Chapter 2—Must Come Down

Lavender Mead sniffled and rubbed her puffy eyes. They burned like hell from crying most of the night and into the morning. Hugging herself tight, she blinked back more tears.

All around her, fellow islanders hunched their shoulders against the incessant February rain as they gathered in clusters near the shore of Outlaw Bay. The protected bay had been named for all the smugglers, rumrunners, and various other criminals who’d sought refuge there, not to mention the Harris family of the 1920s, renowned for their bootlegging, among other things.

Behind her, Art Harris’s decrepit mansion clung to the slope above the rotting marina like a stubborn old lady refusing to surrender to the ravages of time.

Dang, but Lavender was going to miss the old bachelor.

She’d met Art eight years ago, shortly after moving next door to Twin Cedars, his run-down estate. At nineteen she’d just dropped out of college. She’d had no future plans, an island-sized chip on her shoulder, and a fondness for self-destruction. Madrona Island was one of Washington’s San Juan Islands, nestled between the Olympic Peninsula and Vancouver Island and a fitting refuge for someone who wanted to disappear for a while. With only a few thousand full-time residents, Madrona was home to billionaires, artists, recluses, and nature lovers.

The crotchety old man had chewed her ass for feeding his fat cat, who was on a diet. How the heck was she to know? The cat had bitched at her door, and she’d assumed he was a stray—a very fat stray. Art’s cantankerous attitude hadn’t fazed Lavender in the least. Impressed he couldn’t intimidate her, he’d invited her to sit on the marina bulkhead with him and fish. They never caught anything, but they talked a lot.

The next day, Lavender had cooked her five-alarm chili and carried it over to him. One bite and two glasses of water later, he declared it the best damn chili ever. From that point on, they’d forged a lasting friendship, a lonely old man and a lonely young woman. Art filled a hole left by a dad who chose football over his daughter. In exchange, she became his family. At least, the only family who gave a shit about him.

Now her one port in the storm was gone.

Another sob welled up in her throat. Funerals were supposed to give closure, help people move on.

Not working so far.

She yanked a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. Mrs. Malacotty handed her another tissue and patted her arm. Lavender managed a weak smile, but nothing eased the ache inside her.

Art died in a nursing home. Alone. She should’ve been there. Instead she’d stayed on the island, kidding herself he’d recover enough to come back home. No amount of praying and singing gave a person closure on that kind of guilt.

A gusty wind blew in off the water, pelting Lavender’s face with rain. The big, fat drops mixed with her tears and left salty trails down her cheeks. Good thing she hadn’t bothered with makeup. She pulled up the hood on her raincoat and hunkered down, teeth chattering. In front of her, the minister droned on like a stubborn mosquito buzzing in her ear. His bright yellow raincoat squeaked every time he shifted his fat body. Lavender hiccupped and covered her mouth with her hand.

Meanwhile, Art’s only nephew stood at the head of the marina dock, not appearing the least bit grief-stricken, most likely counting the hours until the reading of the will.

In all the years she’d been Art’s neighbor, never once had his nieces or nephew visited him, which branded them as despicable people in her book. Senior citizens deserved to be surrounded by family and friends in their golden years, not discarded and forgotten.

Even worse, the nephew happened to be Tyler Harris, a jock to rival all jocks and an entitled asshole.

Tyler stood to one side of the preacher and surveyed the crowd with stony indifference. Dark circles settled in the hollows of his cheekbones, giving him a haggard look. She’d bet he’d been dragged out of some party at three a.m. and hauled to the island.

Tyler’s detached gaze settled on Lavender. Turquoise eyes drilled into her until she squirmed. She’d never seen eyes that color before. Like a South Pacific lagoon, but not nearly as inviting. Regardless, she couldn’t look away, couldn’t shake the spell he’d cast on her with one hot, unnerving gaze.

Several locks of dark, wet hair fell across his high forehead. His brows drew together as he squinted through the rain. A day’s growth of stubble darkened his cheeks and strong jaw. One corner of his mouth lifted in a halfhearted bad-boy smile. Her heart, already woozy from grief, flopped over and begged for mercy.

She mentally slapped herself for admiring a piece of eye candy during Art’s funeral. What kind of sorry soul did that? Even if it had been a while. Everything had a proper place and time, and this wasn’t it. Wrenching her gaze away, she faked complete attention to the service, all the while fidgeting under Tyler’s shameless scrutiny.

The preacher stumbled through his eulogy as raindrops smudged the ink on his handwritten notes. Finally finished, he nodded to a group of Art’s cronies who’d christened themselves as the Island Yankee Brotherhood. They shuffled forward in their military uniforms, buttons bursting and fabric straining around their shoulders. Except for big Ed. He’d draped his too-small uniform jacket over his shoulders.

Homer, the leader of the brotherhood, lifted a trumpet to his lips and blew out the first notes of what had to be “Taps.” The brothers stood at attention while the other guests held their hands over their hearts. Even Tyler Harris placed one big hand over his chest, most likely to call attention to the Super Bowl ring on his finger. The diamonds on the gaudy thing cut through the gloom like a light in a lighthouse.

Halfway through “Taps,” Homer hesitated. His eyes glazed over. He repeated da-ta-da once, twice, three times, over and over like a broken record stuck in one spot. The brothers didn’t budge one muscle, while the rest of the guests glanced at one another. Finally, Jim Miller elbowed Homer in the ribs. He woke from his stupor after one last earsplitting, off-key note and lowered the trumpet.

All eyes turned to the dock and Tyler Harris. Lavender averted her eyes to avoid another round of disturbing eye contact. Her gaze fastened onto his impressive body. Even hidden beneath a raincoat, his broad shoulders and wide chest were visible, along with his long legs. The rain plastered his wet pants to his muscular thighs. His strong calves and ankles ended at big feet. Really big feet. Which from her experience meant—

Big mistake. Mega big one. This would never—ever—do. Jocks were not on her recommended diet, no matter how delectable they might appear on the outside. She’d sworn off any man with the channel numbers for ESPN worn out on his remote. Not to mention one who left his uncle to die on his own.

Lavender scrubbed her face with her hands and banished her current line of thinking.

She knew what was to come next. The word had traveled around town like wildfire. Art had requested it. God only knew why, but he’d always had a flare for the dramatic. He wanted his ashes scattered in Outlaw Bay via his nephew’s renowned throwing arm. The speculation as to how that would be done had run rampant all week.

All eyes were on the dock.

The preacher handed Tyler a football-shaped urn, courtesy of a local ceramics shop, and a gasp rippled through the crowd.

Tyler wrapped his long fingers around it and stared blankly at it. He glanced at the preacher, who said something to him. Tyler nodded grimly.

He turned the football around in his large hand as if assessing its air- or sea-worthiness. With a determined set to his jaw, he spun on his heel and lurched down the rickety dock. The rotted structure rocked from side to side with each step, causing Tyler to stagger like a drunk on a three-day binge.

He stopped near the end and braced his legs apart for balance. The dock groaned and creaked as waves beat at the pilings. His athletic body countered every jolt with ease. He stood in profile, his head thrown back, staring out to the water like a defiant conqueror. His strong chin jutted out, accentuating a slight cleft. His unruly hair, in need of a haircut, plastered against his forehead, but he didn’t bother to pull up his hood.

Art’s orange tabby rubbed around Lavender’s legs and meowed, demanding attention. Art had never named him, and they simply called him The Cat. She ignored the prima donna, and the tabby head-butted her legs. She pushed him away with her foot. His green eyes bored into hers. He twitched his tail from side to side. “Shhh.” She held a finger to her lips.

The cat yowled again. She bent down to grab him, but he eluded her. When she took a step toward him, he streaked toward the dock, weaving in and out of the crowd like a running back heading for the end zone.

“No!” Lavender scrambled after the cat but stopped short of the unstable dock.

Tyler hefted the football urn over his head and cocked his arm. An orange flash darted between his legs. He stumbled in an attempt to avoid stepping on the tabby cat. His front foot couldn’t find purchase on the slippery planks and shot out from under him and off the edge of the dock. The urn smashed onto the dock, shattered, and sent gritty gray ash flying everywhere, coating the preacher and anyone within several feet. Tyler’s ass followed his foot, skidding across the dock and off the edge. His big body crashed into the icy cold water.

The guests watched in horrified disbelief.

The cat ran back to her and sank his claws in her leg. With a yelp, she leaned down and detached the little brat, cradling him in her arms.

“You’re in deep shit, buddy.”

The cat purred. In the self-absorbed way of most cats, he’d didn’t give a damn about all the trouble he’d caused.

Sputtering and cursing, Tyler bobbed to the surface and grasped the edge of the dock. He hoisted himself out of the water and stomped to shore, shaking water from his hair.

Lavender’s eyes widened as he headed straight toward her and Cat, his eyes blazing and his shoes making squishing noises. Every muscle in his six-foot-four frame appeared tensed for battle as he towered over her by more than fourteen inches. She tightened her grip on the troublemaking feline, who was blissfully unaware of the man with catocide on his mind.

“That cat just used up all nine of his lives.”

Standing toe-to-toe with the arrogant quarterback, Lavender shrugged and tossed him a too-innocent smile. “You’re dripping all over my feet.”

His body vibrated with restrained fury. Salt water ran off him in streams and puddled on the already saturated ground. He gave her a once-over as the storm in his eyes built to a category five. “I’m not done with him. Or you.” Whirling around, he grabbed a towel someone handed him and stalked off.

Lavender didn’t know whether to laugh or run like hell. If he thought he was pissed now, just wait until the reading of the will this afternoon.

She’d be replacing Cat as number one on his hit list.