If Teddy had a pang of guilt that she’d blown off most of her first day by splashing around in a natural hot spring, she squashed it like a bug.

What Harriet didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her—or Teddy.

Plus…it really was too late in the day to actually set up her computer and start working. And there wasn’t anything to eat at the cottage, anyway. The food deliveries didn’t start until tomorrow. So she figured a good night’s sleep, acclimating her to her new, quiet, Wi-Fi-less surroundings, would put her in the right frame of mind to get to work first thing in the morning.

She had to duck behind a thick clump of bushes to strip off her swimsuit from beneath her sundress and shimmy into her panties and bra, expertly preserving her modesty all the while.

As she waited for her ride, standing on the road at the juncture of the lighthouse island’s bridge and the mainland, she wondered if she’d run into the microbiologist again. At least, she assumed he was a microbiologist, though she’d never gotten around to asking.

Despite the fact that the guy didn’t say much and was bordering on Big Bang Theory nerdiness, he was pretty cute. His white button-down shirt had looked crisp and cool, contrasting with his freckled forearms and their rich, gold tan. And talk about a ginger—a real ginger! He had a head of close-cropped, fiery golden-red hair that curled up damply where it was longer on top, and large hands that should have been clumsy, but had handled his tools and accoutrements with ease. He’d been wearing zip-off cargo pants with lots of pockets, so she hadn’t been able to see his legs, but the bag he carried with ease appeared damn heavy. She suspected some decent musculature beneath the Dr. Science clothes.

Maybe she’d see him in town tonight. Maybe Declan knew who he was.

As she waited for her ride, Teddy realized she was in a good mood—feeling social and also very hungry. Tonight’ll be my last hurrah before it’s nose to grindstone, so I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.

A few minutes later, she climbed into Leslie’s Mercedes—which was a blessing, because she remembered that Dec drove a pickup, and the three of them would have been squished into the front seat—and it would probably have been none too clean.

She also smiled in private approval, too, that Leslie was driving her own car instead of letting her boyfriend take over the wheel. That had always been a sticking point with Teddy and Arthur—just one of those many subtle little things that had made it easy for her to break things off. Eventually.

Not that Teddy was a procrastinator.

“So, how’s the cottage up there? I’ve always been curious about Stony Cape,” Leslie asked, glancing at Teddy in the rearview mirror as she pulled out into the road. She was a petite woman, with the skin tone and straight black hair of her Japanese heritage. Today, she’d pinned her hair in a loose bun, with long strands falling over her neck. She looked nothing like the hotshot CEO she’d once been back in Philadelphia. “I almost wish we’d picked you up there so I could sneak a peek.”

“It’s kind of cute—sort of what you’d expect for a lighthouse cottage. Quilts and pillow shams, eighties carpet and vertical blinds, and lots of seagull and lighthouse decor. Everything is clean and neat, though, and the bed looks very comfortable.” Maybe too comfortable.

“You know I would have loved to have you at Shenstone House, Teddy.” Leslie had just opened a bed and breakfast in Wicks Hollow—right on a small hill just outside of town. She’d met Declan when he came to renovate some wrought iron stair railing, and there’d been some big episode involving a murder. Teddy didn’t know all the details, but she definitely was going to find out.

“Thank you, Les, I really appreciate it. But I know it’s high season for you, and Declan said you’re completely booked anyway. Me coming to Wicks Hollow was a last-minute thing, and I let my agent handle the reservation after Declan gave me the suggestion. Besides, I need to be cloistered away so I can get my book done.” A waver of guilt threatened to ruin Teddy’s mood, but she firmly thrust it away.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I’ll type my fingers off.

“But once the book is turned in, I’ll come back when I can relax and enjoy—and I’ll stay in your best room.”

“Are you sure you can spare the time for dinner tonight?” Declan asked, turning around from the passenger seat in the front and unwittingly piling on the guilt. “We understand if you need to work—we can just get a carry-out.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about me. I start bright and early tomorrow morning. So,” she said, quickly changing the subject, “where are we going for dinner? I haven’t been to Wicks Hollow in about twenty years, so I have no idea what to expect.”

“We’re going to a place usually only the locals go because it’s high season and we can’t get a seat at Trib’s—the best place in town—without a reservation this late in the day,” he replied. “The Lakeside Grille is off the beaten path, and Reggie makes the best fried grouper sandwich you’ve ever had. Plus, there’s a good selection of beer from our local guy.”

“Sounds perfect.”

The Lakeside was as promised: filled with locals—obvious because many of them greeted Declan, Leslie, and even Teddy as they came in—and the delicious smells made Teddy’s mouth water.

A very busty woman in her late forties worked behind the long, diner-like counter. She wore a tight yellow dress splashed with plate-sized violets and more makeup than a high school freshman at her first dance. Her hair was done up in a B-52s beehive, and was an icy platinum with a lavender streak from the side-part to the twist. She was a mistress of the multitask, snatching up the cordless phone to take down a to-go order, snapping commands through the food window to the kitchen, filling draft beers from an array of seven levers, and slapping plates down on the counter in front of their owners.

“Declan—there’s a table in the back,” she called. “I saved it for you so your cousin could be incognito. Can’t have a bestselling writer waiting for a table.” Her voice was loud, heedless of the fact that everyone in the restaurant could hear and there was no chance of Teddy remaining “incognito”—even if that had been necessary.

Which it wasn’t, because authors—with the possible exception of J.K. Rowling and Stephen King—just weren’t recognized by the average person. And Teddy was in no way in the same league as either of them.

“Thanks, Bella,” replied Dec, taking Leslie by the hand and navigating through a path of crowded tables. “Hey, Bax!” He paused to shake hands with a very good-looking black man who was sitting at the end of the counter.

He slid off his stool and gave Leslie a hug, then turned to offer his hand to Teddy. “I’m Baxter James. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mack—I’m a huge fan of your books. I was so surprised to hear that you’re related to this guy.” He grinned, and Dec rolled his eyes.

“Thank you,” Teddy replied, trying not to feel self-conscious as she felt more and more people looking in her direction. “And call me Teddy.”

“Baxter’s a writer too,” Declan said, unaware that he was setting off tiny little alarm bells in Teddy’s head, “but more importantly, he’s the creator and brewmaster of B-Cubed Beer.”

“B-Cubed?” Teddy replied politely.

“Baxter’s Beatnik Brews,” replied Baxter. “And don’t worry, I’m a freelance journalist and have absolutely no desire to write a novel. So I’m not going to ask you to read my work or pitch it to your agent—nor am I going to offer to give you an idea to write.” His smile was fast and wicked, and Teddy immediately liked him.

“Then in that case, why don’t you join us for dinner? I’d love to hear all about your beer. You never know when I’m going to write a craft brewer.” She loved getting to talk to someone with an interesting profession. Plus, then she could justify her dinner as “research”—therefore she was actually working.

Baxter’s eyes lit up, and he said, “I’d like that. I’m just dying to know what’s going to happen to Sargent Blue in the next book. Maybe if I ply you with a few samples of my beer, you’ll give me a hint. Mirabella, darling, how about a round on me? I’m moving to their table.”

Teddy thoroughly enjoyed herself, chatting with Baxter (who had several ideas for delicious and malicious ways to kill someone in a brewery) and sampling a flight of B-Cubed beer.

“So you’re staying up at Stony Cape Lighthouse?” asked Baxter as Bella put their food in front of them. “That’s kind of far away from civilization.”

“Yes,” Teddy replied. “It’s a cozy little place, but with no Wi-Fi. Which is important. I’ve got it for a month.”

“Wasn’t there something about someone dying out there a while back?” Declan asked, looking at his friend. He’d moved back to town only a year ago, but Baxter had been living there for much longer. “Is that why it’s been vacant for so long?”

“Someone fell from the lighthouse,” Baxter replied.

“Fell or jumped?” Teddy forked up a piece of rainbow trout that had probably been caught that day. “Or was pushed?”

“Well…the official word is that he fell.” Baxter rubbed his trim goatee. “But who knows?”

“How long has the lighthouse been non-operational?” Teddy said. “Did it close down because of the death?”

Baxter shook his head. “No, though I do think that kept people from wanting to stay there for a while. The lighthouse hasn’t been used since the nineties, and Stuart Millore—that’s the guy who fell—died only about three years ago. Maybe four. I don’t really remember…” His attention strayed from the table. It seemed to settle somewhere across the room. And stay.

Teddy glanced at Declan, who was fighting a grin. He elbowed Leslie, then jerked his head toward the other side of the room. She grinned too, and by then, Teddy had to turn around in her chair to see what was going on.

But there was nothing obvious, and she couldn’t tell if Baxter was looking at the cute thirty-year-old mother and her teenage daughter who sat at a booth along the wall, or a group of three couples about the same age, toasting some exciting accomplishment. Or something else.

“You were saying…?” Declan teased as Baxter dragged his attention back to their table. “Maybe it’s time for a haircut, hmm, Bax?” He looked at Teddy, still grinning. “Baxter likes to go to the expensive salon on the north side of town to get his ’fro trimmed because the owner is hot, single, and has a great ra—”

“That’s enough.” Baxter quickly held up a hand. It was difficult to tell with his dark skin, but Teddy was certain he was blushing. “I was just…uh…” He lifted his beer to drink.

Leslie leaned toward Teddy. “Bax’s got a thing for Emily Delton—that perky blond over there, with the teenage daughter. She used to have a thing for Declan, but, well…fortunately for both Baxter and Declan, the feeling wasn’t reciprocated.” Her eyes danced with laughter. “Steph and Emily’s daughter are friends.”

Stephanie was Declan’s sixteen-year-old daughter. He’d moved back to Wicks Hollow so he could do some single parenting when Steph’s mother and stepfather moved out of state.

“Don’t worry—Emily doesn’t have a date. And I haven’t heard anything about her seeing anyone, Bax. I’m sure I’d know if she was. Why don’t you just bite the bullet and ask her out?” Leslie said gently.

“Maybe.” Bax turned his attention to the golden-brown beer he was sampling. “So, anyway, Teddy—or should I say T.J.?—can you give me anything about what’s going to happen in the next Sargent Blue book?”

With that, Teddy’s easy mood deflated just a little. Because she didn’t bloody well know what was going to happen. “Well…” she said, drawing out the word and trying to look mysterious, “if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

“It’d be worth it.” Baxter seemed more at ease now that he wasn’t the subject of their teasing.

“Tell you what, Bax,” Declan said, hooking his finger in the air to call Bella over, “I’ll get Leslie to whisk Teddy up to Grand Rapids someday soon, and while they’re gone, we can break in—er, I mean, we can go check out Stony Cape Keeper’s Cottage and see if we happen to stumble on any manuscript pages lying around.” He lifted an eyebrow at Teddy.

“Nice try,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “But I write on my laptop, and it goes everywhere with me.”

Baxter made a show of looking at her very large leather tote. “You mean, the next Sargent Blue book is in that bag?”

Teddy laughed and shook her head as Declan ordered another round of beer from Mirabella. “Well, not tonight. But you know, Baxter, I might just try your idea of having someone drown in a huge barrel of hops.”

“Speaking of which, have you ever smelled the smoke that comes from the wort?” Declan asked. “It’s rank. That alone could kill a guy.”

“It’s just yeasty— Oh crap. Look who all just walked in.” Baxter sighed.

Declan turned, then spun back right away in an obvious effort to hide from being noticed. “I thought Maxine turned into a pumpkin at nine o’clock? What’s she doing here?”

“Well, scout, it’s only eight thirty,” Leslie told him with a smile. “Gird your loins—Cherry’s bringing her on over.”

“Who’s Maxine?” asked Teddy, once again craning in her seat.

“Oh, you’ll find out,” Declan said grimly. “Thank God you got here after her birthday party last week.”

Teddy looked at Leslie. “Did you just say ‘gird your loins’? That sounds so…old-fashioned. Like it belongs in a medieval novel.”

Leslie grinned and spread her hands wide. “Yes, well, I happen to read a lot of historical romance.”

“Yeah, particularly ones about sexy blacksmiths,” Declan said, then gave her a loud smooch on the lips. “Which is why you didn’t have a chance when you met me. You were already half in love with the idea of me.”

Leslie rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were a little pink. “I like romance novels. They’re a great escape and are wonderfully entertaining.” She sounded mildly defensive, and Teddy thought she understood why—particularly since she currently wrote thrillers. Romance novels were big moneymakers, but they were also often denigrated as lesser forms of literature next to other genres like thrillers, mysteries, and women’s fiction.

“I love all books,” Teddy replied. “Including romance. With this age of everyone streaming everything on any device imaginable, I’m just happy people still read. And I—”

“Is this the writer?” screeched a voice just behind Teddy.

Teddy turned to discover that a cluster of elderly ladies had basically ambushed her, forming a circle around her from behind.

There were four of them, and the one who’d spoken appeared to be the oldest of the bunch. She had to be at least eighty, and she had very dark skin that was as smooth as ebony despite her age. Her hair was a thick mop of iron gray that was almost perfect enough to be a wig, and she brandished a walking stick that Teddy immediately decided was lethal—especially in the hands of a demanding elderly woman.

“You must be Maxine,” Teddy said with a smile. “I’ve heard all about you from Declan.”

“You have, have you?” replied the old lady. “Well, I don’t—”

“Yes, this is loudmouth Maxine Took,” said a plump woman with perfectly manicured purple fingernails. Her hair was an improbable bronzy-reddish henna, clearly covering some major gray, because Teddy suspected she was about the same age as Maxine. “I’m Juanita Acerita, and if you’re really T.J. Mack, I have to say it’s a pleasure to meet you!”

When Teddy reached to shake Juanita’s hand, however, Juanita reared back a little, moving her large leather bag out of reach. “Sorry—Brucie gets a little testy at sudden movements,” Juanita said with a smile, maneuvering so she could shake Teddy’s hand but keep the tote at a distance.

That was when Teddy saw the small canine with bright eyes peeking out from inside. It was the cutest dog she’d ever seen. He had huge ears—they were each the size of its head—and mostly white fur, but with splotches of black and brown over his nose. His butterflylike ears were jet black, and had long, silky hair hanging from them.

“That’s Bruce Banner,” Maxine informed Teddy, shoving her hand in for her own greeting. “He’s named after the Hunk.”

“Move over, Maxine,” said another of the four women, who seemed to ignore Maxine’s confusion about who Bruce Banner was. “I want to meet her too.” This one sounded more professional, yet there was an air of excitement in her tone. She was tall—probably at least six foot—and sturdy, with lots of thick blue-white hair combed into a simple style of short in the back, but bouffant-like on top.

She looked several years younger than Maxine and Juanita—maybe seventy—and as if she could take down a Secret Service agent without breaking a sweat. “I’m Orbra van Hest, Ms. Mack, and I am a huge fan. I buy all of your books in hardcover the minute they come out, and I also buy the e-books so I can make the font bigger and read them better. And I listen to the audiobooks too, when I’m cleaning up—I own the tea shop in town, and anytime you want to come in, I’ll serve you the best scones you’ve ever had.” She said all of this in a nervous rush of words that indicated to Teddy that she truly was a big fan.

“That’s right,” Maxine said, clearly intent on keeping control of the conversation. “Orbra’s cinnamon scones are a national treasure. Can’t say the same about them lavender-blueberry ones you tried on us, though, Orbry—”

“I’m Cherry Wilder,” said a slender, very fit woman in her mid-sixties who obviously knew the necessity of not waiting for Maxine to stop talking. “I’m a big fan too, Ms. Mack, and I was hoping you might sign a few of these books for me.”

“I’ve got mine too,” said Orbra, amid a chorus of other “me toos,” which came not only from the semicircle of elderly women, but also some other customers—including the busty blond that Baxter had a thing for.

“I’d love to sign your books,” Teddy said with a broad smile and genuine pleasure. “All of them,” she added, looking around at everyone else. To her surprise, suddenly, there was quite a crowd. It appeared that Maxine Took and her friends had been the catalyst for several, shyer Wicks Hollow residents to come forward.

And apparently, somehow, they’d all known Teddy would be eating at the Grille tonight. She glanced at Declan, who lifted his hands with a “sorry, what can I do?” look and smiled.

Teddy wasn’t lying when she said she’d be happy to sign their books—there was nothing she liked better than to meet readers. Thus, the impromptu book signing turned into an energetic chat with the diners. Between Baxter and Mirabella, the beers kept coming, and the sense of joviality swelled. People pulled up chairs, Teddy answered questions and asked a few of her own, and got some feedback on her books (mostly welcome, some confusing, and some completely off the wall—but it was all in good fun, and very entertaining).

By the time Teddy was ready to leave and the bar/diner was closing, she was shocked to discover it was after eleven thirty.

Fifteen minutes later, exhausted, and pretty tipsy from several rounds of B-Cubed beer, Teddy climbed out of Leslie’s car. “Thanks for the ride,” she said, waving a little unsteadily as her cousin and his girlfriend drove off.

Yawning, Teddy let herself in the front door of the cottage. She fumbled around for a light switch, didn’t immediately find one, and gave up looking, choosing to use the moonlight to find the door to the lighthouse suite.

But she wasn’t so out of it that she didn’t notice the boxes on the kitchen and living room tables.

Well, I guess the food’s been delivered. Jeepers. That looks like enough to feed an army. I’ll check it out in the morning. Hope they put the perishable stuff away because I’m not doing it now.

Five minutes later, she was tucked beneath her covers and slipping into sleep.

A loud noise had Teddy bolting upright in bed.

Sun blazed through the window, and a squinty look at the bedside clock (her cell phone was too far away to reach) told her it was just after seven. Groggy and shocked out of a sound sleep, she stumbled out of bed.

Whatever had awakened her sounded like a heavy thud—very nearby.

Like, in the living room.

She of the very active imagination looked around for a weapon—although why someone would break in in the morning rather than in the dead of night was beyond her—and her eyes lit on a pair of water skis propped in the corner. She didn’t even have the wherewithal to wonder what they were doing there.

Another loud noise from beyond, followed by a muffled human exclamation, had Teddy grabbing one of the skis (it was either that, the hairdryer, or her laptop). Hefting the unwieldy weapon, she sneaked to the curve-topped door connecting the lighthouse to the main part of the cottage and opened it a crack.

There was a man in her living room.

Teddy ducked back. Her heart pounding, her palms slick, she drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. What the hell?

Fortunately, he was facing the other way and hadn’t appeared to notice her.

She peered back out and took a better look. All she could see was an arm and a broad, solid shoulder, plus the hint of a leg and hip as he moved around. Whoever he was, he had stuff—equipment—all over the place. All the boxes and things she’d seen last night and had assumed was food seemed to belong to him.

“Who the hell are you?” She stalked out, ski clutched awkwardly in both hands.

Unfortunately, the damn thing was too long, and she misjudged. The pointy end of the ski snagged in the bumpy Berber carpet, causing it to catch and her to stumble, slamming her head against the waxed wood. Nice going, Mack.

The man whirled around, and they both froze, gaping at each other. “It’s you?” he said.

“You! What the hell are you doing here? Did you follow me?” Teddy couldn’t have written a better story herself: the man who’d set up some sort of scientific lab in her summer rental was the nerdy scientist from the hot spring.

But maybe he wasn’t a nerdy scientist after all.

Maybe he was a serial killer. He had enough of a lab set up to torture her if he pleased. And they were too far from civilization for anyone to hear her scream… (Great tagline for her next book.)

“You’re the writer?” he said, snapping off a plastic glove. And he didn’t sound at all pleased about it. “You didn’t mention that yesterday.”

“I’m the writer,” she snarled, and realized her head was pounding, right above her nose. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that last beer Baxter ordered for her after all. “And I didn’t realize a chance meeting required me to tell you my occupa— Anyway, this is my cottage—where I’m supposed to have privacy and solitude so I can finish my damn book—and what in the hell is all this?”

“Carl— Did you meet Carl?”

“Who? Hell, it doesn’t matter. I’m calling the rental agent. No, I’m calling Harriet, for pity’s sake. She’s going to be having words with them about—”

But he shook his head, talking above her rant. “It won’t help. They screwed up and rented the place to both of us, and there aren’t any other rooms available in Wicks Hollow. So we’re stuck sharing the place.” He looked at her, his eyes tracing the ski and then skimming over her tank top—under which she was braless, of course—then down her legs (bared by a pair of boxer shorts). “When he said there was a writer, I didn’t know it was you—I mean, that you were a woman. He said your name was Teddy. And come to think of it, he conveniently didn’t assign a pronoun.”

“The name’s Teddy Mack. Wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, but I can’t.” She set the ski to lean against the wall and crossed her arms over her breasts as reality sank in. “Are you serious—there’s nowhere else you can go? I have to finish a book! I’m already late, and I can’t write with all this going on! With you here.”

Panic clutched her chest. She’d planned to wake up this morning, bright and early, have a cup of tea on the wraparound porch, and absorb the fresh air and sunshine as she looked out at Lake Michigan…and then pull out her laptop and dive right in to the story.

But now everything was off. Mucked up. And her thoughts couldn’t be further from the edgy, cliff-hanging thrillers about sexy, sarcastic Sargent Blue, who saved the world at least once in every single book.

What the hell am I going to do? Teddy felt the sting of tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. I’m so damn behind, so uninspired, so freaking burned out and scared…I just don’t think I can do this.

And now this.

My career is over.

She realized with a start that the man—whose name she still didn’t know—had said something. “What? Sorry…I…was thinking.” She blinked and refocused. Get it together, Mack. You’re not giving up yet.

“I guess that’s natural for a writer—uh, to be daydreaming. I offered you some coffee.”

“No thanks. I have some tea. But it sure would be great to know your name.” So when I call Harriet to chew her butt over this, I have a name for my problem. No, her problem. She booked the place. She can fix it.

“Oscar London.”

“Seriously?”

He grimaced and opened a small fridge (he’d brought his own fridge?). “My parents had no idea.”

“No, I mean—it’s a great name. Really. I know names, believe me. It took me three weeks to come up with my main character’s name—he’s a sort of spy-slash-adventurer who’s also a librarian, but once I did, I knew it was perfect. And Oscar London…well, it’s great.” She took in his bright, golden-red hair, neatly buttoned white shirt, and British-like formality. No accent, other than a bit of East Coast. “It suits you.”

“I’m delighted you approve.” There was a little more snarkiness in his voice than she’d expected.

Hmm. Interesting. And compelling.

“I have work to do, and so, apparently, do you. So…” He made a little waving gesture, as if to say, Off with you, you pesky creature.

“I can’t write with you making all sorts of racket out here. And I can’t concentrate with you in my space.” The panic escaped and clawed at her chest again, its talons sharper than ever. “This isn’t going to work. One of us is going to have to leave. And it isn’t going to be me.” Teddy knew her voice had gone high and thready, and she despised herself for it. But her career was on the line.

And Oscar London was ignoring her, the rat.

He’d turned back to his project—whatever it was—and was putting a glass container in a device that looked like a small top-loading washer.

“What’s that machine? And what are you doing, anyway? Are you really testing for E. coli?” Teddy realized she was desperate to do anything but sit in front of her laptop and stare at a blank white screen.

“It’s a centrifuge.” He closed the door and pushed a button, then adjusted a dial. As the machine began to rumble quietly, he pivoted to a desktop computer, complete with monitor.

Sheesh. What kind of geek traveled with all of this stuff?

Still ignoring her, Oscar began tapping on the keyboard, using the hunt-and-peck method. Just watching him pick at the keys with two fingers—thunk, thunk, thunk-thunk, thunk—made her twitchy.

“You never learned to type properly?” She edged closer, looking at the screen, and conveniently ignoring how much she hated it when someone looked over her shoulder while she was working.

“No.”

The screen was filled with a form he was completing: numbers, date, time, location, etc. Nothing worth being distracted over. “So the centrifuge spins the, what, the samples around?”

He turned. “You sure are talkative for someone who has a book to write.”

Teddy exhaled a long breath. “Yeah. Well, I’ve been having a little writer’s block.” She watched as he measured out a sample of water from a container like the one she’d filled yesterday—maybe the same one—using a pipette to transfer it carefully into a test tube. She sighed wistfully and slumped against the wall, arms crossed over her middle. “Microbiologists don’t get writer’s block. You just know what you have to do, and you do it. You follow the procedures and voila! Done.”

“Yep. It’s that easy. So if you’re going to stand there instead of work, how about getting me another cup of coffee? Black, please.”

“Might as well.” When she came back from the tiny kitchen, which—she had to give him credit for—was neat as a pin, with his clean breakfast dishes lined up in the drainer, he’d stripped off the gloves. His fiery hair was standing nearly on end, obviously rumpled from a hand jamming through it, presumably post-glove-removal.

“So you’ve got writer’s block.” He took the cup and sipped. His eyes, a rich mix of green and brown, settled on her. “What kind of story are you working on?”

Teddy wandered over, looking in the boxes of equipment. Tubes, small bottles, larger bottles, petri dishes, labels, and syringes of all sizes. “You brought your own refrigerator with you?”

“Yes.” He sounded extremely patient. “I have to make sure the samples are kept at a precise temperature, and the only way to do that is to use my own equipment—equipment that I know is accurate. I check the temp first thing in the morning, and several times through the day.”

“Have fridge, will travel. Huh. That’s one dangerous-looking microscope you have there.” She walked over to the complicated instrument branded Horix and peered through the eyepieces. She saw nothing but black.

“It’s a digital microscope. The image appears on that computer monitor. But, of course, the light has to be turned on, and there has to be something on a slide.” He snapped on another pair of gloves. “And it’s worth over two K, so please be careful.”

“Fascinating.” He gave her a jaundiced look, and she said, “No, seriously. This is the kind of thing I find utterly interesting. You never know when I’ll learn something that will show up in a book— Hey. Wait.” A spike of excitement rushed through her. “Maybe you can help me!”

He muttered something that sounded like “Oh, brilliant,” but she wasn’t certain. Either way, Teddy didn’t care. If there was one thing she’d learned about being a writer, it was that ideas—and plot solutions—could come from anyone at any time. She just had to be open to them.

“So I have my character in a real fix. I need to have him—”

“Let me guess. Save the world.” Even though he was facing the other direction, smearing something on a glass slide, she swore he rolled his eyes.

“Hey. It sells.”

“So does sex. Or so they say. Why doesn’t someone ever write a book about the world not getting saved? Just to see what happens—you know, the aftermath and all? What would it be like fifty years after the earth was destroyed, you know? Say if California fell into the ocean, and half the Vegas Strip ended up under the Pacific?”

“Wow. You sure are an optimistic kind of guy.” Teddy edged closer. “Are you always like this?”

“My former fiancée is getting married in ten days. Sorry I’m not in a great mood.”

“Oh, wow. That’s a bummer. I’m really sorry. Is she getting married here in Wicks Hollow?”

“No. Hell no. Do you think I’d stick around if she were? I left Princeton yesterday morning—I teach there—and came directly here. It was a long drive.”

Princeton, huh? She was more than mildly impressed. “So you came here, equipment and all, to test the water from a hot spring in Michigan?” He grunted an ambiguous reply, and she said, “So, can I help?”

“I thought you were supposed to be writing.” But he gestured to a box of latex gloves. “I suppose I could use an assistant. Just don’t touch anything with your bare skin, and don’t sneeze or cough or otherwise spread germs.”

“Got it,” Teddy said with enthusiasm, then realized she was still wearing her sleep clothes. She’d better change before the poor guy noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra and put the wrong chemical into the wrong tube and blew up the place.

Oscar didn’t really need an assistant, but it was obvious the writer wasn’t going to leave him alone. And at least her incessant questions and poking around kept him distracted from what was happening back in Princeton.

Whenever Teddy pressed him about why he was testing the hot-springs water (did he really think the bad E. coli lived there?), he launched into a long-winded explanation about major cations and anions, and how the turbidity could be problematic if it was too high, and whether the total iron level complied with the expected presence of tardigrades and phages in the body of water, among other things, until her eyes glazed over.

He figured inflicting boredom was one way to rid himself of a pest.

And thank goodness she’d excused herself for a minute and changed into something less…distracting. He was a scientist, of course, but he was also a man, and, well, she had a lot of curves. In all the right places.

“I get the impression you don’t read very many action-adventure novels,” she said, handing him a petri dish he’d requested. “Oh, there’s an idea.” Her blue eyes suddenly went wide, sparkling with interest. “The villains could be growing some random bad stuff—”

“Random bad stuff?” He lifted a brow. She was entertaining, he had to give her that, with a conversation that bounced from topic to topic. He found himself admitting her presence was less intrusive than he’d expected—though not the least bit welcome. And she smelled good too—minty (she must have taken the opportunity to brush her teeth during her change of clothes) and also something soft and floral.

“Well, we’ll have to figure out what it exactly is,” she said.

“We?”

“But it’s something bad…and the bad guys have been growing it in a slew of petri dishes. They’re going to release it into the New York City water system—no, wait, they’re going to put it in the water pitchers at the United Nations! You know how they always have water for all the attendees at a meeting like that—you see those pitchers at their seats?”

“Right. Someone’s going to grow some… What did you call it? Oh, right, ‘random bad stuff’ in a bunch of petri dishes…and poison the water at the United Nations…and why are they doing this, exactly?”

She drew in a long, deep breath, then expelled it forcefully. “I don’t know. I haven’t the foggiest idea. That’s why I’m stuck. I’ve got my hero in New York City, and he’s got to save a bunch of people—”

“Besides, I hate to tell you this—even if they grew a variety of specimens of the RBS—”

“RBS? Oh, I get it.” She grinned, and her eyes lit up again. But this time, her whole face changed as she gave a low, husky laugh—and right then she went from being irritatingly entertaining and mildly attractive to a woman who totally pushed his hormone buttons. Crap.

“RBS. Random bad stuff.” She was still chuckling.

He found his voice. “Right. So. Even if they were growing a variety of these specimens, first of all, there’s no way to transport them safely—”

“Sure there is. We’d figure it out.”

He couldn’t quite get with the “we” stuff, but Oscar let her continue. It was kind of fun and stimulating to have a brainstorming session with someone who wasn’t restricted by science, but only by her own creativity. Which seemed pretty damned bountiful, if not practical.

“They could transport the petri dishes in a cooler, for example,” she said. “And bring it in with the caterers for the UN. It’ll be a big meeting, with all the important world leaders there.”

“That could work, if it could get past security—which is a big if—but the bigger problem is the minute the RBS is released from the petri dishes, it’ll be exposed and most likely die. You can’t grow microbes in a carefully controlled environment like petri dishes and then release it to the wild, so to speak. The chances of it surviving are extremely low.”

Teddy grumbled, and her lower lip protruded in a definite pout. “Well, there is a chance, isn’t there?” she asked, as if science could be bent to her wishes.

“A very slim one. Can you grab me that pencil?”

She reached for it too quickly, bumping a beaker, which knocked the pencil into rolling off the table. She, of course, had to bend over and pick it up…which gave him an uninterrupted view directly down the front of her tank top. Low-cut bra, a hint of pink nipples, and a deep valley.

Oscar dragged his eyes away before she came up, and made sure his attention was focused on the plate he held.

“So it must be tough being a scientist and watching action-adventure movies or reading those kinds of books,” she said, seeming to have no idea of the sight she’d just displayed. “You know too much, and the suspension of disbelief is even more difficult for someone like you.”

“I can only get through the ones where the author has actually done research,” he said, taking the pencil then turning away before he found himself knocking over something else for her to pick up. “And when the story makes sense, even from a scientific point of view.”

She looked as if she were about to say something when a song began to play from beyond the door that connected to the lighthouse.

“Is that the ‘James Bond Theme’?” he asked. “Did you leave the TV on or something?”

But Teddy’s entire demeanor had changed. “Oh, crap,” she wailed. “Oh no. That’s my agent—her ringtone. Oh, God. I haven’t even opened my laptop this morning.” She looked a little green around the gills, but she squared her shoulders, stripped off her gloves and tossed them on the table, then hurried off into the base of the lighthouse, presumably to answer her phone.

Oscar expelled a sigh of relief when the door slammed behind her. Good riddance. Assistant or not, he really didn’t need any distractions—especially the female type.

Especially the chatty female type who was somehow interesting and entertaining even though she was bothering the hell out of him. And harshing his lab-brain mellow. And displaying all sorts of interesting sights and giving off pleasant scents.

Not that he was in any way attracted to Teddy Mack, with her masculine name and the feminine curves that had been a little too apparent both times he’d interacted with her. Between her swimsuit and the loose tank and shorts she’d been wearing, there wasn’t much left to the imagination. Good thing he preferred a sleeker, more understated, less bountiful look—and personality—when it came to women.

Marcie, with a smooth blond haircut that skimmed her chin, and a neat, compact body dressed in crisp button-down blouses and slim, flowery skirts or demure slacks, was and had always been the type that attracted him.

So even if he was sharing a rental property with the audacious writer (who was far more talkative than he’d expected a writer to be), there was no real danger of him being distracted by her.

Then there was the strange thing that had happened last night…the thing he hadn’t wanted to mention.

And the thing he’d been hoping she’d mention first.

For, in the middle of the darkest part of night, a horrible, agonizing sound had had him jolting bolt upright up in bed, shocked from a restful sleep.

The mere memory of that eerie, wailing shriek still raised the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. It sounded like someone was dying. Right outside his window…or maybe it was in the living room. He couldn’t tell—the terrifying sound seemed to fill his ears, fill the entire world with its horror.

Oscar had stumbled from bed, dazed and disoriented in an unfamiliar place, and still drowning in the last vestiges of deep sleep.

All he knew was someone was hurt…dying…being tortured—

In his haste, he’d bumped into a few things—he had telltale bruises on an elbow and a shin, and some porcelain thing had been in shards on the floor this morning—before fumbling out the door and into the living room.

By then, the night was still. The shriek had subsided. He scrubbed at his head, then rubbed his eyes, and gave himself a little shake.

It was so silent. Surely he hadn’t imagined the noise.

Or dreamt it.

He stepped outside, looking around for anything out of place. His truck, parked way off to the side, was the only vehicle around, leaving him to wonder whether the writer had found another place to stay after all.

So he was here alone at—he looked at his digital watch—one thirty in the morning.

The only sound was the rhythmic rush and retreat of waves on the stony, sandy shore only a few yards away, and a light rustle of leaves from a breeze. The night air was pleasantly cool, and it held the fresh scent of summer and lake. Serene and calm.

He heard the hoot of an owl in the distance. It sounded mournful and lonely.

There was no indication of anyone or anything that might have caused such a horrible sound, and if the writer was there and hadn’t been awakened, Oscar could only conclude he must have been dreaming.

Maybe it had been the sound of his soul grieving over Marcie—distant, disconnected, disengaged.

Though he finally convinced himself that the unearthly shriek had been a product of his dreams (or nightmares, depending on how you looked at it), Oscar found himself unable to fall back asleep easily. At last, just after dawn, he dragged himself from the surprisingly comfortable bed and got to work.

Thus, he’d specifically not mentioned the horrifying scream he’d heard last night. And since Teddy Mack hadn’t said anything about it—and she didn’t seem the type to hold back on mentioning anything—he was relieved he’d not brought it up himself. It had either been a dream or some wild animal in heat.

Now, once more left alone to his devices with Teddy off talking to her agent, Oscar was determined to lose himself in his work. With a glance at the clock—it was just pushing nine; so early—he turned his attention back to the distraction of work.

He had to focus on something, or he’d be pulling out his phone and manufacturing a reason to text his sister. Dina (short for Engadine) was one of Marcie’s best friends—and, unfortunately, had been before Oscar even met her, and somehow continued to be a BFF. Dina was far too sharp to be fooled by any bland excuse her brother might use to “just say hi” to see how things were going.

But, foolish or not, he figured it wasn’t over until the fat lady sang—and that aria wouldn’t happen until the rings were exchanged at the altar, and the bride and groom were announced as the new Mr. and Mrs. Trevor Baker. That gave Oscar ten whole days for something to go wrong and the wedding to get called off.

Which was pathetic.

Which was why he absolutely wouldn’t be texting Dina for any reason.

If he happened to be scrolling through Facebook over the weekend and saw her page instead, well, that would be an accident. But he wasn’t certain whether he’d want to actually see if there were pictures of the bachelorette party—or not.

In deference to his unwanted housemate—who was likely going to be tied up doing her own work now, if her expression of fear had been any indication—Oscar dug out his earbuds and shuffled a playlist of The Cure, The Sex Pistols, and The Kinks as he navigated carefully through the process of preparing, recording, and examining the samples. It was a form of mindfulness—something Marcie had talked a lot about after she came home from her yoga classes. He blocked everything out except his work—the routine and the shift from sample to plate to microscope to computer and around and around became a soothing rhythm—and even the pounding music became a mere backdrop to the process.

He didn’t expect to find anything earth-shattering—not like the Japanese team that had recently discovered a bacterium that eats plastic—despite the fact that his natural hot tub was a unique area to explore. Maybe he’d find an unusual alga or make some interesting observations about a hot spring seeded from a Great Lake. Still. It was a plausible way to spend the month, working on a project just for fun.

When his playlist turned up “Lovesong” (which he’d forgotten was on there and, of course, reminded him of Marcie), Oscar was jolted out of his lab-brain mellow and came up for air. He was shocked to discover it was well past noon.

And he hadn’t seen nor heard from the writer since she disappeared to take her phone call.

Good. The less he saw of her, the less likely he’d be tempted to mention last night’s disruption.

But after he’d had lunch (tuna salad on wheat, an apple, and some fresh tomatoes), and went back to work for several more hours, Oscar began to feel a little…well, concerned was the word, when he realized he hadn’t seen nor heard from Teddy since before nine o’clock. And it was nearly five.

The woman had to eat, didn’t she? And he knew she hadn’t had anything for breakfast or lunch, because he’d have seen her.

Not that it was his concern.

She was probably pounding away on her keyboard like a good writer on deadline and, like Oscar, had lost track of time.

Still.

He forced himself back to his project, making notes and fussing with the lab work, checking his email and studiously avoiding Facebook and his cell phone for potential texts, until he realized the sunlight had shifted and he would need to turn on some lamps if he wanted to keep working.

Blinking owlishly, he looked at the clock and realized it was nearly seven thirty.

A quick glance toward the kitchen told him it was undisturbed from when he’d been in there making lunch a while ago. The door to the lighthouse was still closed and he was certain he’d have noticed it open, even if he was blasting “God Save the Queen” while engrossed in the microscope.

A niggling sensation prickled at him, and Oscar removed his gloves, followed by his lab coat.

I should probably just check on her—maybe see if she wants to share dinner.

He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and dried them while considering the best approach—after all, if she was in the throes of her novel, like she should be, she might not want to be bothered. Really, he shouldn’t be looking such a gift horse in the mouth.

Hadn’t he wanted to be left alone?

He dried his hands, re-tucked his shirt neatly, and squared his shoulders.

Then, certain he would live to regret it, Oscar knocked on the connecting door.