Even though we left Blue Bay under sad circumstances, old happy memories bombard me as I drive through town, take in the quaint, whimsically painted blue, green, purple, and red houses, the manicured lawns, and flowers growing from pots on the windowsills.

Not much had changed since I’ve last been here thirteen long years ago. No big box stores, no shopping malls, no chain restaurants. Everything is still small and quaint, and totally well kept. I can’t help but wonder if the cottage would still be standing, having been abandoned and left neglected for over a decade. My heart gives a little start. If it isn’t livable, what will I do, where will I turn? I breathe and force myself to stop thinking the worst or get ahead of myself. I can only deal with one roadblock at a time.

I turn, and take a left on Main Street, heading down the long stretch of hill toward the water. Gorgeous, trailing purple petunias spill over the mossy pots hanging from the streetlights. Such a small-town thing to do, and a welcoming sight for tourists, summer vacationers, and celebrities alike who all flock to Blue Bay to soak in the summer charm—or to hide from those wanting to . . . apply pressure.

The permanent knot in my stomach tightens, as I take in the beautiful town straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting—the tourist season in full swing this late in the summer. Why would Sean put this seaside town—one that his young punk ass had ruled—in his rearview mirror? I briefly pinch my eyes shut. I don’t want to be thinking about Sean, or the things he did to me in his bed last night. But I can’t seem to stop myself. For the first time in a long time, I’d felt safe, and my body still burns in all the hidden places he touched. I press a finger to my tingling lips, bruised and beautifully abused by his demanding mouth, and can only hope I’d been able to convince him I wasn’t Summer Wheeler. Then again, if I hadn’t, I’m not going to worry too much about it. From the magazine articles and spotlights done on America’s favorite motocross racer, he has no plans to return to Blue Bay—ever.

Thank God.

Still, I wonder what drove him away. I pass Benny’s grocery store, and my heart squeezes in my too tight chest as memories continue to filter in. Laughter catches my attention and I turn to see a group of teens hanging around outside Sugar’s, the town’s one and only ice cream shop. Everywhere I look, everything I see reminds me of my mother, of happier days.

Every Saturday we’d hike up the hill from our cottage, order our groceries for the week, then go for ice cream before they were delivered to our door. Shopping and going to Sugar’s was one of my favorite things to do with my mom. My dad was away at sea a lot, and many summers it was just my mom and me. We were close, and the pain of her loss still crashes over me like a powerful tsunami wave.

On numerous trips to town we’d see Sean racing through the streets on his motorbike, Officer Walker tight on his heels. A smile pulls at me, even though I’m not supposed to be thinking of him. I would lick my ice cream cone, and feign disgust, mimicking my mother’s reaction, but secretly my heart was wobbling, rooting for the bad boy I’d been warned to stay away from.

As I approach the water, I roll my window down. I taste the salty brine on my tongue, savor the sweet memories it pulls from the dark corners of my mind. I breathe it in and a sound catches in my throat. I’m a long way from home, where the air is thick and car horns, rather than crashing waves, lull me to sleep at night.

I slow when I see our cottage tucked between two gorgeous mansions. My place is battered and worn from the salty ocean, curdled among the cream of the crop. I wince, surprised that the town council hasn’t bulldozed the eyesore by now. My tires crunch on the gravel as I gingerly pull up into the driveway, ready to stir the cottage awake, rip off the bandage and let old wounds weep.

The roar of the truck’s hemi dies down as I kill the engine, and I sit still for a moment, breathing past the harder childhood flashbacks that bite like the crisp evening air after a thunderstorm. In the distance, at the back of the house, kids play in the ocean, scooping up buckets of water for their castles. A seagull soars overhead, squawking as it flaps long black-tipped wings, and the sound prompts me into action. I open the lockbox on the seat beside me and examine the two keys. One is labeled “Cottage,” the other I have no idea what it’s for. Does it hold clues to my father’s death, my ex’s betrayal? I can only hope so. I push it into my back pocket, and climb from the big cab. My feet hit the ground and as reality hits—I’m actually back in Blue Bay—I steal a glance around. I might own this place, have every right to be here, but somehow feel like an intruder, like I no longer belong.

Where do I belong?

Emptiness assaults me. I’m alone in the world and honestly don’t know anymore, but that’s a problem for later. Right now I need to figure out how to survive, while maintaining a low profile. I shade the late day sun from my eyes and peruse the weather-beaten cottage. A shutter hangs lopsided from the window frame, the oil-deprived hinges moaning like a wounded animal in the sea breeze. Looks like the first thing on my agenda is to make the place livable.

The front of the house faces the road, but tall shrubs and trees line the perimeter, and sides, and provide privacy. I remember planting them with my mom so long ago. I make my way to the front door and examine the exterior. My heart hitches. Such a bittersweet reunion. I continue my inspection, and step back to see the roof. It looks worn and faded, and I pray there hasn’t been any water damage inside. White paint chips, discolored from the summer sun, have fallen like snow and speckle the sunburnt evergreen bushes on either side of the front door. I run my fingers over the chipped and worn railing as I take the three steps to the landing, and more flakes come off in my palm. I can take care of the cosmetic repairs myself—a splash of paint, a soapy sponge here and there—but will have to hire a local company to replace the roof, and fix whatever other damage I find inside. I have the inheritance money from Dad’s will, but I don’t dare touch it. Jack could probably track me if I did. Luckily he knows nothing about this place. It wasn’t something Dad or I ever discussed with anyone.

But now that I’m here, I’ll have to get job, one where I won’t draw attention to myself. I’ve bussed tables before, for a little extra spending money in college, and if I have to, I’ll do it again. It’s not like Jenna Garridy—the name on my fake identification—can hang up a sign for chiropractor services. Someone would surely want to see her credentials.

I can only assume Dad gave me the alias because I had a friend named Jenna Garridy, and on occasion, when we were preteens, she’d accompany me to the cottage. We recently connected on Facebook, and I came to find out she’s a museum curator, so it’s best I go with that. I don’t want to get caught up in my lies. But I’ll have to come up with a story as to why I’m—or rather Jenna—is back in town, living in the Wheeler cottage.

I shove the key into the lock and wiggle it until it clicks. The scent of musk and neglect punches me in the face, and I turn my head against the assault as I wave the front door to help dissipate it. I step inside, and reach for the light. It flickers on, and I give a silent prayer of thanks that Dad kept the place powered. Maybe the light is a sign of brighter things to come. I can only hope.

The first thing I need to do is open the window and air the place out. I hurry around the cottage and crack all the windows, except for a few that have frozen shut from abandonment. A breeze cuts through from the back of the house, which overlooks the ocean, to the front.

I open the fridge, and find a case of soda, a couple missing, as well as a carton of milk, months outdated. I freeze. Had someone been here? A tingle goes down my spine as I spin—expecting to see my ex ready to pounce—but there is no one behind me.

He doesn’t know where you are.

I swallow my fear, summon my bravado, and grab a soda. Maybe it was just the local teens, sneaking into the place to party, or . . . something else. Either way, no one is here now, nothing seems to be missing, and I’m thirsty. I crack the top, and take a long swallow as I check the cupboards. Empty. I walk through the place, keeping an eye out for the ledger Jack is after, or some box or locker the extra key might open. Although I don’t expect it to be in plain sight if it’s so important, and I’m still not convinced Dad had been here. I stumble when my shoes catch on something. I glance down. The oak floor is twisted in spots, boards turned up at the edges from years of water damage. Damn. As the costs begin to add up, and my budget bubbles over, I check the toilets and taps, and remove the sheets from the furniture. Dust catches in the light streaming in through the open windows, and I press my nose to the crook of my arm to hold back a sneeze.

I pad quietly down the hall and enter my old room. A lump punches into my throat. It’s just as I remembered it, purple bedding and all. I walk around the space, touch all my old things, the stuffed toys on my pillows, old and sad as they wait for the young girl to return. But I’m no longer that young girl, innocent and loved, full of life and happiness.

I turn, and close the door on my bedroom and childhood. I stand outside my parents’ room, but don’t dare enter. I’m afraid to. Last time I entered the master suite, I found my mother facedown on her bed. Dead. I fight back tears as I walk into the spare room. This is where I’ll be staying. I step up to the headboard, and pull the blankets down to check the mattress. It’s lumpy and old and needs to be replaced.

Cha-ching.

My stomach takes that moment to grumble and I make my way back to the kitchen, abandoning my trip down memory lane. I grab my purse and toss it over my shoulder. Time to head back to town for supplies and find the name of a reputable construction company.

I leave the windows open. Since there is nothing to steal, besides ancient furniture and nostalgia, I don’t bother closing the place up tight again. I climb into the driver’s seat and back out of the driveway. I’d love to trade in the beast of a vehicle for something smaller, but it was my dad’s and the papers are still in my father’s name so I’d have a hard time proving I hadn’t stolen it since my name is now Jenna. Wouldn’t that be a lovely way to draw unwanted attention?

I retrace my route and find a metered spot outside the post office—an honest to God, old-fashioned post office. Town ordinance has kept this place free from large retail chains. I wouldn’t much care, except I really could use a Starbucks right about now. I feed the meter, and keep my head down as I make my way to Benny’s. I enter and nearly drop when I see Mr. Benny Monroe behind the counter. I can’t believe he’s still working. I can’t believe he’s still alive.

As the scent of freshly baked apple pie wafts before my nose, his gaze lifts, and when cloudy blue eyes flickers to mine I suck in air and hold it. He can’t recognize me. He just can’t. Save for the freckles, I’m a stark contrast to that carefree little girl. I quickly pull myself together and grab a shopping cart. The place isn’t big, but it stocks everything a summer vacationer would need. The stupid front wheel on my cart wobbles as I make my way along the too narrow aisles, smiling politely at those I pass. I fill my cart, making sure to leave space for a bottle of wine or two.

Mr. Monroe keeps an eye on me, like he’s trying to place me as I make my way to the cashier. I put my milk, bread, and supplies on the counter, and he rings me up with an old-fashioned register straight out of the mid-twentieth century. I feel like I’m in some sort of time warp.

“Getting a late start for the summer season, aren’t you?” he asks.

I give a casual shrug. “Better late than never.” His all-knowing eyes meet mine and I try not to fidget. Don’t fidget, Summer. Don’t Fidget. I fidget. Shit. “I’m uh . . . I bought the old Wheeler home.”

Loaf of bread halfway to the paper bag, his gnarled and twisted arthritic hand stills and he angles his head. “You bought it.”

Why did he emphasize “bought”? Did he know? “Yeah, I’m a friend of the family. Maybe you remember me. I used to come here with Summer Wheeler.”

“Is that right?”

I nod. “Jenna Garridy,” I say, trying the name out on my tongue. “I was talking to Summer recently and she decided to sell the place. I used to love coming here with her so much, I jumped on the chance to purchase it.” Stop rambling, Summer. “This town, it’s so quaint, and everyone is so friendly, at least that how I used to remember it.”

“Still is that way,” he says.

“It’s totally kept the small-town feel. I just love it here.”

He nods, but sorrow ghosts his eyes. “Sad thing that happened to Mrs. Wheeler. She was a nice lady.”

“Yes, it was sad,” I say past the tightness in my throat. Cancer. Jesus, we didn’t even know Mom had a brain tumor and the next thing we know, it had taken her life. No time to prepare or say goodbye, but some people say with cancer, it’s better that way.

“They were a good family. Haven’t seen little Summer in years. Her father, however.”

“He was back?” I ask a little too quickly, my mind going to the bottles of soda and milk. “I mean, I thought the place had been abandoned for years.”

“Well, now, let’s see. Summer,” he says and looks me square in the eyes, “she left here close to thirteen years ago, I’d say. Her father . . . oh, let’s see, Colin was by last fall.”

My heart skips a beat. Dad really was here, in Blue Bay? Then maybe there is a possibility that the ledger is here somewhere. Benny studies me, like he’s waiting for a reaction.

“Oh, he must have come by to get the place ready to sell,” I say, proud of myself for pulling off another reasonable response when my insides are in chaos.

“He was a good man, too. Sad thing about his motorcycle accident.”

“Yes, a horrible accident,” I say, but after overhearing my ex on the phone, I’m not so sure it was an accident. I study Benny and wonder how he’d heard the news of my dad. He might be old but obviously nothing gets by him. I make a mental note to be extra careful and chose my words wisely around him.

He looks off into the distance, then a smile pulls at him as he continues ringing me in. “Happy to see the place is going to get used again. Such a nice property going to waste.”

“Speaking of that, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a trustworthy construction company would you?”

“Sure do.” He walks over to a wall where notices and business cards populate a corked board. He removes a card and hands it to me. “Best in the business, as long as you don’t mind a little cussing. The Blue Bay crew isn’t known for their church going ways. If you know what I mean.”

I smile and glance at the card. Nothing fancy just, “Blue Bay Construction” and a phone number and address on it.

“They’ll do right by you, missy.”

“Thanks, I’ll check them out.”

I hand over a hundred-dollar bill—not wise to use my credit card—pocket the pennies in change, and gather up my two brown bags.

“I hear they’re all coming back to town,” Mr. Monroe says, a hint of melancholy in his voice. “Their father was a great man who’d give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, but he was damn hard on those boys, always on them about something. But he just wanted to raise hardworking, respectable sons.” He pauses for a moment. “Some say he was too hard, especially after they lost their mother, but they were good kids, though.” He chuckles and adds, “Underneath it all.”

I think Mr. Monroe might be losing it. “Excuse me?” I say, having no idea what he’s talking about.

“The boys. They’re all coming back. At least that’s the rumor.”

“Who?”

The bell over the door jingles, and the old man’s face lights up. “Well wouldn’t you know it. Here’s one of them now.”

I spin, and the edges of my vision fade, until I see only him. Tall, powerful, mouthwateringly sexy. The poster boy for bad intentions and all kinds of wrong for me—no matter how good the sex was, or how many times he lit me up like it was the damn Fourth of July.

“I . . . you . . .” I stumble over my words, my rattled brain trying to catch up. Sean is here. In the flesh.

Oh. My. God.

His gorgeous green eyes darken when they meet mine, then slide to my mouth, fixate on it. He stiffens, his gaze jerking back to mine, and I’m impressed at how quickly he recovers from the shock of seeing me. Much quicker than me, unfortunately.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” I manage to get out.

He gives a slight smile and his dimple flirts with his cheek, ridiculously sexy. “You’re back.”

“I’m . . . staying here for a while, yes. I had no idea I’d see you here in Blue Bay.”

“I live here.”

I shrug and say, “I had no idea. I’d vacationed here a time or two, but I’m sorry, I have no memory of you.”

A pause and then, “Jesus Christ.” He rakes agitated fingers though his hair, and glares at me, a scowl on his face. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks in a voice that is low, too low. And too dangerous.

I shuffle the bags in my hands as a flock of birds take flight in my stomach. “Just getting my groceries.”

“Summer, it’s me, Sean,” he says through gritted teeth. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I’m wound so tight, my motions are robotic as I set my bags down and pull my fake identification from my purse. Self-preservation warns me to run, as far away from this town—Sean—as I can. If only I had somewhere else to hide to, I would. After Mom’s death, Dad and I moved around a lot with his work, two lost souls with nowhere to really call home. I never made many friends because of it and have none that I can run to now.

I flash him my fake identification. “See.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay.” He’s conceding but his voice remains dubious. “Whatever you say, Jenna Garridy.” Another pause and then, “So this friend you’re meeting, she lives here?”

“Yeah, it’s Summer Wheeler. I’m buying the old cottage. She was going to meet me here, but she’s tied up at work and can’t make it back after all. I think you’re mixing the two of us up.”

He studies me, his expression cautious, dark. Threatening. The muscles along his jaw tick and he looks behind him, like he’s trying to decide whether to get the hell out of Dodge or invest in my story.

He turns back to me, his gaze raking over my face with intimate recognition. I stand there, my brain buzzing like a fine wine. Do I mention last night or not? Since it was my first one-night stand I’m not versed in morning-after protocol. Deciding it best not to bring it up and forget it ever happened, I say, “If you’ll excuse me,” I show him the Blue Bay Construction card. “I need to find the man who runs this company and see about a few repairs to my cottage.”

His hand closes over my wrist, not tight, but firm enough to hold me still. It brings back heated images from last night, and the way he held me down, used and abused me so thoroughly. My legs wobble as my body comes to life under his touch and it’s all I can do not to confess, tell this man who makes me feel so safe—yet is a danger to me in so many ways—the whole truth, including how much I want him again. Then again the way my nipples are poking against my shirt is confession enough.

“You found him,” he says, his teeth still clenched.

“What? Found who?”

“The man in charge. You found him,” he says, his voice as dark and deep as the Atlantic waters hugging Blue Bay’s coastline.

My toes curl.

Last night, he was definitely the man in charge—of my entire body. I breathe deep and the faint hint of soap and open road wash over me. I revel in it, my body shuddering with awareness.

“I didn’t realize.” I shove the card into my purse. “I’ll find someone else in town.”

“Why would you do that?” he asks, his voice like a rough caress that I feel all the way to the needy spot between my legs.

I take in his hard eyes, the way they’re burning into me. “You look like you want me to.”

He tears his gaze away, and glances out the glass door again, but his thumb continues to brush my hand, a slow, steady sweep over my flesh that is doing the most ridiculous things to my body. Does he even know he’s doing that?

His gaze is murderous when he turns back to me. “It’s like this, my competition are going to see you coming a country mile away.”

I pull my hand back. God, if he keeps touching me like that, I’m going to drop my panties for him again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I spit out.

“A single girl. A Blue Bay cottage in need of repair. Old money.” He rubs the rough pads of his thumb and forefinger together, and I stop breathing, not wanting to remember how I know those big fingers of his are rough. “They’ll eat you alive.”

“I’m on a bit of a tight budget so—”

“Which is why you’re going to hire me.” He steps into me, crowding me, so big and strong and tough, his presence edgy but comforting. I fight the urge to snuggle into him, hand myself over and beg him to make me forget again—just for a few more hours.

“You won’t . . . eat me alive?” What the hell am I doing? He’s not a guy I should tease or tempt. Last night was a one-night shot, and I don’t need the complications of Sean, the way I had so easily lost myself in him. If I want to survive I need to keep all my wits about me, and trust no one.

He grins, that sexy dimple stroking me in places so deep, it physically pains me not to lie down and spread for him. “Not unless you want me to.”