SMITTEN IN SUMMER

JENNIFER BERNARD

ONE

Trixie was used to being the talk of the town in Lost Harbor. She liked it that way because she figured it gave her the upper hand. She could get away with just about anything and people would shrug it off. “That’s Trixie Tran for you,” they’d say. Or, “There goes Trixie again, you never know the trouble she’ll get up to.” Or maybe, “Did you hear about the time Trixie ran for mayor … dated that actor from Outside… dressed as a nude model for Halloween in nothing but a body stocking?”

The more people talked about how she dressed or who she flirted with or what outrageous new project she’d started—hello, Harbor Hotties burlesque group—the less attention they paid to what was actually going on with her.

Sometimes she thought her entire life was like a pair of sunglasses shielding a hangover. It was her role in Lost Harbor, almost like a kind of performance art. A form of entertainment for the residents of the tiny town clinging to the edge of wilderness. Netflix or DVDs rented from one of the last video stores on the planet only went so far. Gossip was the real fun and she was happy to contribute her share.

But right now, she wished that no one in Lost Harbor had ever heard of Trixie Tran. Because her worst nightmare was coming true.

She grabbed her binoculars and aimed them out the storefront window of her ice cream shop, Soul Satisfaction. With its prime location on the boardwalk, she could see a slice of the open water beyond the harbor. Sometimes visiting boats dropped anchor out there; oil rigs or container ships taking shelter during a storm, for instance.

But the boat coming into focus in her binoculars was nothing like that. It was a party boat, sleek and black and aerodynamically crafted for maximum speed and rich-guy intimidation. And it looked awfully close to the luxury yacht that she’d seen in a certain rich guy’s Instagram feed, one she’d been following since the day Insta became a thing.

How many yachts in existence looked like this one? Was it just a horrible coincidence? If only she could see the name on the transom. She stood on tiptoes, propping her body against the counter so she could focus the binoculars. If the wind would swing the boat just a little to the east, she’d get a clear view of the stern.

Or maybe if she climbed a little higher she wouldn’t be peering through an obstacle course of bristling masts. With one foot, she snagged an empty milk crate and dragged it closer, then stepped on top of it. There. Now she got a clear line of sight to the big yacht riding the waves like a menacing black swan.

On the upper deck, she could make out a few people moving around inside a glassed-in observation deck. They were all wearing similar outfits, black with touches of red, like ninja sailors. They were probably crew members instead of guests. Where would the owner be? Holed up in the master suite with all the women he could cram in there? She scanned the lines of the yacht, trying to find evidence of a name somewhere.

Chase Owens’ yacht was named the Vibe Chaser, which fit him perfectly, although she could think of a few other names that would work. The No-Tell Bro-Tel. The Frat Boy Toy. The Spoiled Brat. The Douchebag. The Dickhead.

Okay, now she was just describing him, not naming his boat.

“What did you call me?” said a deep male voice from somewhere behind her. “I’m just trying to place an order.”

And shit—she’d been doing it out loud instead of silently to herself. Swinging around, she saw that a man and a little girl were standing next to the cooler that held the day’s selection of ice cream flavors.

“We’re closed,” she snapped, turning back to her view. Crap, she’d lost the perfect line of sight that showcased the yacht. Worse than that, she’d also lost her balance on the milk crate. As she tilted at an impossible angle, she windmilled her arms, the hand with the binoculars barely missing her neon “Open” sign.

A firm hand caught her by the upper arm and smoothly dropped her onto the floor. The same hand gestured at her sign. “Says you’re open.”

Lips tight, she turned to face her rescuer-slash-intruder. Slash potential customer, but right now she didn’t care about selling ice cream cones. “I decide when I’m open.”

The man stared down at her with a perplexed frown. He had an appealing face with strong dark eyebrows and hazel eyes that didn’t seem to miss much. “Are you the owner?”

“Owner, sole proprietor, manager, supervisor, president, vice president, chief executive officer—”

“I get the picture,” he said drily. “Well, President Ice Cream Shop Owner, my little girl here would appreciate an ice cream cone.”

“Piper,” the girl said firmly. “My name is Piper.”

Blunt speaking seemed to run in the family. Also, the two were clearly related. She had the same shade of hazel eyes and confident bearing. Especially impressive for someone wearing a ruffled skirt and yellow crocs. Trixie figured she was about seven, but that was just conjecture. One thing Trixie Tran was not, was a kid person. Ironic, considering how much money she made from kids’ universal love for ice cream.

Still, Trixie refused to let anyone else call the shots in her shop, not even a seven-year-old. That whole thing about the customer always being right? That didn’t apply past the doors of Soul Satisfaction. She held up a finger, indicating for them to wait, and stepped back on the milk crate with her binoculars. The wind had shifted and now the yacht’s bow faced her. She couldn’t make out anything at all, no name, no hull identification number.

Oh well. Might as well make some money.

She relaxed her face into her perkiest smile and hopped back down from the milk crate. “Welcome to Soul Satisfaction, the last ice cream before the wilderness. How can I help you?”

The man’s eyebrows lifted, but he showed no other reaction to her change in tone. This man was smooth. In control of himself. Honestly, it was kind of sexy. He was kind of sexy, now that she was paying attention. He had an early show of scruff and what she liked to call “smile-grooves.”

“My little girl—Piper,” he quickly corrected himself, “would like an ice cream cone. Normally we don’t introduce ourselves to strangers, but what’s done is done.”

“Excellent policy. Now if you could just write down her last name, birth date, and social security number, I can get her that ice cream cone.”

Quick amusement flickered in his hazel eyes. “Must be some damn good ice cream.”

As if they had choreographed it, the girl stuck out her hand, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter and dropped it into her palm.

“Swear jar,” he explained. “She’s going to be rich by the time she hits the tween years.”

Piper pocketed her quarter with a gap-toothed grin. “It’s a living.”

Trixie might not be a kid person, but it was hard to resist this particular child. “Yay you. Okay then, Piper with the Swear Jar. What floats your boat?”

“My boat? We don’t have a boat. I mean, we do, but not here. At home, my dad has a boat.”

“Oh yeah? Let me guess.” She scanned him head to toe, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. He was wearing a wool sweater that screamed “dad,” but it didn’t fool her. She could see right through it to the muscular build underneath. Still, she figured he was the upper-middle-class dad type. Probably a lawyer or a hedge fund manager.

“Sailboat. You like to compete in the local regatta. Or maybe it’s a classic wooden two-master that you’ve lovingly restored. Your wife is your crew and someday you’d like to quit the rat race and sail around the world.”

The man showed no reaction to her silly little character sketch other than a slight lift of one eyebrow. He really was a cool customer, so to speak. Some men might be offended, or maybe flattered, or eager to deny the existence of a wife. He simply shrugged off her jab, like water off a duck. He turned to his daughter. “Honey, ‘float your boat’ is a phrase. She means what kind of ice cream do you want?”

Piper’s eyes widened, and she repeated the phrase. “Float my boat. That’s funny.”

The kid was lucky Trixie hadn’t used another of her favorite phrases. Blow your skirt up. Or flood your basement. She moved behind the counter and picked up an ice cream scoop, ready for action.

“My boat,” Piper said carefully, “would be floated by one scoop of Mint-alicious Chocoholic and one scoop of Moose Turd Fudge.”

The man did a double-take, then frowned at the handwritten labels that identified each container of ice cream.

“No, it’s not actual moose turds. In case that’s what your very scary scowl is all about.”

“I’m not scowling. And no, that wasn’t what I was thinking. I was checking to see if there are nuts in it. And wondering why every damn thing in Alaska has to reference a moose.”

Piper thrust out her hand, he plopped another quarter into it, and they smoothly carried on. “I’m allergic to tree nuts,” the girl explained as she added her latest haul to her pocket.

Trixie was starting to find these two unexpectedly fascinating. “There are no nuts in the Moose Turd Fudge. I actually don’t carry any ice cream that has nuts, not even pistachios or peanut butter.”

“Peanuts are a legume,” the girl said seriously. “But I’m allergic to that too.”

“This is a no-nut zone. Well, I guess not entirely.” Her gaze flicked to the man in the split second before she realized her joke was completely inappropriate. “I mean, some people call me a nut,” she added quickly. “You probably wouldn’t argue with that.”

The man gave a sudden grin, which changed his face completely, giving him an air of lighthearted mischief. Now she understood the smile-grooves. “We don’t mind that kind of nut. You’ll be getting plenty of business from us.”

She shrugged, since she got all the business she could handle, all summer long, nuts or no nuts. “Sugar cone, waffle cone or a cup?”

“Whatever fits the most ice cream,” Piper said decisively.

“Oh, I can pile on as much as you want. I’m never stingy with my ice cream.”

Did that come across as suggestive too? For some reason, she felt her cheeks heat. She wasn’t a blusher, generally. Flirtations were her natural habitat. She was the one who enjoyed shocking other people. But somehow, under this man’s steady gaze—and in front of his child—her usual tricks didn’t seem to be working.

To chase away that uncomfortable feeling, she whipped out samples of each cone and the cup. Piper pointed to the waffle cone. “It’s huge,” the girl said with awe.

Her father caught Trixie’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head. She interpreted it as “if you fill that thing entirely with ice cream you’ll have to deal with the consequences.”

She winked at him to show she understood, then wished she could undo it. At this rate, he was going to think she was flirting with a married man, which wasn’t in her playbook at all. The fact that he didn’t wear a wedding ring—yes, she’d noticed, because it was second nature to observe such things—was irrelevant. A man with a child might as well be married, because inevitably there was a woman in the picture, in one way or another.

Whistling lightly, she piled a generous scoop of Mint-alicious Chocoholic into the cone, then topped it off with a slightly smaller mound of Moose Turd Fudge. That ought to keep the girl running in manic circles for a while. She added her signature swirl on top and looked up with a smile—only to see her nightmare coming true.

Chase Owens, surrounded by an entourage, was passing right by her shop. Wait. He was turning. Coming inside?

There was only one thing to do. She thrust the cone at Piper’s father and dropped out of sight behind the counter.

“Go,” she said in a strangled whisper. “Your ice cream is free. Welcome to Lost Harbor.”

TWO

It was a good thing that Mac Brindisi handled confusing and fluid situations for a living. Not that the military had prepared him for chaos in an ice cream shop, specifically. But conflict could break out anywhere at any time, even while buying a double scoop cone from a gorgeous, sassy local.

He was tall enough so he could still see a glimpse of the owner’s long black hair, which she wore in a topknot with a red ribbon flowing from it. She also wore black lace fingerless gloves and a red-and-white striped mini-sailor suit, so…eclectic. Yes, that was the word. Gorgeous, grumpy, sassy and eclectic. Quite the kickass combo.

The door opened with a squeak and a mixed group of three women and two men walked in. Trained to recognize power dynamics, Mac could tell right away who the top dog was. He was a blond dude right out of a Maxim spread on adventure vacations, the kind of guy who naturally assumed the world was there for his conquering.

Maybe the ice cream shop owner didn’t want to deal with him either. Was that why she’d pulled a disappearing act? No matter how grumpy she’d been, he’d take her side over this guy’s any day.

“It’s closed,” he told the newcomer.

“The sign says it’s open. And you have an ice cream cone in your hand.”

Mac handed the waffle cone to Piper. “No, I don’t.”

Piper, unfazed by the situation, immediately took a big bite from the top scoop. “It’s soooo good,” she mumbled through a mouthful of Moose Turd Fudge.

A disgruntled frown creased the blond conqueror’s forehead. “How’d she get that ice cream then?”

Wow, the dude was jealous of a seven-year-old. That didn’t say much for him.

“I just gave it to her,” Mac said mildly.

The man’s nostrils flared; definitely not a guy used to hearing “no.” “Let’s start over. I’m Chase Owens.” As if the name was supposed to mean something, which it didn’t, not to Mac. “I own that yacht out there.” He gestured behind him in the direction of the harbor. “That five-million-dollar yacht,” he clarified. “We just cruised into Misty Bay and my friends here would like an ice cream cone.”

Was that what the girl in the sailor suit had been looking at through her binoculars? The five-million-dollar yacht? There was definitely a story here.

“Understandable. It’s delicious. Maybe you can come back when they’re open.” Using his best weapon—an air of authority—Mac stepped forward to herd the group toward the door. Most of them obediently exited the premises, but Chase Owens stood his ground.

“I want to speak to the owner.”

“The owner isn’t available right now.”

“I’m an old friend of hers. Trixie Tran. She’s the owner, right?”

Mac gave no answer, since he didn’t know the correct answer. Was that Trixie Tran hiding behind the counter? If so, she probably didn’t regard this asshat as a friend.

“Maybe you should text your friend and arrange a mutually acceptable time to see each other. In the meantime, you’re wasting your time here.” He jerked his head toward the exit. “I think your friends are getting restless.”

Out on the boardwalk, a bald eagle had just swooped in and landed on the railing. The group was cooing over it and maneuvering to take selfies with the creature. The eagle surveyed them through its yellow eye, then lifted into the air in search of smaller prey.

Chase ran a hand through his perfectly tousled bedhead hair, then went for a charming smile. Maybe it worked on his friends, but it did nothing for Mac. “If you see Trixie, let her know that Chase Owens is in town and would love to catch up.”

Mac didn’t react, didn’t give an inch, and finally Chase gave in and pushed his way out the door. As it swung open, Mac heard one of his friends say, “Look at the boots on that fishing man, aren’t those adorbs? Do you think he’d take a hundred dollars for them?”

“You’re buying used, Kiki?” Another woman laughed.

“Upcycling’s the new thing, hello.”

The door closed, and Mac stepped forward to turn the lock in case Chase Owens changed his mind. He pulled the string on the neon “open” sign, turning it off, then headed back to the counter. Leaning over it, he gazed down at the crouching figure in the sexy sailor suit. “Trixie Tran, I presume?”

She nodded as she peeked between the ice cream cartons that filled the cooler. “Yes, that’s me. Is it safe? Is he gone?”

“Chase Owens?” Mac glanced over his shoulder and saw that the entire group was now crossing the road that ran the length of the boardwalk. “For now. It sounds like he’ll be back, though.”

Trixie stood up, then twisted her body to get a kink out of her back. “That’s all right. I’ll be ready next time. I wasn’t sure it was…” She adjusted her topknot, which had gotten askew. “I don’t like being caught off guard.”

Mac nodded and didn’t pursue it. Not his business. He was just here for the ice cream. He noticed that Piper was now alternating between the two scoops in a very scientific-looking manner, turning the cone precisely one click each time. “How much for the double-scoop?”

“Nothing. I told you, it’s free. Thanks for the…whatever that was. Rescue, I guess? Smokescreen? I appreciate it.” She adjusted the bangles on one slim wrist. “What’s your name, Piper’s Dad?”

It went against Mac’s wary nature, but he couldn’t think of a good reason not to share it. “Mac. Mac Brindisi.”

“What brings you to Lost Harbor?”

“Work,” he said simply.

She got the point. Quick on the uptake, this woman. “Okay then. Well, lovely to meet you both. I’d better get things closed up. Wouldn’t want to make a liar out of you.” She gave him a cheeky smile and then winked at Piper. “How’s that Moose Turd?”

Piper considered, cocking her head to one side. “It’s better than real moose turds.”

“Yeah? Have you tried any?” She kept her face deadpan.

“Ew, no.”

Mac put a hand on Piper’s shoulder and steered her toward the door. “Thanks for the cone,” he told Trixie.

“Any time. Seriously.”

He got the general sense that Trixie wasn’t serious about a lot of things, so he appreciated that.

Outside the shop, he took a quick look up and down the boardwalk to make sure Chase and crew weren’t nearby. There was no sign of them, so he relaxed his guard and took in the view. The harbor bustled with activity. Fishermen in orange oilskins carried coolers down the long ramps that led to the boat slips. Tourists in baseball caps and windbreakers strolled from pottery shop to bear-viewing tour office to fried fish stall. Seagulls hovered overhead, awaiting the next stray bit of giant pretzel or dropped French fry.

And beyond it all, the silent mountains across Misty Bay watched over the scene. They made a majestic backdrop for the tiny community, but he knew those mountains were a whole world unto themselves. Lost Souls Wilderness, they called it. If he didn’t have Piper with him this summer, he’d love to get lost there himself. But Candace had been very clear. No crazy trips. No getting on boats or twin-engine planes or four-wheelers.

He might make a living risking his life, but he had no right or desire to do so with his daughter.

“She was strange,” Piper announced as she took her first bite of the waffle cone.

“Good strange or bad strange?”

“Good strange,” Piper decided after a moment of thought. ”She’s funny. Why was she afraid of that man?”

“No idea. That’s her business.” He checked his watch. “Our room is probably just about ready. Let’s go check in.”

“Ugh, Daddy, do we really have to stay in a hotel?”

“You are the oddest child. What kid doesn’t like hotels?”

But he knew the answer to that. A kid who always had to stay in a hotel whenever she saw her father. Because he was so often stationed somewhere short-term, and didn’t want to bring Piper into any kind of danger, so he would book a hotel somewhere and pay Candace to fly her to meet him. Often he paid for another hotel room for Candace, so she didn’t have to make two trips.

But this situation was different. He’d left his work in military intelligence and taken a short-term training job here in Lost Harbor. Candace was studying for the bar exam and had asked him if he could take Piper for a longer period of time. He’d be here all summer long, and so would Piper. Why not stay somewhere that wasn’t a hotel?

On impulse, he turned around and headed back to Soul Satisfaction, with Piper skipping at his side. The stools sat upside down on the window seat counter and Trixie was in the midst of mopping the floor. He’d never seen a woman in a hot pants sailor suit and cork wedges mop a floor before. No complaints from him. She was…in a word, hot.

“This time I really am closed,” she said amicably.

“You’re a local, right?”

“About as local as they come. I’ve lived here my whole life except for one summer in Minnesota. It was either that or become a pothead, so my parents let me go.”

He paused at that unexpected detail. “Okay. Well, would you happen to know of any short-term rentals? Just for the summer.”

Piper gave a little squeal of excitement.

“Oh, just for the most busy time of the year? You don’t ask much, do you?” She stopped mopping and gazed out the window, a dent forming between her eyebrows. “Harris Badger has a guesthouse, but I think his new step-nephew is staying in it. There’s the Olde Salt cabin right on the boardwalk, but I wouldn’t recommend that for a kid.”

“Olde Salt cabin?”

“It belongs to the bar. You’d have drunken people rolling past all times of night.”

“Pass.”

“Exactly. Honestly, it gets really busy here in the summer. The only thing I can think of…“ She hesitated, giving him a cautious glance, then screwing up her face. “The only reason I’m mentioning this is that I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything, but what do you have in mind?”

“My parents have a mother-in-law suite in their house. My grandmother lived there until she died a couple years ago. I think they keep it empty in the hopes that I’ll move in someday. It has its own entrance, a bathroom, one bedroom and a kind of sitting room that you could use as a bedroom. It even has a wheelchair ramp that I used to skateboard on.”

“Skateboard?” Piper practically vibrated with excitement.

“Not happening,” Mac told her firmly. She pouted, oblivious to the ice cream dripping from her cone onto the floor. Trixie used her mop to swipe at the droplets.

The place sounded pretty perfect to him, but she still wore a dubious expression.

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

“Who says there’s a catch?”

“It’s written all over your face. Might as well tell me. I’m not going to put my kid in any kind of risky situation.”

“The catch is…well, it’s my parents.”

He relaxed. How difficult could parents possibly be? “Parents are not a problem.”

“They’re from Vietnam. Their English is sketchy. My mom can be hard to understand, and my dad…” She trailed off before completing that sentence.

“Again, I don’t see a problem.” He wasn’t in the habit of chatting with his landlords anyway. They could all just stay out of each other’s way.

Trixie brushed one long red ribbon away from her face. “If you’re thinking that means you don’t have to interact with them, forget it. They’ll still want to butt into every aspect of your life. My mom’s nosy. And they’re retired. They have a lot of time on their hands.”

“I can handle them.”

“You sound very confident considering you haven’t met them.”

Should he tell her that he was a trained operative who had handled everything from insurgencies to street fights? Or that he’d successfully navigated a divorce, co-parenting, and a change of career?

“I’ll take my chances. Should we take a look, Piper?”

“Yes!” she shouted enthusiastically as more ice cream dripped onto the floor.

Something occurred to him, something that would actually be a dealbreaker. “Are your parents okay with kids?”

“Oh yes,” Trixie said ominously. “They love kids. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Mac wasn’t sure what that meant, but it seemed better than the alternative. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk to them about renting the place.”

“You’ll need me to be there for the conversation. I’d want to make sure there are no miscommunications. I’m their go-to translator.”

Should he tell her that he’d always been good at picking up the essentials of the local language wherever he was operating? “I have a translation app that works pretty well. What do they do when you’re not around?”

“They figure it out. People around here are used to communicating with them. My mom reads English really well, she just takes it slow. She doesn’t skim. She absorbs every word and doesn’t forget a thing. If she buys a new fridge or something, she’ll research it until she knows the specs of all the top brands, what the pros and cons are, ranked by price and energy efficiency. It’s really just for more complicated in-person conversations that they need me. Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in.”

He didn’t give anyone his phone. Under any circumstances. “How about I give you my number and you call when they’re ready for us?”

She gave him an odd look under her sparkly silver eye shadow, as if somehow he’d surprised her by not wanting her phone number. Maybe she was more used to men hitting on her than wanting to rent her parents’ mother-in-law suite.

He could certainly see why she’d be used to it. She was like a bottle of sparkling champagne in the form of a woman. He found it hard to look away from her, actually. But he had more serious things to worry about than being attracted to a sexy ice cream shop owner. He had to make sure he and Piper had a safe place to live this summer. And then he’d have to figure out childcare for when he was working.

One thing at a time.

He told her his phone number, which she entered into her phone with one hand. “I’m having dinner with my parents tonight, and I’ll let you know what they say. I can keep my eye out for other options too.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“Like I said, I owe you.”

“For getting rid of Chase Owens? You must have really wanted to avoid that dude,” he murmured drily.

“You have no idea.” She glided the mop head toward them, and Piper jumped back, giggling. The two of them made a game of it, Trixie pretending to chase Piper around the shop with her mop, Piper laughing hysterically. Eventually Piper wound up perched on Mac’s right foot, clinging to his leg to avoid the menacing mop.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he declared, and swung Piper from ground level all the way onto his shoulders, the way she loved. “Looking forward to hearing from you, Trixie. We’ll be at the Eagle’s Nest for now.”

She shot him another funny look that he couldn’t quite interpret, waved goodbye to Piper, then went back to her mopping. He used all of his carefully developed self-control to avoid looking at her smooth, shapely legs on his way out.

THREE

How the bejeezus had Mac Brindisi done that? One graceful movement had transported his daughter from the floor all the way up to his shoulders. She’d figured he was in good shape, but that was next level. Unless it was some kind of dad super-power? She had an old photo of herself riding on her father’s shoulders, but she’d only been about three at the time.

Mac Brindisi sure had her intrigued, thanks to his quick thinking when Chase showed up and the deft way he’d gotten rid of the entire group.

But she couldn’t count on him stepping in whenever Chase was around.

With the shop clearly shut down, she slipped out the back and made her way through the jumbled back passageways used only by “harbor rats,” the people who worked on the boardwalk. She waved at Boris Clancy riding by on his bike, his pet Aroostook hen in his handlebar basket. Kids engrossed in a game of tag dodged around her.

When she reached the harbormaster’s office, she found Lucas Holt with his stepdaughter Ruby, studying a laminated map of Misty Bay that filled one wall. Did all the men have daughters hanging around these days?

“I have a question about that party boat,” she told him after she’d greeted them both.

“The Vibe Chaser?”

Seriously, what an embarrassing name. “Yes. Do you know how long it’s going to be here?”

“I talked to the captain this morning. He says they’re waiting for another boat to arrive, the one with all the toys on it.”

“Toys?”

“Helicopter, four-wheeler, jet-skis. One boat’s for the guests, the other one’s for the entertainment. He said they’ll be in Misty Bay at least a week, probably longer.”

Oh God. How was she going to avoid Chase for that long? Then again, if they had “toys,” maybe he’d be off playing instead of hanging around in the harbor. She couldn’t leave; she had a business to run. Every day she’d be a sitting duck, just waiting for that blond-haired demon to show up at her door.

A kind of panic ran through her. She’d just come back from Lake Bittersweet, where she’d first met Chase all those years ago. Maybe she should go back to Minnesota and hire a local kid to run the shop for the summer. But of course she couldn’t do that. She earned most of her income in the summer months and couldn’t possibly leave it up to a fill-in.

“Okay, thanks,” she told Lucas, wishing she could share more. But she couldn’t because that would lead to too many questions.

“Is everything okay?” Lucas was watching her with concern in his dark eyes. They’d known each other most of their lives, but he didn’t know anything about the summer she’d spent in Lake Bittersweet, and what had happened there. Why would he? She didn’t talk about it even to her closest friends.

“Sure. You know me. I’m always okay! And if I’m not, I fake it ’til I make it.”

He didn’t look convinced, but she was already out the door, sending him a jaunty wave goodbye.

She hurried back to the gravel lot where she parked her truck every day. She’d posted her own sign claiming the space closest to her shop. In hot pink letters, it read, “Reserved for the Ice Cream Queen.”

Not strictly legal to claim your own parking spot, but Police Chief Maya Badger let it slide. Trixie got away with things like that—she credited her charm and all-around cuteness, and also her brazenness. When in doubt, brazen it out.

Same thing she’d done after what happened with Chase.

“I don’t want to hang out anymore. I’ve moved on.”

“Why, are you ashamed? You’re such a little girl.”

She hated being seen as a little girl, and he knew it. But she brazened it out. Gave a big, exaggerated yawn. “Your petty insults are so boring. Bye, Chase.”

“Whatever. Summer’s almost over anyway. Go back to your lame-ass little town and do yourself a favor. Just stay there.”

Which was actually what she’d done, but now Chase was here.

The yacht—Vibe Chaser—drew her gaze like a magnet. She pictured it surgically slicing through the waves with relentless, merciless intention, shrugging off swells, storms or anything else that got in its way. Seagull poop probably didn’t even stick to it. It could probably cut through a whole island if one stood in the way.

Crap. How was one short-but-sassy ice cream queen supposed to survive another encounter with the Vibe Chaser’s owner?

She closed herself into her red Chevy Silverado with a shudder of relief. So silly—as if Chase and his friends were zombie hordes trying to break into her car. Chase was already back on his yacht, probably deep into his third or fourth cocktail by now. Or deep inside one of his “friends.”

A tap sounded on her window and she jumped, letting out a shriek of surprise. Get a hold of yourself, Trixie!

But it turned out that her jumpy instincts had been absolutely correct. She turned to find Chase Owens grinning at her through her passenger window, his hand reaching for the door handle.

Moving more quickly than she’d believed possible, she slammed down the “all lock” button. Just in time for him to tug on the handle and be denied.

An annoyed frown creased his sunburned forehead. “I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me, Trixie.”

What on earth would give him that idea? “Go away, Chase. I don’t want to see you or talk to you.”

She started up her truck, shifted into reverse, and jammed her foot on the accelerator. He jumped backwards, scowling. “You’re being so dramatic,” he called after her. “I just want to talk.”

Dramatic? Dramatic? She’d show him dramatic. She rolled down the driver’s side window and stuck out her hand, middle finger raised as she backed into a three-point turn.

As soon as she’d straightened out her vehicle, she found herself flipping off not Chase, but Police Chief Maya Badger, who was walking across the lot in mud boots and a Lost Harbor PD jacket. Just her luck.

“Something I said?” called Maya, her rich brown eyes glinting in amusement.

“Sorry!” She snatched her hand back inside.

Rolling out of the lot, her tires crunching over the gravel, she wondered if she should stop the truck right now and go tell Maya everything. Not only was she a friend, but she was the police chief. She’d probably have really great advice about how to deal with this situation.

How to deal with Chase Owens.

Lord knew she couldn’t handle him alone. In fact, so far in her life, she’d only met one person who could handle Chase. Mac Brindisi, the total stranger who might rent her parents’ place. Interesting.

Of course, there was also Carly Gault back in Lake Bittersweet. Carly didn’t know the whole story, but she did know Chase. And she’d also made a vow to Trixie and the rest of their friends—a BFF vow that if one of their friend group had a crisis, they’d show up. Trixie had just done exactly that for Carly.

Did this qualify as a crisis? Trixie pulled over to the side of the road that extended the length of the long arm of land that sheltered the harbor. From here she got an even better view of the luxury yacht, its sharp black curves slicing through the ocean’s surface. A speedboat zipped across the water bringing passengers back from the boardwalk. Chase’s friends. Tremors of panic ran through her and made her hands shake.

Yes, she’d call this a crisis. She found Carly’s number and sent her a text.

I heard it’s vow-time for you and Thomas. I’m calling in a vow of my own. Feel like a trip to Alaska?

It didn’t take long for Carly’s response to come. Sure. We can make it an early honeymoon.

Carly and Thomas. Two support humans for the price of one. Already her panic was subsiding. Except…early honeymoon? They shouldn’t have to plan their honeymoon around her. And wasn’t Carly going to be busy with the reopening of the Blue Drake Club?

Crap. She couldn’t ask her friend to do that.

But there was someone else who could help. Someone who used to be one of Chase’s best friends. Conor Gault. Maybe Conor would be even more help, since he knew more about what had happened.

She’d recently seen Conor at the airport in Minnesota, and had basically frozen for one endless moment. The sight of him had brought it all back. But none of it was his fault; in fact he’d helped her back then. Why not now as well?

Deputies are acceptable, she texted. Is Conor still there?

Her phone rang immediately. With a smile, not even needing to check the number, she answered.

“Hi Carly.”

“You want Conor to come to Alaska?”

“Would he?”

“You never know with Conor. I’ll send you his number. So what’s going on?”

“It’s a long story.”

Carly waited, the silence stretching out. Trixie watched a couple of teenagers carrying paddle boards toward the water. Cara and Maggie, she realized, both summer-tan and long-limbed. She’d been even younger than them when she’d had that horrible experience with Chase. “It’s too complicated to get into over the phone,” she finally said. “I’m going to jump off now and call Conor.”

“When you say ‘jump off’ …”

“No, I don’t mean a cliff.”

“Good to know. Take care of yourself, Trixie. And call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” she said, though she had no intention of interrupting Carly’s busy summer of happy ever after. She could handle this on her own.

Well, with some help from Conor.

As soon as Carly texted her Conor’s number, she called it. “Hiya Conor, it’s Trixie Tran.”

“Trixie?” The astonishment in his voice made her smile. She did love taking handsome men by surprise.

“You know how they say to fight fire with fire?”

“You’re calling me for firefighting tips? You should call Thomas.”

“No, it’s just that when you take on a spoiled rich guy, sometimes you need another spoiled rich guy. Can you come to Alaska?”

A long, loaded pause followed. “Is this about Chase?”

Points for Conor that he figured that out so quickly.

“It’s about Chase,” she confirmed. “He’s here in Lost Harbor. That can’t possibly be a coincidence.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

She was about to say that there was no possible way he could be there tomorrow, because this was Alaska; not just Alaska but the very tip of the Aurora Bay Peninsula. It generally took at least a couple of days to reach Lost Harbor from anywhere Outside. But this was Conor Gault, and he could probably click his heels—or dish out a few thousand dollars—and get to Lost Harbor whenever he wanted.

Feeling much better now that reinforcements were on the way, she rolled down her window and drew in a deep breath of salt air. It smelled so different from the air in Lake Bittersweet. She’d never forget that unique combination of pine trees, lake water, suntan lotion, and beer…

Chase was the most beautiful human being fifteen-year-old Trixie had ever laid eyes on. The first time she saw him, she was literally struck dumb. He was water-skiing on Lake Bittersweet, laughing and whooping as he carved a path through the water. His posse, beer cans in hand, cheered him on from the deck of the speedboat.

Of course it wasn’t legal to be drinking so blatantly on the lake. But Conor Gault and his friends acted like the rules didn’t apply to them, and mostly they didn’t.

Except the rules of physics. Not even Chase Owens could stop the centrifugal force from finally catching up with him. To keep from crashing, he let go of the tow rope and skidded across the water toward the public landing, where Trixie and her friend Brooke were sitting on their beach towels. Spray from his water skis splattered them both, making Trixie shriek and Brooke jump onto her knees and curse him out.

He just laughed as he unfastened his skis. “Sorry, Blondie.”

Of course he noticed Brooke first. With her long blond hair and tall slim build, she got lots of attention from boys, even those a few years older, like Chase. Trixie looked even younger than her age because she was so short and lacking in breasts. That was why she had to lean on her sassy personality to get attention.

As she did now. “Hey Aquaman, watch out for that dock.”

“Aquaman. Heh.” He flexed his biceps. “Not bad. You girls busy? Want to come party with us?”

“No way,” said Brooke at the same instant Trixie said, “Okay.”

Brooke turned on her. “You’re not going anywhere near them,” she hissed. “Bunch of idiot frat boys.”

“I heard that,” called Chase from the water. “Guilty as charged. But we know how to have fun. Isn’t that the most important thing in life?”

“That’s exactly what I always say,” Trixie said in delight.

“You’re my girl!” He grinned at her. “So when are you coming out with us, HAG?”

“Did you just call me a hag?”

“Hot Asian Girl. Hag.”

“That’s not a thing,” Brooke scolded him. “It’s offensive. Never say that again.”

“It’s okay.” Trixie waved her friend off. Chase had called her “hot,” and right now, that mattered to her more than some dumb acronym. After all, she was Asian, even though she’d prefer to simply be seen as a “hot girl,” skip the “Asian” part.

“You’re invited anytime,” Chase told her, as the speedboat circled around to pick him up. “But leave your Debbie Downer friend behind. What’s your name, anyway?”

Brooke was scowling at them both so hard that Trixie felt a moment of guilt before she answered. “It’s Trixie.”

In reality, her name was Truc, meaning “wish,” but no one in Lost Harbor ever pronounced it right so she’d adopted the nickname Trixie in third grade. She hadn’t wanted to go through life being referred to as a “truck.”

“Trixie, that’s cute. Fits you.”

“She’s fifteen, you perv,” said Brooke. “Just getting that on the record.”

Trixie could have screamed in frustration. Even though Brooke was only looking out for her, she was doing it all wrong, in her opinion. For once, one of the hot, droolworthy guys who hung out with Conor Gault was noticing her. And Brooke had to go and ruin it?

“What? Didn’t catch that!” Chase called over the engine noise of the approaching speedboat. “I’m Chase Owens.”

“Hey Chase, watch out for that boat!” Trixie yelled as the speedboat came to a water-swirling stop near the landing.

He laughed and paddled toward the side, where Conor was lowering an aluminum ladder. The boys on the boat were all college age, tanned and handsome future kings of the world. And one of them had invited her to hang out with them. She could barely believe it.

After they’d hauled Chase onboard and motored off across the lake, Brooke let Trixie have it. “What the hell, Trix? He insulted me and you were slobbering all over him?”

Trixie scrambled to her feet and snatched up her beach towel. “I’m not a child, Brooke. Why are you being such a downer?”

“Oh, now you’re insulting me too? He insulted you, too, by the way. He called you a hag.”

“He called me cute and hot.”

Brooke wrapped her arms around her knees, as if trying to calm herself. Of the five girls who were working as chambermaids at the Blue Drake that summer, she was the one most similar to Chase and his friends—her family was wealthy and owned a summer estate on the east side of the lake. “You don’t know that type, but I do. I go to school with guys like him. Trust me, don’t go there.”

“God, Brooke,” Trixie burst out. “You don’t know what it’s like to live your whole life in a tiny town in Alaska being a nobody. Finally my parents let me do something different, go somewhere different, and a boy talks to me and you act like it’s a crime. You’re not my parents! I’m here to have fun for once in my life!”

“Jeez, relax. I’m not trying to ruin your summer, Trixie. Just…find someone else to mess around with. Those guys are in college. And they’re…just…no. No. Hard no.”

“Even Carly’s brother?”

“Conor’s okay, but the others are trash. I don’t know why he brought them here. It’s probably some kind of misguided rebellion.”

“You know all about those, I guess.” Meaning taking a job as a chambermaid when she could be sunbathing her entire summer away.

“I guess I do.” Brooke tugged a coverup over her bikini. “You do what you want, but don’t say I didn’t throw up a red flag.”

Trixie’s temper always ran hot, then evaporated almost immediately. “I know you’re trying to look out for me. Sorry if I was rude. But I came four thousand miles from home so I could have a little freedom.”

Brooke nodded to accept the apology. “I get it. So are you going to do it? Party with him?”

Of course she was. “We’ll see. Aquaman was never my jam.”

“Just…call me if you need me. Whenever. I promise I’ll never say ‘I told you so.’”