Worth the Risk
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Anna J. Stewart
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CHAPTER ONE
HOW WAS IT, after nearly two years of living in the small town of Butterfly Harbor, California, Alethea Costas could still get lost?
The tires on Flutterby Wheels ground through the dirt and gravel of the unfamiliar winding road. She eased her foot off the gas, and slowed, her heart rate increasing as she realized she had absolutely no idea where she was.
She pulled the food truck over and stopped beneath a thick grove of eucalyptus and redwoods and sat back with a heavy sigh. “This is just ridiculous.” It wasn’t like she couldn’t find her way back to town. All roads inevitably led there. It just irritated her how easily this had happened.
She reached up and tugged her ponytail tighter on top of her head, trying to shake loose the nerves that descended whenever she took a wrong turn in life. Okay, get a grip. This wasn’t a complete disaster. At least she’d gotten lost at the end of her deliveries and after she’d served the lunch rush at the butterfly sanctuary construction site this time.
Even if she was still on the clock, Chef Jason Corwin wasn’t going to fire her. She’d made herself indispensable to her boss, especially now that Jason and his wife, Abby, had welcomed their baby boy. Little David Corwin, named after Jason’s late twin brother, was proving to be a colic-prone handful and giving his parents a lot of sleepless nights.
On the bright side, the baby’s arrival had given Alethea the chance to step up and prove herself. So far she’d been able to handle anything Jason had thrown at her, which left her boss to deal primarily with his restaurant at the Flutterby Inn. That could all change, however, if Jason decided the business plan for expansion, which Alethea had presented to him a few weeks before, moved forward.
Nerves of an entirely different kind fluttered to life. He had yet to respond to her proposal and sure, he’d had a lot on his mind and she definitely hadn’t wanted to push, but they needed to strike now if they were going to locally expand Jason’s brand and his offerings to a ravenous customer base.
She loved the hard work, the distracting work. The work that at times exhausted her to the point of oblivion and the need to think. Plus the overtime meant she’d just about saved enough money to finally move out of her brother and sister-in-law’s place. With Xander and Calliope expecting their first child later this year and with Calliope’s little sister living in the stone cottage on Duskywing Farm, things were getting quite cramped.
It was time, Alethea told herself, to move beyond the pain of what had brought her to Butterfly Harbor in the first place and begin again.
All she needed to do was get out of her own way.
“Easier said than done,” she muttered and squinting into the late afternoon sun, leaned over the steering wheel and attempted to get her bearings. Her cell phone was stuck in perpetual search mode which meant she’d ended up in one of Butterfly Harbor’s infamous dead zones. No surprise considering the dense trees growing up and around her. Her adopted town was known for its out-of-the-way areas, well off the beaten track, and hidey-holes far removed from anything resembling busy intersections and bustling crowds.
“Makes perfect sense I’d find this spot.” Alethea tried to sound upbeat. “Okay, let’s turn this puppy around and find our way home.” With the engine rumbling again, she hit the gas and turned the wheel. Only to hear a heart-dropping double pop a second later.
Her foot came up slowly. The truck drifted to a stop. She held her breath. Nothing happened. Until the back of the vehicle lurched, sagged and slowly sank down and back.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, fumbling with her seat belt, then, slid open the door to drop to the ground. She hurried around to the back of the truck. “No, no, no.” She stood there, staring unblinkingly at the driver’s side dual rear tires. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me,” she accused the universe at large. She knew how to change out a flat. On her own car. But she couldn’t manage alone on this behemoth of a truck.
She took a long, deep breath. Nothing else she could do except find a signal for her cell phone, call Cal Mopton and pray he’d chosen today to actually come into the only garage and mechanic service Butterfly Harbor had to offer.
She jumped back into the truck and grabbed a light sweatshirt to tug on over her tie-dyed pink Flutterby Dreams T-shirt and jeans. Better safe than sorry. Even in mid-August, West Coast weather could be unpredictable, especially these days.
At least she was out in the middle of nowhere and didn’t have to worry about blocking any traffic. The road was wide enough to get around the truck if any cars came by and judging by the state of the road, that hadn’t happened in ages. She locked up Flutterby Wheels, took one last sorrowful look at her cell screen, then, turned and headed up the winding road.
Fifteen minutes later the road dead-ended. The shrubbery and trees had gotten thick enough that the sun could barely peek through. “Xander is never going to let me live this one down.” Her brother was always making fun of her lack of direction. The older she got, the less funny she found it. Her learning curve on this subject was about as steep as an anthill.
She checked her watch. She wasn’t due home for dinner for another few hours, so no one would miss her before then. Alethea caught sight of her truck in the distance and hurried forward. Her foot caught on a tree root and sent her sprawling, facefirst, onto the ground. Her phone flew out of her hand. Her chin knocked hard against the earth. The sigh that erupted this time sounded more like a groan of frustration. She rolled onto her back, lying there, mortified, her chin throbbing, and stared up into the sky beyond the swaying treetops.
Someone up there, and she knew exactly who the someone would be, was definitely laughing at her. Talia. Tears that should have dried up ages ago burned in her throat. Alethea’s vision blurred as grief escaped her control. Sometimes she missed her best friend so much she ached.
When she shoved herself up, she found leaves and debris caught in her ponytail and coating her shirt and sweatshirt. She grabbed her phone, stood and brushed herself off just as she heard the sound of an engine rumbling nearby. Alethea watched as up ahead, a delivery truck emerged from a thicket of trees so dense, it all but obscured the worn makeshift gravel road.
“Wait!” She raced forward, only to trip once again, although this time she stayed on her feet. By the time she caught her balance, the delivery truck was already heading down the hill and rumbling out of sight. She planted her hands on her hips and blew out a frustrated breath. “Clearly today is not the day to buy a lottery ticket.”
Still, where there was a delivery, there was an address—an occupied address. She checked her cell phone one more time, then, when no bars appeared, watched where she stepped as she headed down the hill. She ducked into the cover of the trees, feeling a bit like she’d stepped into a storybook when, at the far end of the property, she spotted the house.
No wonder she’d missed it on her way up the hill. With the overgrown foliage, the area was as gloomy, dreary and sun-starved back here as the road she’d just come up. But that house...there was something other than the possibility of a phone that drew her closer.
Weeds and shrubs looked desperately thirsty as she crunched her way through the overgrown and neglected grass. It was such a shame, she thought, as she reached the musty pebbled path at the end of the flora. She brushed off burs and clinging dandelion puffs and sent them soaring into the air. This house, like so many others in town, was filled with potential and yet caught in time accentuated by neglect.
There was no sign of a car and, judging by the boxes stacked on the front porch, the occupant probably wasn’t home.
The wraparound porch seemed oddly detached from the rest of the derelict area with a surprising bloom of healthy wisteria accenting the weathered white paint. The comforting roar of the ocean beckoned her forward, as if confirming she was safe.
The ocean, this town, had yet to steer her wrong. If she’d found this place, there was a reason and, even as she stepped up onto the creaky porch and found the door slightly ajar, cautious hope bloomed inside her.
She knocked, winced at the stark sound echoing through the silence. “Hello?” Hesitant but determined, Alethea took a solitary step inside, listening for a response or some sign of life. It would be easy enough to explain her presence here and even as she told herself to hurry, she couldn’t help but let her curiosity about the place take over.
The wood floors were worn, stained and slightly warped. The flowered-and-striped paper covering the walls had turned yellow with age and sagged in spots, as if the house had given up. The staircase spindles on the steps leading to the second level were delicately turned and stained a dark brown to match the floors. The air was coated with the smell of dust, age and more than a recent hint of coffee and...was that chocolate? Her stomach rumbled.
“I’m not here to break in!” she called again and winced as her voice echoed back at her. “I just need a...phone.” She spotted one on an old-fashioned stand at the base of the stairs. The cordless was probably older than she was, but when she picked it up and got a dial tone, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
After accessing her cell’s contact list, she called Cal Mopton’s garage number. One ring. Four. Nine. When the voice mail picked up, she left a short message, but any hope she had of help from the town’s only mechanic vanished. Hovering near defeat, she scrolled for another number and dialed. “Hi, Luke. It’s Alethea.” She plowed in before the town’s sheriff had a chance to answer. “I hate to do this to you, but Cal isn’t at his garage and the food truck blew both back left tires. There are spares at the inn by the back loading area. But I can’t come get them and I can’t change them out myself.”
“Not a problem,” Luke’s usually calm tone managed to soothe some of her nerves. “I’ve got Matt and Fletcher both here. I’ll grab one of them and the tires and head up your way. Where are you?”
“Um.” She cringed again. “Hang on.” She cupped the phone against her shoulder and glanced out the grimy window. “I honestly have no idea. If you know of some dead-end road at the top of a hill—wait. Hang on.” She ducked down and opened the tiny cabinet door, rifled through it. “There’s a phone book here.” The spine cracked when she opened it. “Howser? I can’t read the first name.”
“The old Howser... Alethea? How did you end up all the way up there?”
“Talent?” For being an only child, Luke had mastered the irritated big brother tone. “I’ll wait for you at the truck.”
“Give us about a half hour.”
Relieved, Alethea hung up, set the address book back in its spot and quickly left the house. At least she wouldn’t be caught trespassing. Inside at least. She left the door as she’d found it.
She stepped off the porch and froze. She’d been hanging out with Jo and Kendall too long. She could swear she heard the whir of an electric drill. She walked to the edge of the porch, spotted the weathered oversize workshop shed that was bigger than the house. As she moved closer, music beat from inside, almost in tempo to the pulse of the power tools.
She curled her toes against the desire to explore further. She should just leave before anyone realized she’d been here. It wasn’t the polite thing to do, especially now that she knew someone was actually here. And, well, there were few things in life that entertained her as much as a mystery or a surprise. And this house, this place and its invisible resident, was both.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” The worst was she’d get thrown off the property for trespassing. The best? She’d make a new friend and Alethea was the kind of woman who could never have enough friends.
Moving across the large front yard was an adventure in tetanus avoidance. The property was a mess, from the overgrown yard to the tarp-covered something that had probably been a car in a previous life. Junk and debris, from car parts to plywood scraps, had piled up to the point of merging into an unidentifiable blob. Add in some nuclear waste and it would probably form into a comic book super villain.
The whirring continued, this time accompanying an energetic, male and very off-key declaration to “shake it off.” Stifling a laugh, she approached the door and poked her head just inside.
A dark figure dropped straight down like a giant spider splayed on an industrial metal web.
Alethea yelped and jumped back. She’d have landed right on her butt if a large, rough hand hadn’t reached out and caught hers. Rather than steadying her, she found herself yanked forward and into the solid embrace of her caterwauling mystery man.
“Oh, wow.” She grabbed hold of his shoulders as he swayed, feet dangling a good few feet off the ground, at the end of a harness and pullied rope. His hold on her was steady, sturdy, and, as he shifted his grip, seemed to be sending tiny little shock waves rocketing through her system. She blinked, clearing the surprise from her eyes, and drew him into focus.
Long, shoulder-length, dark blond hair. A good three days’ growth of beard covering what she suspected was a stone-carved jaw. His gray eyes reminded her of a summer storm, with lightning bolt sparks of amusement curving his full lips into an entertained smile. “Wow.” She said again as the flush warmed her face.
“Sorry to scare you.” He released her, reached down to unhook himself from the rope and still hung on to it while he lowered his feet to the ground. “Lost my hold on the rope. You all right?”
“I’m fine.” She stepped back, tucked an invisible curl behind her ear and shoved her suddenly shaky hands into her pockets. His voice carried a hint of the South and coated her roughened heart like smooth molasses. She took a deep breath and wondered when the combination of leather, sawdust and sweat had become appealing? “I called out from the house.” She had to shout over the music. “But I guess you didn’t hear me.” She inclined her chin toward the Bluetooth speaker that continued to blare. “Nice music.”
He tapped his watch and the music stopped. “I get easily sucked in.” He unholstered his drill from his waistband as if it were a sidearm and blew on the bit, set it on a nearby crate. “But the job’s nearly done. What do you think?”
“About what?” She blinked again. Had she missed their introductions?
“That.” He pointed behind her and when she turned away from the miasma of tools and yet another hodgepodge of debris and what she assumed was discarded junk, she found half of the east wall covered in plywood and what looked like dozens of handles in varying sizes, colors and shapes. The fact the man continued to dangle from a rope that extended down from the rafters didn’t seem to phase him one bit.
Alethea looked up the length of the wall. “It’s a rock climbing wall.” The boards reached all the way to the roofline, a good twenty feet off the ground. Her head spun at the thought. “A really big one.”
“It is indeed.” His grin had her swallowing hard. Good-looking men didn’t normally throw her; half the time she was too busy to notice or care, but this man...whew. He could stop traffic with that smile of his. “I’ve predrilled holes so I can readjust the climbing holds when it gets too easy. Need to keep it challenging. Want to give it a try?”
“Not particularly.” Personally, Alethea had never really seen the point of rock climbing inside. Not that she understood the appeal of climbing outside. Both seemed unnecessarily risky to her. “I’m sorry to intrude. My food truck blew two tires and I needed a phone to call for help. My cell doesn’t work up here.”
“Food truck?” His eyebrows arched and disappeared beneath the smooth hair that swept over his eyes. “What brings you up to my little corner of the world?”
Hearing echoes of her conversation with the local sheriff, Alethea kept her sigh to herself. “I took a wrong turn.”
“Must be my lucky day, then.”
Alethea found herself locked into that million-watt smile of his. Either she was seriously out of touch or he was flirting with her.
If he found her silence to be a deterrent, it didn’t show. He lowered himself to the ground and, after a moment, found his footing before he sat on a nearby stool. “At least if you’d gotten stranded out here you wouldn’t have starved.” He unbuckled himself from the line and cast it away. “There’s a phone in the house. You’re welcome to—”
“I already used it.” She grimaced at his raised brow. “Sorry. I saw the door was open and didn’t want to...”
He waved her off, grabbed a bottle of water and slugged half of it down. “Don’t worry about it. Glad I could help. I’m Declan, by the way.” He set the water down, offered the same hand he’d caught her in before. “Declan Cartwright. And my mama and sisters always taught me to help a lady in distress.”
Her eye twitched. She hadn’t been in distress. Exactly. “Alethea. Costas,” she said, adding her last name when his expression clearly asked for more information. “I should be heading back to my truck. The sheriff’s coming up to help me change the tires so...thanks for the unwitting assist.” He got to his feet as she turned to leave. It took that long for his name to sink in. “Declan Cartwright.” She spun around as he reached for the telescopic walking stick he tucked around his arm. “But he’s...you’re—” Alethea trailed off as he adjusted the cane’s cuff around the back of his arm, grasped the handle. “I thought I heard—”
“I’m not dead.” That smile of his dimmed. “Should be from what the doctors said. A testament to modern medicine but if you ask my sisters, it’s due to a stubborn streak that only a baby brother can have.”
Declan Cartwright. One of the most successful race car drivers of the past decade. If it had an engine and a steering wheel, he could drive it. And drive it fast. And fast was not limited to the racetrack. The man had a reputation for collecting girlfriends like she collected recipes. At least he’d had that reputation until last year. He’d not only crashed shortly after the start of the first race of the season, he’d left the entire world wondering if he’d be extricated from the wreck alive. Even nonracing fans like herself had been glued to social media waiting for word of his condition, only to have him fade from the headlines when it became clear his future in the sport was over.
She repressed a shudder. The video of the crash had gone viral. Rumor had it Vegas had been laying odds on his chance for survival. When even Vegas bets against you, your future is seriously in doubt. “What are you doing in Butterfly Harbor?”
“Recovering.” He lifted his cane off the ground. “Don’t let this fool you. It’s more for mental security than physical stability. I’ll walk you out.”
She was already scrambling for an excuse. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have—”
“I’ll walk you out.” It was like watching a snowstorm freeze everything in its path as he moved past her. That tone left no room for argument and it wasn’t one she felt comfortable challenging. His limp was barely noticeable, but after a year, it was evident his extensive injuries were still just that.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she joined him outside. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it.” And just like that, his welcoming expression was back in place. “I’ve been alone up here for too long. Clearly I’ve forgotten how to interact with people.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A couple of weeks. I’m only staying until I can go back on the circuit.”
“You’re going back?” Shocked, Alethea stopped walking. Arms crossed over her chest, she balked. “To driving? After what happened to you? But you almost died.”
“The key word is almost.” He pivoted, far more elegantly than she would have anticipated.
He was a beautifully made man and while he displayed the telltale signs of a significant weight loss, there was a surprising, healthy quality about him.
“I’m still here,” Declan continued. “Which means I have a second chance. I don’t plan on wasting it.”
Wasting it would be tempting fate and possibly getting himself killed. Alethea bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t any of her business if the man wanted to squander all the possibilities a second chance brought with it. Second chances were a rare thing. Most people who deserved them didn’t get them. Clearly he was grateful for his, but that wouldn’t stop her from thinking he was dead wrong about what he was going to do with it.
They were standing in front of the house now and here, in the late afternoon sun of a perfect California summer’s day, she could see what had made Declan Cartwright such a success both on and off the track. Charisma and affability aside, and he had truckloads of both, his entire presence was charged, like a force field he could flip on and off. She could only imagine what the Butterfly Harbor rumor mill was going to do with and about him once word leaked out who was living in their midst. And it would leak out. It was only a matter of time.
“It was nice to meet you.” She didn’t offer her hand. Instead, she tightened her hold on her waist and squeezed harder. “Thank you again for the assist.”
He leaned on his cane and tilted his head, that glorious hair of his falling rakishly over one eye. “Feel free to fall into my arms at any time.”
She would not blush. She would not... Her cheeks went bonfire hot.
She forced herself to keep her eyes front and center as she moved through the weeds and overgrown grass, to not look back. But she could feel his eyes on her. Incredible eyes. Deep. Teasing. Entrancing. Ridiculous, she told herself. She didn’t understand daredevils, risk-takers who dived in headfirst for nothing more than the thrill. But her reticence didn’t stop the pressure from building inside her, like a balloon of attraction being inflated by the desire to see those eyes again.
She surrendered, and glanced over her shoulder.
He grinned, as if he’d been waiting for her to do just that, then, waved and made his way up the porch steps.
THE LAST THING Declan had expected to deal with today was an armful of feminine temptation.
Clearly his time in Butterfly Harbor was looking up to be more entertaining than expected.
Humming on his way into the house, he made a mental note to retrieve his deliveries after he’d brewed a new batch of iced tea. He’d need the caffeine boost to return the latest round of text messages from his sisters. One of the good things about spotty cell reception up here—he had an excuse as to why he wasn’t getting their calls.
The soreness in his muscles began to settle in. He’d overdone it again. He’d been lectured by his PTs and his doctors about the hazards of doing too much too soon, but after almost a year...
There was no too soon. No matter how much his body pushed back.
As long as he was in this forced holding pattern, he was going to keep going, even if he paid for it at night.
He’d wanted to accomplish something of substance while he was here, although his definition of substance probably differed from most other people’s. He’d wanted to get the climbing wall finished so he could start his new workout routine. Building up his upper body strength as well as his dexterity with his legs was going to get him into better shape for when he met with a specialist in a few weeks. He needed off the cane, off the meds and back on his own two feet. It was the only way he was going to get to where he belonged: behind the wheel.
Driving, and only driving would make him feel whole again. And he was darn tired of feeling like half himself.
Not that a pretty woman wouldn’t help motivate him along the way.
He had some time to qualify for the season finale race. Some, but not a lot. Hopefully enough to leave the last year and a half completely in the rearview mirror for good and move forward. He had team members, family members and his own future riding on a return. Failure was definitely not an option.
He flexed his stiff hands. It would just take more work but work and Declan were old friends.
While he’d leased the place for three months, his plan had been to be here a week, maybe two. But waiting for an appointment with one of the best thoracic surgeons in the country meant waiting on the doctor’s schedule and for the last month and a half, that doctor was making her way home to San Francisco through Africa where she was visiting various medical clinics to offer her expertise.
An appointment could come tomorrow, or it could come next week or even next month. And while there were other doctors he could see in the meantime, Dr. Yvonne Kenemen’s word was gold. If he got her approval to return to racing, they’d have to let him back in. Whatever treatment she recommended, whatever he needed to do to pass her inspection, he was darn well going to get it done.
In the meantime, rather than going home to Illinois and dealing with his family and friends coddling and placating him, he’d called an old friend and asked for a recommendation on where he could recuperate in relative peace and wait.
Said accommodations also came with a warning about the interest his arrival in Butterfly Harbor would cause. According to his friend, they could ferret out new residents like a bloodhound after a deer. They could be just as tenacious when it came to uncovering and unearthing every little detail about new residents, which meant his solitary confinement was definitely over.
Gossip and small towns. He chuckled and shook his head. They were all the same. He’d spent a good deal of his early life dreaming of escaping the one he’d grown up in. When his father had died and his mother found a job just outside Chicago, their lives—and Declan’s world perspective—had changed. Ironic he’d chosen another small town to recuperate. And wait for his life to get back on track.
That said, if he’d known the welcoming committee would be anything like Alethea Costas, he might have been more eager to engage. He added sugar to the oversize mason jar, tasted, added a bit more, along with some lemon slices, then, feeling pretty secure that his left leg would support his weight, abandoned the walking stick and moved the jar into the fridge.
The strain had his hands shaking, but he pushed through, flexing his fingers even as he retrieved his stick and, after trudging to the door, his deliveries. His body definitely had its own ideas. He could go days at a stretch sometimes without a twinge of discomfort while other days it felt as if he’d been lit on fire from the inside. It was his legs that worried him the most. Mobility and agility were key to racing. Without those two things, his career, his life, would be over.
He opened the box that contained climbing gloves, a new harness, and collection of ropes and carabiners. The helmet had been in acquiescence to his oldest sister, Marcy’s, concern about him being determined to break his neck—one of the parts of him that hadn’t been damaged in the crash. Only after the threat of not one, or even two, but all of his sisters turning up on his doorstep had he surrendered and promised not only to order one, but to wear it.
One thing his sisters knew; if he promised something, he meant it. Not that he had a choice. He’d always been incapable of lying to them. Whatever tell he had, those six women knew if even the tiniest fib crossed his lips, and they refused to let him in on the secret.
The familiar pang of loneliness and a longing for his family struck quick, but he dismissed it with practiced ease. Long stretches on the road, traveling the circuit and earning his racing stripes had meant weeks, but more likely months went by before he saw his family. It was part of the grind, and one of the deals you make getting into the sport. His sending the emotion away didn’t mean he didn’t love them any less, only that he appreciated them even more when he did see them.
He’d definitely gotten his fill of sisterly protection and attention over the past year. Enough that he had stored up that appreciation to get him through multiple future racing seasons.
Picking up the second box—a new WiFi router and circuit board for his ancient laptop, he found himself looking back toward the path his visitor this afternoon had walked down.
Watching Alethea Costas stroll away from him was as close to a dream state as he’d let himself entertain in recent months and he’d definitely enjoyed the moment. Not to mention the view.
He’d wondered if those sparks he’d felt when he’d held her hand had been one-sided. One thing that hadn’t been damaged in the crash was his ego. He’d been this close to convinced she wasn’t interested until she looked back at him before she hurried out of sight.
Even from a distance, that blushing color on her cheeks would warm him on cold nights. Not that this part of California, a hop, skip, and a jump from Monterey, got particularly chilly. She didn’t wear a ring, but these days that didn’t mean anything. Although he felt pretty secure in believing she was on the single lady list. And didn’t that just make his entire day.
He was a man who appreciated faces and figures and hers were classic, curvy and downright stunning. Her thick, curling and slightly frizzy black hair had been caught back from her face and strewn with leaves and twigs. Her chin was scraped as if she’d had a tussle with the ground and lost. Her rainbow-bright T-shirt and worn jeans placed her somewhere between the girl next door and curvaceous Hollywood ingenue with star potential bursting beneath the surface.
But it was those eyes of hers—those ocean blue eyes flashing with distant recognition that, had he not been suspended from a rope hanging from the ceiling, he might have been knocked off his feet from the sight. She had layers, endless deep layers of complexity he wanted to peel back and uncover.
He wanted to memorize the image, but focused on being able to remember the feel of the rough skin of her hand that spoke of hard work. She’d gripped his hand so tightly, so perfectly, he hadn’t been in any rush to let go. Even now, his fingers tingled at the prospect of touching her again. It was a nice change from the pinprick tingles that had been excruciating when he’d first woken up in the hospital. Nerve damage, the doctors had said. Temporary, they’d hoped. There hadn’t been a part of him that didn’t hurt, even after two weeks in a coma.
Days like this, days that offered up an introduction to a woman like Alethea had him feeling even more lucky to be alive. Up until now all his time and effort had been spent pushing through his recovery, regaining his strength, mobility and dexterity and being in top form for whenever he met with Dr. K.
Now he could add another goal to his growing list: finding an excuse to see Alethea Costas again.
“YOU TWO ARE my heroes.” Alethea pushed off the hood of the sheriff’s SUV as Deputy Fletcher Bradley and Sheriff Luke Saxon tightened the final lug nut on the second replacement tire they’d brought with them. “Seriously, that probably would have cost me a fortune if Cal had answered his phone.”
“Won’t argue on that point.” Luke, rising to his full height, swiped a hand over his damp forehead. Grease smudges dotted the khaki uniform shirt he wore and coated his hands. “Cal’s gotten a little cost prohibitive with his repairs and service calls.”
“Man’s been running that service station longer than I’ve been alive,” Fletcher, a lifelong resident of Butterfly Harbor, agreed. Taller, lankier and more easygoing than his boss, Fletcher had a natural way of evoking smiles and cheery conversation. “Cal’s hoping if he prices himself out of business he can retire free and clear.”
“Yeah, well, no one’s going to buy his business if he’s lost all his customers,” Luke added. “It’s not the building people invest in—it’s the clientele. Not to mention the convenience and as much as I’m happy to help, the sheriff’s department isn’t set up for vehicular assistance on a long-term basis.”
“Personally I’m glad Cal didn’t answer,” Alethea declared. “And you guys get free lunch from the truck for a week. It’s the least I can do,” Alethea added at Luke’s coming protest.
“Is that offer transferable?” Fletcher asked with hope in his California-blue eyes when he looked at her. “I would love to get Paige out of the house with the baby if at all possible.”
“Absolutely.” She always had plenty of food left over after her lunch rush and the idea of seeing Fletcher and Paige’s new baby girl would be a bonus. “I’ll even toss in a few nights of Charlie-sitting if you two are so inclined.” Fletcher’s eleven-year-old stepdaughter was one of her favorite distractions and Alethea, having earned her share of big sister rights with a number of the kids in town, took every opportunity she could to spend time with the red-headed little sprite.
“You do know an evening with you creates more problems than it solves, right?” Fletcher gathered up their tools and stashed them in the back of the SUV. “Every time she hangs out with you she’s ready to become a chef. Our kitchen can’t survive another attempt at her learning to cook. Last time she set off the smoke alarm boiling pasta.”
“Sounds like she’s been taking lessons from her Aunt Abby, not me.” Alethea laughed. Her boss’s wife was notorious for her rather indelicate ineptitude in the culinary aspect of life and had earned the nickname Five Alarm Manning. Personally Alethea thought the woman’s kitchen ineptitude would make for an endlessly entertaining TV series or movie. “I’ll recruit Jo or Sienna to join us for a girls’ night,” Alethea volunteered. “Maybe expand Charlie’s interest in construction or event planning and invite some of her friends.” She made a mental note to put it on her to do list.
“Jo’s going to need a replacement herself pretty soon,” Luke said. “Ozzy said she’s about ready with that baby of hers.”
“Six weeks and counting,” Alethea confirmed, a bubble of excitement bursting inside her for her friends. Butterfly Harbor had attracted a lot of different people in recent years, herself included. Jo Bertoletti, who had quickly become the focus of firefighter Ozzy Lakeman’s affection, had been the most recent. She frowned. That wasn’t true anymore, was it?
“That reminds me, I need to call Holly.” Luke pulled out his phone, started to dial.
Alethea jumped on that statement. “Is Holly pregnant again?” He was a great husband and dad.
“What?” For a town sheriff, the man could sure pale in a panic. “No, my wife is not pregnant. At least, I don’t think...” His throat actually tightened to the point Alethea could see him swallow. For an instant he looked like he’d been caught in headlights. “I just need to touch base about the twins. I’m supposed to pick them up at the diner in about a half hour. Darn.” He lifted the phone, turned in a circle. “No signal.” He frowned at Alethea. “What magic phone do you have that you could call me?”
“Oh, um. There’s a phone at the Howser place.” She shrugged. “I used that one.”
“The old Howser place?” Fletcher slammed the back of the department’s SUV closed. “No one’s lived in that house for years.”
“New tenant,” Luke said a bit too absently. “Friend of mine leased it for a few months.”
Alethea started to respond, but realized Luke hadn’t elaborated or given any details. Any pleasure she might have gotten from sharing new gossip and information faded as she realized Declan Cartwright had come here to recover, not be the subject of town rumors and chitchat. “Since when?” Fletcher balked, his sun-kissed handsome face clouding with surprise. “Did it sell? I didn’t realize Gil put it on the market.”
“He didn’t. Not yet.” Luke still wasn’t looking either of them in the eye. “The renter’s a friend of a friend of mine and he needed a place to crash. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon. He’s a people person, so he’ll be starving for some societal interaction.” Now he looked at Alethea with a silent plea, asking her to back him up.
“Guy got a name?” Fletcher asked, clearly not fooled by the looks Alethea and Luke were exchanging.
“He does,” Alethea confirmed. Then pressed her lips into a tight line and smiled.
“Riiiight.” Fletcher sighed. “Guess I’ll just have to wait and see along with everyone else.” But it was clear the idea of being out of the loop didn’t appeal. “You’re all set to go,” he told her as he and Luke climbed back into their SUV. A few minutes later, engine rumbling and new tires fully inflated, she followed them down the hill.
