considered diving into her apartment and locking the door.

  But Becca, definitely not-so-sweet, and most definitely ever-so-smart, subtly shifted, blocking Olivia’s escape route as she waved at Cole. “Would you look at that,” she said beneath her breath to Olivia. “He’s got wet hair, too. And—he’s injured?” She called out to him, “What happened? You okay?”

  “Yep,” Cole said, and locked eyes on Olivia for a beat before smiling at Becca. And for the record, it was a very different smile than anything he’d ever given Olivia. It was an easy, familiar, genuinely affectionate smile, the same he’d used when he’d spoken of his sisters.

  “You’ve got a knot on your temple,” Becca told him. “And you’re wearing a sling. Last night we were singing at the piano at the Love Shack and all was well. What happened between then and now?”

  Cole tugged on a strand of Becca’s wild and crazy bedhead hair. “Nothing. I’m really fine.”

  “Uh-huh.” Becca divided a look between Olivia and Cole, but Olivia had been born with secrets and knew how to hold ’em. Apparently Cole had the same skill.

  “You pinkie swore,” Becca said to Olivia. “Remember that.”

  “Hey,” Cole said, head cocked. “Becca, is that your phone ringing?”

  “Oh! Maybe, yes, thank you!” She vanished into her apartment.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Olivia said into the silence.

  He smiled. “Me either.” He nodded to Olivia’s apartment, which was standing open. “You got in.”

  “Told you I could.”

  His warm blue eyes met hers. “Just wanted to make sure, since it was my fault you took an unplanned swim.”

  Nice of him to say so, but they both knew she’d reacted without thinking, and that if she’d only paused to observe for even a heartbeat, she’d have realized he was fine and not in danger.

  “I can feel the cold draft coming out of your place,” he said. “Is your heater broken?”

  “No,” she said ruefully. “Just my budget for the month.”

  He nodded like he understood. “So…you’re okay? You warmed up enough?”

  “I’m better off than you.” She gestured to his shoulder. “Sling?”

  “An old injury,” he said casually.

  He was good, but she was better. “You hurt yourself in the water,” she accused, guilt slicing through her. “You said you didn’t.”

  His eyes met hers. “And you said you were late.”

  “I am. I’m late getting to the shop. I’ve got a lot to do today.” And yet she stood there, not moving, oddly reluctant to walk inside and shut the door.

  “I keep hearing the faintest whisper of an accent,” he said, eyes locked on her mouth. “Texas?”

  “Kentucky,” she admitted, a surprise to herself. Why had she told him that?

  He smiled. “I like it. You grew up there?”

  “Sort of. On a horse farm.” It was what her bio said, that Sharlyn Peterson had grown up on a horse farm in Kentucky, and everyone knew that a bio was always true. And besides, her grandparents had worked on a horse farm, and so had Tamilyn. Six degrees and all that.

  “You ride?” Cole asked.

  “No, that was my grandpa mostly.” Another sort of truth. He’d worked in the stables, but he’d been a rider at heart. He’d definitely had the touch with the fillies.