Dawson did not like the storm crossing the pretty strawberry-blonde’s face. She clearly didn’t like his answer, and his brain screamed some of the words she’d said. What are you doing in my house?

“Your house?” he asked at the same time she practically shrieked, “You don’t live here. I live here.”

Her light green eyes held plenty of panic, and Dawson needed to figure out how to erase it. She was pretty, with long limbs and a lithe frame, but she also possessed some powerful strength, and if he wanted to stay here—which he did—he better get talking.

“Did you buy the place?” he asked.

“Yes.” She folded her arms, which made a squelching sound from how wet her clothes were. “I was very clear about when I was moving in. You sent me the key, remember?”

He held up both hands, his mind spinning. Why hadn’t Sinclair told him the house had been sold?

Probably because you never asked if you could stay here.

Dawson said, “I don’t own the house.”

“No, you don’t. I do. I can get the paperwork.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m just surprised Sinclair sold it without telling me. I was, um, taking care of the place for him.” He’d known Sinclair and Bridgette Fontaine, and they didn’t even live on the island anymore. So when he’d needed to get out of his condo, he’d come here. The views were great, and while the house needed a few repairs, he didn’t actually spend much time in it.

He seized onto that idea as she snorted. “Taking care of the place?” She swept her arms around the kitchen and attached dining room. “Well, I think you’ve failed at that Dawson. This place is a mess.”

His defenses shot up, and it wasn’t even his house. “Look, I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I work a lot.”

“Oh? Doing what? Better not be plumbing.”

He stared for a moment, and then burst out laughing. Thankfully, that diffused the tension in the air, and Charlotte laughed a little too. “Sorry, that was really mean.”

“No, it’s fine.” He twisted to look at the sink, wishing with everything in him that he wasn’t wearing jeans. Wet denim had to be the most uncomfortable item of clothing on the planet. “I would be a terrible plumber.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’m a helicopter pilot,” he said. “For one of the tourist places out of Getaway Bay.”

She sized him up, and he wondered what she could possibly be thinking. “Look, I may have stretched the truth a little.”

Her eyebrows went up and her lips mashed together, but she said nothing.

“Sinclair and Bridgette didn’t know I was staying here.”

“A squatter then.”

“I’m in between places now, and maybe I can have a week or two to find somewhere before you kick me out?” He lifted his eyebrows and put a smile on his face, hopefully to show her he was a nice guy. “I can give you my resume.” All he could think about was Kaelin Steed, the man who’d fallen from it all and been forced to sleep on the beach.

Could Dawson be that guy? Avoiding the police and living in the same clothes, brushing his teeth with half an appliance in a public restroom?

No, he had a job. And a wandering spirit, which didn’t allow him to stay in one place for very long. But he’d fallen in love with the beach atmosphere and vibe in Getaway Bay, and he didn’t want to leave the island. He just had to find a new place to live every six months or so.

“Why don’t you have a place to live?” Charlotte asked, drawing Dawson out of himself. He often wondered what it would be like to live in the same place for longer than a year, and he’d done it here on the island. But this house was his third dwelling.

“I got….” He considered her. He didn’t want to lie, but she seemed to have her heart on her sleeve, and if he could appeal to her, maybe he could stay here. “My ex lived in the same condo complex,” he said, speaking the truth. “I didn’t want to see her all the time.” Also true. He didn’t have particularly fond memories of the woman, but he’d seen her lounging by the pool or getting in her car a couple of times. It hadn’t been horrible.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said, and Dawson gave a small shrug.

“So I landed here. I am pretty handy with a hammer, but I do work a ton.”

“They have you flying all the time?”

“The tours go seven days a week. I usually work three or four of them. Twelve-hour shifts.”

Charlotte started nodding halfway through his explanation. “And on your days off?”

“I’m tired.” He gestured to the sliding glass doors behind her. “I sleep in that hammock, with the bay breezes whispering dreams to me. Or I try to fix the kitchen sink.”

Charlotte looked out the huge wall of windows behind her for several long moments. When she turned back to him, she’d softened considerably. “Let’s not have you do the sink again, okay? And you’re really going to have to sell me on you being handy, as I’ve already seen evidence that points to the contrary.”

“So I can stay?”

She didn’t blurt out yes, which sent a needle of doubt into Dawson’s heart. “I bought this place from the pictures of the view online. Let me take a tour and think about it.”

“There’s a bedroom on this floor, way back in the corner,” he said quickly. “I’d be completely out of your way.” He had no idea what this woman did, why she’d come to Getaway Bay and bought this house she hadn’t even seen in person, or what it would take to convince her that he just needed a few more weeks under this roof.

Charlotte gave him one long, last look, and then she left him standing in a puddle of water in the kitchen. He exhaled and turned back to the sink, bracing himself with both hands against it. “Thanks for spitting water everywhere at exactly the wrong moment,” he muttered, a chuckle coming from his mouth.

If there was something his twenty years in the Air Force had taught him, it was perseverance. So he’d wait. And listen to her. And then he’d figure out a way to stay here.

He went outside to the deck that spanned three sides of the house and climbed into the hammock he’d brought from his condo. Besides his clothes and an armchair that went everywhere with him, Dawson didn’t own much. As a pilot in the Air Force, he’d learned to keep things simple. That way, when transfers came, it took him a couple of hours to do laundry and pack the back of a truck.

This house had spoken to his soul at some point in the past. Maybe when Sinclair had first mentioned it, almost a year ago. Dawson used to live next door to the Fontaine’s, a couple from France that had two homes here on the island. They came during the winter months and stayed in whichever house they wanted, sometimes both.

During one of their last dinners together, Sinclair had told Dawson about a third house—this one up on the bluffs above the beach, with brilliant views of the bay and the ocean beyond, with an easy set of stairs that led to private, beachfront property.

Dawson hadn’t asked for specifics, but it hadn’t taken him long to find this road between the two bays and realize the majesty and beauty this home had once held. He’d visited the place many times over the past few months, and he’d seen the for sale sign along the road.

“I guess I just never thought he’d sell it,” Dawson muttered to the wind. He thought he should get a dog. At least then he wouldn’t be talking to himself all the time. But animals were hard to pack quickly, required someone to be home to take care of them regularly, and while he’d been thinking about finding a companion for a while now, he hadn’t taken the pet plunge.

Charlotte stepped to the corner of the deck on his left, having come out of either the living room or the bedroom on that side of the house. She leaned into the railing and took a deep breath, obviously unaware of him.

He didn’t mean to watch her, but he also couldn’t look away. She really was beautiful, and the breeze played with the ends of her wavy hair as the sun bathed her in its golden, Hawaii glow. There really wasn’t a more beautiful place on Earth, and Dawson felt like now would be a good time to become a praying man, just to let God know he wanted to stay here, if possible.

His phone rang, which drew her immediate attention. She looked at him with accusations in her eyes, and he lifted his device. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He cursed the name on the screen—JJ—as he hurried to answer it.

“Hey, what’s up?” His best friend and co-worker better have a dang good reason for calling.

“Boss is wondering if you’re up for an evening flight. There’s a family that just came in, and we’re all booked.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, like, as soon as you can get here. He’s charged them double, and they’ve agreed to pay it. He says half will go to you.”

“I’m on my way.” Dawson wasn’t particularly hurting for money, especially as he hadn’t paid rent in a few weeks. But no one turned down money, did they?

He turned to find Charlotte, but she’d disappeared from the deck. The kitchen was still wet, and he poked his head into the two rooms off the foyer and didn’t see her. He certainly wasn’t going to go traipsing all over the house to find her. He’d only gone upstairs once, and he was pretty sure the floorboards had given their all to hold his weight.

“Hey, I have to go into work tonight.”

Nothing. The house didn’t even creak.

“So I’ll leave my number here on the front table.” He raised his voice as he glanced around for a piece of paper. “Maybe you could text me so I’ll know if I’m okay to come back here to sleep?”

Like he kept paper in the house. He hurried back into the kitchen and tore off a paper towel and yanked open a drawer, hoping with everything in him that there would be something to write with. A fat, purple marker caught his eye among the myriad of junk in the drawer, and he grabbed it.

He scrawled his number on the paper towel, and it looked like a four-year-old had done it. Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Surely Charlotte could hear him. She just didn’t want to talk right now, because she was clearly new to the island and probably needed space. Plus, he was a stranger, begging to stay in her house.

“I’m leaving it on the front table.” He put the paper towel where he said he would and stepped out the front door. Once behind the wheel of his SUV, his pulse settled. She’d let him stay at least one night. Wouldn’t she?

“Well, if she doesn’t,” he said as he pulled onto the paved highway and set himself west toward Getaway Bay. “There’s always the beach.”