Bryce Fitzpatrick sat up in bed. Taking one look at the waves gently washing up on the seashore and a blue sky full of white, puffy clouds, he gave it all the finger. He punched his pillow for the hundredth time and buried his nose in it, trying to breathe in enough carbon dioxide to force his body to relax.

Or die.

Right now, he’d be fine with either.

When he’d left New York City for two weeks of paid vacation, he hadn’t expected to spend his first night tossing and turning, unable to get more than thirty minutes of shut-eye at a time.

Especially after what looked like an open-and-shut homicide turned into the biggest scandal Long Island had seen in twenty years, involving the mob, a sex-slavery ring, and a former candidate for governor of the great state of New York. The former candidate had been found dead at an underground club that catered to men like him. It had been a bitch to ferret out who’d put the hit on Representative Kline.

Most times, he loved his job. He truly enjoyed helping to bring the bad guys to justice and giving closure to victims’ families. But for this one...he honestly didn’t give a damn about solving the case for some asshole who used his power and money to hurt others. He was more interested in helping those women and men—barely legal adults—who’d been living like animals for months. Until he found the kids.

His stomach roiled.

Not even his CIT training had kept his true feelings at bay. He’d nearly gone off the deep end, and had to be restrained by two other detectives when he lunged for the pimp, a hard-faced woman with a permanent sneer on her lips and a calculating look in her eyes. She’d be back to her old job as soon as she could. He knew it. They all knew it. Too many powerful people were involved...until they broke the case wide open and a video of the horrors that had gone on at the club went viral.

Thank God for social media.

Reason number two hundred he needed to get away.

He needed to forget.

He needed peace.

He needed quiet.

But, damn, it was quiet. Too quiet for a city boy like him.

Bryce missed the sounds of the city—the blare of horns, the wail of sirens, and the serenade of drunks below his fifth-floor walk-up punctuated by screams of ‘You fucking suck’. By nature, police detectives were suspicious bitches, and this solitude he thought he’d been craving was already driving him insane.

Three months ago, he would have had someone to talk to when he came home. Three months ago, he would have had someone waiting in his bed, with open arms and thighs. Ready and willing to help him forget about what he had to deal with each day.

His girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—couldn’t stand his job, his hours, or the pay. She was pissed he didn’t live off his inheritance from his mother’s family, live in a Manhattan apartment, and have a Wall Street job like one of her brothers.

As far as Bryce was concerned, she could stay pissed and the hell away, because he was a cop—now a detective—and some day, he would be chief of police, just like his old man, his dad’s old man, and his dad before him. It was in his blood. A legacy handed down from oldest son to oldest son on his father’s side.

It hadn’t been his ex’s dream, so she walked away and never looked back. Since then, he hadn’t had time to date, much less hook up with anyone. Clubs of any kind left a stale taste in his mouth, and his mother’s friend’s daughters were too damned pampered, which left online dating sites, dating apps, and weddings.

Honestly, his ex did him a favor. He wasn’t ready to settle down, no matter how much his parents and grandparents reminded him that a man of twenty-nine should have a couple of kids by now.

Lifting his head, he shoved the covers off and headed to the bathroom, scratching his chest and yawning along the way. He needed a shower—possibly a shave. As the water warmed up, Bryce brushed his teeth and examined his face.

Yeah, forget the shave. He was on vacation, damn it.

Maybe while he was here, he could find a cute local with a hot body and no expectations beyond multiple, mutual orgasms.

He had to smile over that one as he stripped down and jumped into the shower. When all was said and done, the hot water did little to get rid of his lack-of-sleep hangover, but he toweled off, got dressed, and walked to the kitchen.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said to the coffee maker, which was steaming with the heavenly brew. Old habits were hard to break, even on vacation. He always started his day with a cup of liquid ambrosia. So, last night, even though he was too damn tired to see straight, he managed program it and remember to use the gallon milk jug his nana kept filled with water in the fridge, instead of what came straight out of the tap.

“Water’s too chlorinated to make a good cuppa,” she reminded him when he picked up the key.

Lifting the mug to his lips, he murmured, “Come to Daddy,” and took a nice, long—he spewed the liquid shit all over the kitchen.  “What the hell?” Grabbing the jug from the fridge, he popped off the lid with his thumb, held it to his nose, and took a deep breath.

“Shit,” he mumbled. It smelled exactly like watery vinegar. Or was that vinegary water? In any case, it made a shitastic cup of coffee.

Cursing under his breath, he set the jug down on the counter and reassessed his situation. He had one option, really. Go into the village and shop for what he needed.

His stomach rumbled.

First, however, he’d grab something to eat.

Striding back to his room, he grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone, then headed outside to his Jeep. A short while later, he spotted the welcome sign as well the sign that was slightly hidden by some overgrown bushes, lowering the speed limit to thirty-five from fifty-five.  

Welcome to Holland Springs. Population Four thousand and One

He always wondered about those signs. Who maintained them? What if someone moved away—was there an official painter to go take away the one? Births, deaths, relocations, and transplants...those would all have to be factored in. Then there were the snowbirds like his grandparents, but even they’d gone further south to Florida. So the official counter couldn’t include those—

Jesus, Mary, and all the Saints. He shook his head to try to clear it and turned up the volume on the radio.

This was why he needed to eat. He sounded like a fucking idiot, even in his own head, when he was starving.

It was May, early still for tourist season, so there weren’t many shops open during the week, but he took a chance on the first nautical-themed strip mall of sorts he found, pulled in the parking lot, and parked.

Scanning the signs, he nearly crossed himself in relief when he saw an ‘Open for Business’ sign under the image of a basket of blue crabs that was painted on the third storefront window.

Café Blue and White, Home of Award-Winning Crab Cakes

He climbed out of his Jeep, making sure to adjust his shirt so his holster wouldn’t show, and headed to the café. Inside, it was homey, with tables of varying sizes, wide chairs, and a bar that stretched the interior. Yeah, he was digging this place already.

A couple of locals, if he hazarded a guess, sat on stools with their backs turned to him while the most mouthwatering scent filled his nose and went down his throat, only to make it growl for being a tease.

But none of that, not even his must-be-satisfied-this-instant appetite had anything on the hottie behind the bar.

Yeah, he liked what he saw. From her honey-colored, curly hair to her—he peered over the bar—to her nicely rounded ass. He allowed his gaze travel further, down her long, tan legs and back up again.

In a word, from this angle, she was perfect.

And the exact opposite of his ex.

Black hair, icy blue eyes, pale skin. She was Irish with a fiery temper and a slim body kept in shape by whatever latest fitness craze hit Long Island, but damn if she hadn’t always reminded him of winter. While this woman...with just one look, he thought of summer. Of hot nights and sweaty bodies tangled together.

He blew out a breath at the image.

Whirling around, she laughed at something one of her customers said. The sound made his gut clench, and the sight of her mouth open like that...well, the sight damn near sucker punched him, but not as much as when her gorgeous face lifted. Eyes the color of his favorite chocolate bar glanced at him. Black lashes framed them perfectly.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

For a moment, speech deserted him. She cocked her head to one side as she walked closer. So close he could see the smattering of freckles across her nose.

He almost let out a groan. Bryce always had a weakness for freckles on a woman, especially one who was gifted with nice breasts that filled out her white-and-blue checkered shirt. Slicing his gaze to her left hand, he noticed two things. One, she wasn’t married. Two, she had a few scars—curved slightly and white.

Not self-inflicted, the angle wasn’t right. No... He scanned the open kitchen behind her. There was a griddle, a huge stovetop with a four pots of water boiling, and an oven. Yep, her scars were from cooking.

“Sir? Can I help you?” she asked again, more slowly and with a touch of wariness.

Pulling himself together, he forced his mouth to smile. “Still serving breakfast?”

Her answering smile and dancing eyes set off something in his blood. From his training, he already noticed a lot about her, but the man inside of him wanted to know more. Like what she looked like spread under him. How flushed her cheeks would get and if she were a talker or a screamer.

He preferred...a little of both, honestly.

As she grabbed a menu off the bar, he took the opportunity to search her shirt for a name tag. There wasn’t one.

Damn.

“You can sit at the bar or in fr—”

“How about over there?” He pointed to a table for two in the back corner. Easier to keep an eye on her and his surroundings that way.

Not that he was expecting trouble way out here in Holland Springs. Although he knew it took all types to commit crimes, there was still something innocent about places like this. Places small enough that locals gave guys like him the stink eye because he was checking out the waitress.

“Sure.” She skirted around the bar, grabbing a pot of coffee as she went. “Follow me.”

Bryce had absolutely no problem following her or the coffee. She pulled out a chair for him, but he took the opposite one. He’d rather have his back against the wall than that open space behind him.

As she handed him a menu, she deftly flipped over the coffee mug on the table and filled it. After the first swallow, he seriously considered marrying her.

“Where have you been all my life?” he asked with a wink. “I need someone like you to get me going in the morning—”

Her smile grew bigger, but it didn’t reach those gorgeous eyes of hers.

“I’m Bryce Fitzpatrick. And you are?”

“That’s what they all say.”

“They all say their name is Bryce Fitzpatrick?”

The barest hint of a genuine smile nearly reached her eyes. “No.”

“You sure, because it’s against the law to impersonate a cop.”

She fisted her hand on one hip and lifted a brow. “You’re a cop?”

“Detective.”

“Got a badge?”

“Soon as you show me your ID, I’ll show you mine.”

She rolled her eyes, but she wanted to laugh—he could see it on her face. “Well, Detective, I’ll give you a minute or two to figure out what you want to eat. This morning’s special is a Denver omelet with a side of fresh fruit and grits. First cup of coffee is always on the house.”

Wisely, he kept his mouth shut and only nodded before she walked away, her hips swinging. Maybe he’d come on too strong, too fast. But he’d always been the type to go for what he wanted, and right now, he had the time to go for what, or rather who, he wanted.

Besides, she intrigued him with that sassy mouth. Maybe he should order something first, praise her skills, and—

The door bounced open. Lanky kid, about six feet, with watery blue eyes and multi-colored hair, stepped inside, gun drawn. His hand shook as he leveled his weapon straight at...her—whatever her name was.

So much for a vacation away from it all. “Fuck my life,” Bryce muttered as he reached for his gun.