— ONE —
FAITH would kill to have a Japanese katana in her hands right now.
Or Barbie dolls that moved like real people and could wield a juice box straw like a sword.
Even a decent YouTube video that somehow magically gave her the vocabulary to describe the visceral feel of hefting a sword high above her head, ready for the kill.
But this was the side-effect of hiding away at the tip of an isolated peninsula, surrounded by glittering water and soaring pine trees and not much else. Research had to be done remotely—and when she got writer’s block, figuring out the logistics of a specific action sequence was that much harder. It all felt mechanical, when she wanted to really get the visceral feel of the movements.
With a strangled cry, she shoved away from her desk and prowled around her office, looking for something that would provide the right weight in her hands so she could properly describe the curved sword being ripped from her heroine’s grasp by a soul-sucking demon.
The imaginary lives she crafted were the only excitement she’d allowed herself in the four years since Greg had died, so she had to make them spectacular.
As she lifted a golf club—never used for actual golfing—and gave it a tentative downward slash, she heard the front door swing open.
“Mommy!” Eric called out, his voice full of breathless enthusiasm and the tell-tale edge of a sugar high.
“Up here,” she hollered back, tucking the club away and leaning over her desk to save her book. She’d figure out the katana problem after his bedtime. “Did you have a good time—ooof!”
She twisted her body and looked down at her almost five-year-old son, now hanging on her right leg like a spider monkey. She ran her hand over his wavy dark-blond hair and as she had been for months now, silently mourned the loss of his paler, softer, straighter baby hair. It had happened one night when she wasn’t looking, another vestige of toddlerhood falling away. He was small for his age, though, and sometimes it was hard for her to believe he was going back to school in a few short weeks for kindergarten.
“Got you.” He gave her an angelic smile complete with a glint in his eye he’d inherited from his father. She loved that Eric looked so much like Greg, that she’d always have the best of her husband right in front of her. And he was so cute it almost excused the fact that he’d barged into her office—a no-go space for many reasons, including the fact that she often precariously balanced stacks of paper on all available surfaces, manuscript chunks so she could grab a chapter and read on the fly.
Plus the regular weapons testing that happened, even if it was just with makeshift stand-in props.
“You’ve got me good.” She winked. “But you remember the rule…”
“Out?” He made a face.
“I’m coming with you. Work time is over for now. Tell me about the ferry ride.”
He slid his hand into hers as they left her office overlooking the front garden and the harbour in the distance and headed down the stairs. From the kitchen, she heard pots clanging a little too loudly. She winced.
“Did I forget to take the chicken out of the freezer?” she asked gingerly as they stepped into the large sunny room at the back of the main floor. It overlooked a terraced back yard, shaded and sunny in all the right spots. This kitchen and the backyard were the reasons she’d bought the house. Their life was far from perfect, and she couldn’t do anything about the jagged parts of their hearts that would never mend, but with her first big royalty check she’d been able to put a down payment on a gorgeous house on a safe street, and she’d never regretted the impulsive decision.
That it had a granny suite for her mother to live in and her mother happily cooked for them were nice bonuses.
Except Faith had forgotten to take out the chicken, so dinner would be something other than the plan stuck to the fridge.
Her mother really liked the meal plan.
They all coped differently with how their lives had gone sideways, and Faith tried to remember that Miriam needed order and routine.
Lists were king.
“It’s fine,” her mother sighed, clearly not believing herself. She kept chopping as she talked, efficient as always. “I can use tomorrow’s steak that I started marinating last night.”
“I’m sure whatever you make will be awesome,” Faith said brightly. Her mother was ninety-nine percent awesome. The one percent that drifted toward melodrama when things like meal plans got flubbed…that was best ignored. And maybe fed some chocolate from the good-stuff stash after dinner.
“Did you get a lot of writing done?”
“Some.” Faith opened the upper cupboards and got down three plates. In the last two years, they’d fallen into a comfortable routine, and forgetful-writer’s syndrome aside, they were all as happy as they could be with their adopted roles.
Miriam was the nurturer. She cooked and tidied and listened proudly to Eric’s endless stream of imagined stories.
Faith was the provider. She worked her ass off to put a roof over their heads—and keep it there. And, slowly but surely, she was putting the broken pieces of her soul mostly back together.
Eric was their inspiration. Only one when he lost his father and barely two when he lost his grandfather, he was their little man, and they’d do anything to protect him from the ravages of the world.
Together they were a small but mighty family, and Faith never wanted to take her mother or her son for granted. After setting the plates on the table, she went back to the counter and gave her mom a tight, bone-crushing hug from behind. They were the same height and size, and other than a bit of grey sprinkled in Miriam’s hair and some adorable laugh lines and delicate crinkles at the corners of her eyes, they looked like two peas in a pod.
“I’m sorry about the chicken,” she whispered.
“That’s okay, dear,” Miriam said, setting down her chef’s knife to pat Faith’s arm. “I don’t expect you to remember.”
“No, I should have. I could’ve set a reminder on my computer or something.”
Her mother shook her head. “You’re just like your father. He’d disappear into his office for hours, working on one equation or another. I’d bring him tea at midnight and he’d look at me, surprised that the night had slipped by.”
“Are you saying I’m the husband in this dynamic?” Faith scrunched up her face, but her mother just laughed.
“Exactly. One of these days we’ll find you a nice wife and I can retire to the Caribbean.”
“I don’t need a wife,” she grumbled. “I just take advantage of your generosity because I can. One of these days you’ll grow a backbone and fly south like all of your friends. And I’ll find a way to feed my son just fine.” A pang stabbed through her chest at the thought of her mother leaving them, but Faith knew she couldn’t selfishly cling forever.
“I know you will. You’re not as hopeless as your father—you’re not hopeless at all. You’re strong and capable, it’s just…” Miriam trailed off.
She didn’t need to finish that thought. Faith knew that she was leaning too much on her mother. In the last few months, that had changed, bit by bit, though. She was working on sliding back into the world, building connections beyond blood, but it was challenging. “I can only do one thing at a time.”
“Honey, you do more than you think. Give yourself credit.”
She didn’t want to. If she thought she had this all under control, then it would be time to address all that she didn’t have a handle on. All that she’d cut out of her life four years earlier. “I’m happy with my life just the way it is now, Mom.”
And any time she thought otherwise, she quashed the doubt like a bug. No room for loneliness or self-pity in a widow’s life. There was too much at stake. She had to embrace what she had and make the best of it.
“I’m just saying, one of these days you’re going to want to do something just for yourself. And you should do it.”
“Stop. I don’t need a social life.” She sighed and rubbed her thumb against the lines forming between her eyebrows. “I have a social life. I have friends.” Well, she had three best friends, all other writers who lived a plane ride away in different directions. And she had a number of solid acquaintances on the peninsula.
Okay, now she was sounding defensive, even in her own head.
“I wasn’t talking about that, exactly, but since you brought it up…don’t you want someone who will rub your shoulders and ask you how your writing went?”
Unbidden, the memory of firm hands and a rough, low voice rattled through her mind. The unsettling reminder that her life was missing a certain masculine presence wasn’t easily pushed away, either.
She sighed.
Her mother lowered her voice. “I’m not saying reconnect with your inner wild child or anything.”
Sometimes being the daughter of hippies was a challenge. Faith cleared her throat and gave Miriam a bland look. They never talked about how she used to be in front of Eric and they weren’t about to start. Not that she tried to hide her personality, but she’d matured beyond that young woman who wanted the next thrill to be bigger and brighter than the one before.
“I’m just saying it’s been a long time,” her mother whispered. Eric was lost in a bin of Lego at the far end of the room, but his little ears still managed to hear everything. “Don’t worry. One day soon, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome is going to zoom into your life and you’re not going to know what hit you.”
“Oh no,” Faith said quickly. “Stop. I don’t need or want anyone to zoom anywhere. Right now, I just want your stir fry in my belly, a bedtime story with my kid, then I’m going to the bakery to get some extra words in for the night.”
“Don’t go crazy,” Miriam mocked lovingly.
Faith snorted. There were barely a thousand people in their tiny little town at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula. Wilderness and water surrounded them on all sides, and other than a few restaurants that mostly catered to tourists getting on and off the ferry and the hoity-toity cottagers that briefly visited the area in the summer, there was absolutely no trouble to get into.
They didn’t even have a Starbucks. The bakery on the edge of town was the only place that served coffee and had decent WiFi service, so she went there to write when she needed a change of pace.
Banana nut muffins were as crazy as Faith Davidson got these days.
And most of the time, that was just how she liked it.
— —
Dusk was falling as Zander Minelli rolled his Harley off the last ferry of the day from Manitoulin Island to Tobermory.
Thirty minutes from home. Twenty if he didn’t care about his best friend Dean or his brother Rafe, both local police officers, maybe giving him a ticket.
Even though this wasn’t his official homecoming—he wouldn’t retire from the army for another six months—it was the first time since transferring out West that he’d ridden his bike back for a visit. Since he’d be moving at the ass-end of winter with all his earthly possessions, riding out now and leaving the bike behind in his brother Tom’s garage made the most sense.
It even checked off the cross-country bike ride from his That Would Be Awesome list.
So why did he feel so weary?
It was good to be home…he guessed. It wasn’t bad.
Good to have some leads lined up for potential security clients.
In theory, his post-retirement plan was great.
In reality, something didn’t feel quite right—something he couldn’t get a firm grasp on. Maybe because forty was just around the corner.
He didn’t want to be one of those guys who moaned about a milestone birthday or getting old. He was able-bodied, fit as fuck, and his smile still worked when he felt like making a female friend.
He had nothing to complain about.
Nothing to really celebrate, either.
He was definitely melancholy about leaving behind his career in the military. But re-upping for another contract didn’t feel like the right call, either. At his age and rank, he’d be working a desk job anyway.
If he got out, he could do anything he wanted. The problem was, he still didn’t know what exactly that was.
As he climbed out of the small town and headed down the two-lane highway toward Pine Harbour, the wind in his face and the familiar landscape all around him, he knew he was on the right track. Once he got settled here, the restless feeling would go away. Or he’d act on it and do something else.
The possibilities were endless, and maybe that was his issue. He’d been bound by orders for two decades.
Maybe he needed to focus on his other reasons for moving back to Pine Harbour. Family. The year before, Rafe had been shot in the line of duty. Thankfully he survived, and now had a baby on the way with his beautiful wife Olivia. Zander’s only sister, Dani—the baby of the family—was set to get married in a month, on the last weekend of the summer. He’d fly home for that, because he’d only have a few days off.
He’d be home at Christmas as well.
He was going to spend a lot of time in Pine Harbour because of his family over the next few years, so why not set up a home base there?
If wanderlust struck, he could take off.
Not if. When.
It wasn’t in his nature to stick to one place.
It wasn’t even in his nature to set down roots. In all his time in the army, he’d never bought a house, always preferring to live in base housing or rent a room from another guy who could use the cash.
Maybe that was it. Just down the road lay a permanence he’d never let himself sink into before. Renting in Pine Harbour would be foolish, and there was no way in hell he’d live with his parents or mooch off one of his siblings.
He was a grown-ass man, and he’d buy a damn house, even if it killed him a little inside.
Ahead of him, a hatchback with a dizzying array of geek and feminist bumper stickers slowed and signalled a right turn into Greta’s Bakery, the last bit of civilization before the road out of town faded to wilderness, provincial parks and remote cottages. Someone had a craving for something sweet, he thought idly.
Actually, pie didn’t seem like such a bad idea for himself.
He ignored the small stab of guilt. His mother would have pie. And cookies. And squares and lasagna and salad and everything else he might ever want. He could already feel the smothering.
It’s not like she’d ever know. And this might be the last opportunity to be alone with his thoughts for the next week. He needed to sort his shit out and put on his acceptable-for-public-consumption face before he hit his home town.
He parked his bike at the side of the gravel lot and set his helmet on the seat, then rubbed his hands through his hair as he slowly walked toward the glass-fronted building. A warm yellow light spilled out, beckoning him inside. He’d only been here a few times--Greta was a friend of his mother’s, but a competitor as well. Things were complicated in the restaurant game on the peninsula.
The hatchback he’d followed in had parked closer to the building, and as he approached, the driver’s side door swung open. Zander watched with lazy appreciation as a curvy leg emerged first, followed by the rest of an attractive woman with a swinging ponytail and a giant backpack. She wore a faded Star Wars t-shirt and jean shorts that hugged her hips in a way that made his mouth water. Her feet were shoved into flip flops, and her gaze was intently focused on the inside of the bakery.
He hung back, letting her go in first. If she noticed him, she didn’t give any indication, but when she pulled the door open, she held it with her arm extended behind her until he grabbed it.
Which was both polite, and convenient, because it brought him to within a few feet of her.
Maybe it was time to put his smile to good use.
“Thank you,” he said, but she didn’t turn around. Polite, but not social. Okay, noted. Maybe the smile wouldn’t get a chance to come out and play.
At the counter, she ordered a coffee and a cheese Danish, then darted to the corner booth right after paying, before her food was even set onto the self-serve counter. Zander ordered himself a coffee and a slice of apple pie, with ice cream, but his attention was only half on the cashier.
He watched, fascinated, as Ponytail Girl unpacked her bag. A small laptop. A giant textbook. A notepad, pen, highlighter, headphones. Bottle of water.
There was some serious plotting of world domination about to go down in the corner.
He should leave her to it. He would.
But then her order was filled and the cashier called out her name. Faith.
And as Faith looked over at him—well, not him, exactly, but her coffee and Danish, which were right next to his head—Zander felt like he’d been hit by lightning.
It was a complete cliché, and he didn’t care.
She was gorgeous. Pretty wouldn’t do her justice. It wasn’t an interesting enough descriptor, because her mouth was unusually full and her eyes extra piercing. She had a beauty mark to the right of her lips that made him wonder if it would disappear in a dimple if she smiled, and her wavy hair had strands slipping out of her ponytail all over the place, like she’d been busy all day and not noticed her hair-do slowly coming undone.
And she had a youthful glow to her that had nothing to do with her actual age, which he pegged in her thirties, maybe just a few years younger than himself. Whatever it was, it took his breath away.
“Here,” he said, lifting his voice as soon as he could find it. He grabbed her cup and plate before she slid out of the booth. “I’ll bring these over.”
She just stared at him, a strange man with his hands all over her snack, and he tried his making friends smile again.
It didn’t seem to work.
That was unfortunate, because he’d never wanted it to work more than in this moment.
“Don’t worry,” he said after crossing the small eatery section of the bakery and setting her order in front of her. “I grew up waiting on tables. I know better than to bother a customer clearly in the middle of work.”
“Thank you.” She flashed him a quick smile before her mouth twisted back into the concentrating pout from before.
“If you need anything else…” He took two slow steps backward, then glanced over his shoulder. His own order was up. “I’ll be over there, eating apple pie.”
Her lips quirked up, just a hair. It felt good to make her smile, but he didn’t want to distract her, so he turned away.
“Hey, do you know anything about swords?” The sound of her voice behind him did weird, warm, funny things to his insides.
He glanced back at her. “I’m sorry?”
“You look…” she trailed off and waved her hands in the air. Something sparkly glinted in the middle of her face. She had a tiny nose piercing. He tried hard not to stare. “You know. Tough. Like you might know what it’s like to have a sword ripped out of your hands.”
He grinned and flexed his arms, his hands curling into fists. It might be an unconventional way to get a girl to talk to him, but as far as conversation openers went, one that pointed out he looked badass was pretty good—although he’d rather like to think he’d be the one knocking a blade from his opponent’s hands. Of course, he couldn’t say that. Play it cool, man. “Sure. Why do you ask?”
She gave him a wincing look that was halfway between I-don’t-want-to-tell-you and I-can’t-explain-it-in-less-than-a-minute. “Research?”
That was interestingly vague. He liked it. “I’ll just grab my coffee, and then… can I sit?”
His chest tightened as she stared at him for a beat. Two beats. And when she nodded, a stuttering little jerk of her head that suggested maybe she was as surprised as he was, his heart jumped back to life, giving his ribs a fist bump of the likes he’d never felt before.