At some point since I’ve been here, I missed twenty-seven calls from Katie. That makes me nervous—downright scared—so as soon as Race gets in the shower, I hurry to the clearing in front of his cabin and start searching for the pine saplings he mentioned. Unfortunately, my cheapo phone doesn’t seem to get service anywhere. I must have had service at some point while I was here, so I start to wander back down the path toward Gertrude’s house.

I heard somewhere that trees and buildings can block a cell phone tower’s signal. I need to find another clearing like the one at Race’s house. I look up at the treetops. I can see stars through the leaves, but no clearings. The nearest one I know of is the one behind Gertrude’s cottage. It’s not particularly close, but I don’t care. I hate to leave without telling Race where I’m going, but I’m worried about Katie. I lope into a run, my sneakers kicking up pebbles.

A few minutes later, I arrive breathless by the willows. It’s a windy night, especially windy on the point. The trees and flowers dance in the damp breeze. I can hear the ocean crash against the rocks below. I turn a slow circle, holding my phone up, my eyes honed on the tiny bars in one corner of the screen.

None.

Panic claws at me.

I wonder if Gertrude has a land-line. I bet she does. But I don’t have a key. I don’t think Race put one back under the polka-dotted pot. If he did, I didn’t see him do it. I turn toward the pebble path. I’ll have to go back and find Race. My gaze flits to the moon in a desperate attempt to discern, from its position, how late it is. What could Katie be doing? Is she hurt?

That’s when I see the tree house. I squint, but yep, it’s definitely that.

My first thought is whose is it? Did Gertrude have another family? Other grandchildren? My second thought: Katie.

I rush over to the huge oak tree and easily spot the winding stairs that wrap around it. I climb as quickly as I can. My phone lights up before I even reach the top; two bars. Now three!

I rush into the little square space, barely looking at the tin roof or the toys scattered about. I sink down on a bench and scroll to Recent Calls. I shift around. Something is hurting my butt. I shimmy into a different position, but it’s still there. I must be sitting on a stick.

I stand up, only halfway, and pull out a…paint brush?

Yep, this thing is definitely a paint-brush. It’s stained red. And…what? The paint is wet. That’s really weird. I look around the little tree house and can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner: In the corner, closest to Gertrude’s house, is an easel with a canvas on it. I stand up, wondering immediately if Race is a painter. No one else lives here as far as I know.

I hold my phone up to the canvas and wait a second for my eyes to adjust. Is that… Oh, boy. Damn. That’s me. That’s very sexy, and that’s me.

I scrutinize the details, from the brilliant mane of hair around my face to the pale globes of my breasts to the shock of red hair between them.

Good job, Race.

Geez.

He’s good, though. Really, really good. His style resembles someone famous. I cluck my tongue. Who is it?

My eyes know the answer before my brain does. My gaze jerks to the corner, where I see it: “W.”

I blink and look again, but it’s still there. That small, distinctive “W.” I’d know it anywhere.

My eyes fly from the canvas to my phone. Could it be true? That Race is “W.”? Suddenly it all makes sense. His need to continue living on the island. His skill with that beautiful cabin he built. The smell of paint inside.

He’s good with his hands…

He’s confident, despite being a recluse.

He’s also rich as hell.

I look to the little initial again, half expecting it to be gone.

It’s not.

Holy crap. My Race is “W.”

The “W.”

I grin.

“W” is sexy.

Oh my God, I’ve got to tell Katie.

I hold my phone up, trying to decide if it would be a violation of Race’s privacy and immediately deciding it would.

But still… I know who “W.” is.

I had a tryst with “W.”!

What a beautiful cock he has.

I spin a little circle, feeling buoyant. I’ve loved W.’s work for years. I feel like I know him.

I do know him. Intimately.

I sink down on the bench. I need to chill out. Quit fangirling. Check on Katie. I’ll sleep on it, maybe even ask Race about it. I don’t want to upset him. Not when he’s tried so hard to keep his identity secret.

I bite my lip and look down at my phone. Looks like Katie left some messages.

I’ve got the phone to my ear, my finger on the “play” button, when I hear footsteps on the stairs.

* * *

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