“Oy, would you shut it?” Jenny’s question to the room at large snapped out after Sloane had groaned out loud for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“But my fucking head.” It was true; she wanted to detach her offending cranium and replace it with something that didn’t pound like a broken drum machine. She hadn’t had a hangover this bad since her first week of college.

She groaned again.

A pillow flew across the bed and smacked Sloane in the face, making her curse even louder—which made Jenny kick her in the thigh with one freezing bare foot.

Jenny had never been fond of mornings, even as a child. She’d once chased Sloane out of her bedroom with a baton for waking her before sunrise. That had been a memorable sleepover. Sloane winced, remembering the bruises. Grumpy little shit.

Her next moan was much softer, but not soft enough. Jenny cursed and rolled over. “Go to the druggist then and get us some of those fizzy thingies.”

“You go.”

Jenny’s leg twitched again, her words slurred against the mattress. “Slo, don’t make me hurt you.”

“Fine.” Moaning, Sloane pushed herself up from the bed they’d shared the night before, just like when they were kids. She hadn’t gotten the keys to her place yet, and last night neither of them had been in any condition to do more than fall on top of the covers and kick off their shoes.

Or in Sloane’s case, apparently one shoe.

She stumbled and nearly went over, grabbing at the wall to stay upright and cursing a blue streak. Another pillow sailed her way, catching her upside the head. Sloane batted it away, muttering, “I must be insane to put up with your shit.”

“You’ve been saying that since you were nine years old,” Jenny mumbled. Then her voice gained volume as she lifted her face long enough to snap, “And I’ll show you insane if you don’t shut the fuck up and let me sleep!”

Remembering the baton incident again, Sloane decided she’d pressed her luck enough. Tiptoeing across the room as well as she could in one boot, she grabbed a brush and ran it through her hair a couple times before giving up. She twisted the heavy mass into a bun on top of her aching head instead. Somehow she managed to locate her other boot and pull it on without falling on her ass. Swiping Jenny’s sunglasses from the sideboard, she opened the door.

It was like being baptized in fire.

“Owie! Ow. Fuck!”

Despite the dark lenses, the burst of light threatened to slice what was left of her brain in two. It shone down the cobbled streets and blazed off the deep blue harbor like a shower of diamonds.

Christ.

She swallowed a pitiful moan and forced herself to step out onto the stoop.

Fair weather was a rare treat on the island but trust it to show up at the most inopportune times. Gritting her teeth, Sloane shut the door gently. She took a step before reconsidering, reaching behind her to open it again and slam it as hard as she could. She walked away with a gleeful smile as something that sounded like a pillow thumped against the window.

The smile was long gone by the time she crossed the Strand. Dear god, was the whole fucking town on holiday? Sloane was well known in Ramsey, even without the writing thing. The fact that she’d been vacationing here for years was enough to get her hallooed and good-day’d half to death. Normally that would have been lovely, but today it was enough to set her teeth on edge.

She slunk into the druggist twenty minutes later in worse shape than when she’d left the flat.

“Sloane!” Clare Becham’s voice jingled with even more good cheer than the bells that rang as the shop door swung closed.

Oh god, no. The town gossip was on duty. “Mrs. Becham, how are you?”

“Well enough, love, well enough. And yourself?” The question was easy, but Sloane heard the not-so-delicate probing behind it and forced a smile.

“I’m good. Just need to pick up some—”

“I’ve heard you bought the old Watterson place out at Bride? ’Tis quite a big house for one person.”

“Oh, it’s not that big,” Sloane said, resigned to fueling the gossip mill. Mrs. Clare Becham prided herself on being the most informed person in Ramsey. Depriving her of her due would only bite Sloane in the ass. “I like my space and I’m having some renovations done as well.”

“Ahh, well. I was hoping your young man might be coming with you. Please tell me the vile rumors about your poor marriage are wrong?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Mrs. Becham. The divorce was actually final three weeks ago.” After Josh had dragged it out as long as he possibly could. Thank god her father had done her a favor and convinced Sloane to use a pre-nup. No doubt protecting his investment. She sighed, hating the bitterness of her own thoughts. Of course, her father’s sound advice still hadn’t prevented Josh from trying every desperate underhanded trick to get around it . 

“Ah, such a shame.”

“The only shame is how much it cost me,” Sloane muttered under her breath, thinking less of the money and more of time and energy. Months of exhaustion and the inability to write so much as a single word. With a frown, she tried to focus on the gleaming aisles. That was behind her now.

“What was that?”

“I said, where is your Alka-Seltzer?”

Mrs. Becham waved a vague hand. “You stayed with young Jenny last night then?” Her thin lips twitched in what might have been disapproval or amusement. Islanders liked outsiders to think they were a simple, dull folk, which was a damn con. Mrs. Becham could fleece more information with more aplomb than a London pickpocket on his best day. “Until your place is ready?”

“It should be ready this weekend, Mrs. Becham. Now about that Alka-Seltzer?”

“Aye, round the endcap there to yer left.” Her thin lips pressed together once. “Heard you two were up at The Fiddler’s last night.”

Sloane felt her way down the aisle with one hand, her eyes half closed as she fought down what she knew was pointless irritation and let it dissolve into amusement. Small towns were small towns, no matter what part of the world you were in. “Who’d you hear that from?”

“Me.” The voice was rough and deep, but Sloane didn’t wince at the sound of it. She went utterly still and swallowed. Hard.

Aww, fuck, universe. Now? Really?

When she had cotton mouth and bedhead and slightly-more-than-day-old, traveled-halfway-around-the-world clothes on?

She turned, amazed she had missed him lounging at the back of the store. There should have been no mistaking that impressive outline, not even in her current state.

“Mac.” His name came out of her mouth like a four-letter word.

“Hello, Sloane. I’d heard ye were back. Enjoying yerself, I see.” He sounded cheery. It pissed her off, especially as she recalled Jenny’s pronouncement from the night before.

She grabbed a box of Jenny’s fizzies, then added another without commenting, her lips pressed firmly together. As she started to walk back to the register, he managed to somehow cut around and step in front of her. As Mac was big and the aisles were small, she was effectively trapped. Unless she wanted to retreat to the endcap again and go around.

No way was she going to retreat. She’d done enough of that where Mac was concerned.

She looked up and pushed Jenny’s sunglasses onto her forehead with her free hand. The light wasn’t as bright in here. She might feel semi-human if it weren’t for his ugly mug beaming down at her. Of course, even through narrowed eyes, she could tell that was bullshit. There was nothing ugly about his mug. Mac hadn’t changed a whit. The son of a bitch was as sexy as ever.

Maybe sexier.

Asshole.

He tapped the boxes against her chest with one long finger. “You should work up back up to pints a halfer at a time. I thought I taught ye better than tha’.”

He winked and Sloane blinked, surprised he would bring that up, especially around Mrs. Becham, who was leaning surreptitiously over the counter, trying to make out every word of her and Mac’s conversation.

Not that Sloane was going to explain Mac’s comment for her, even though the memory brought an unwilling smile to her face.

When Sloane had been almost twenty and Jenny eighteen, they’d decided to sneak over to a pub in Peel. Despite the island’s drinking age of eighteen, her parents had been dead set that Sloane would adhere to the States’ age of twenty-one. Jenny had insisted that this was not only archaic, but slightly insane. She’d enticed Sloane to join her, not that Sloane had needed much enticing at the time.

Mac had overheard their plans. Sloane still remembered the look on Jenny’s face when he’d stepped around the corner and snatched Jenny’s car keys out of her hand.

He hadn’t told on them, but he had insisted on taking them himself. He’d bought their rounds, kept them to a firm limit, glowered most effectively at anyone who tried to hit on them and driven them home after. It had been awkward at first, then a lot of fun, not to mention rather sweet. Back when she had still thought Mac could be either.

She sighed, her smile fading away. Sloane pressed a finger to her lips when he opened his mouth again, shaking her head once making it pound harder.

“What?” he rumbled loudly, deliberately ignoring her hint.

“Oh do be fucking quiet,” she snapped, hearing a gasp. Mac chuckled. “Sorry, Mrs. Becham,” she muttered in the shopkeeper’s direction before trying to force her way around Mac, who moved a mere centimeter or so, making sure she had to slide against the warm, solid breadth of him. Oh god. He smelled the same, of cedar and the sea. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore how that scent made her stomach contract, and not at all unpleasantly.

“Is this better?” His whisper had her eyes popping open. His mouth was so close she could feel the touch of his breath on her skin. She tilted her head back, staring up into the face that had haunted her dreams since she’d been old enough to have interesting ones. Yeah, Mac still had the power to make her heart race and her thighs press together. He was still intimidating and still six feet too much of pure deliciousness. It wasn’t fair. Wouldn’t he ever show his age?

“No, it’s not better,” she snapped. “Your damn voice makes my head ache.”

“Yer head, is it?” His tone was still cheery, but something darker wound through it. The slight, knowing smile curving his lips made her shiver. Lifting her chin, she stepped past him to the counter.

Silently, Mac watched Mrs. Becham ring her up until she said her goodbyes to the clerk and moved for the shop door.

“Best thing for a hangover is Conla’s fish pie,” he said.

Sloane reached for the door handle, ignoring him. Until he stepped forward and slapped a hand down on the door she was trying to open. It wouldn’t budge. “Do you mind?” she snapped while Mrs. Becham tittered.

“Conla, up at Blackfriar’s,” he said, ignoring her question. Mac cocked his head he regarded her with an unreadable expression.

Conla Quayle’s cooking was one of the best kept local secrets. Sloane had found out about her years ago by following her nose to the unassuming stone house on the hill, where she’d commenced to gorge herself every chance since. But right now, the thought of even Conla’s food made her queasy.

“I know who Conla is!” Exasperated, she put one hand on her hip and turned to glare at him. Big mistake. Suddenly she was all too aware of his arm stretched over her head, pressed against the door. Of her body, trapped between him and said door.

Fuck this shit. She didn’t know what Mac was getting at—if he was being patronizing or just trying to help—and she wasn’t in any kind of mood for either. Her chin came up. Best to bite the bullet and make things clear here and now. No way he was going to intimidate her into running away again.

“If you haven’t heard yet, I’m here to stay,” she said firmly. “And—”

“Aye. I know. To stay.” Mac rolled the words on his tongue as if savoring their taste. Why did the bastard looked so damn pleased? Sloane raised an eyebrow, though her insides were confused and quivering.

“Yes. And there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ve got my paperwork from the government. So don’t cause any trouble.”

He frowned, his thick eyebrows drawing together. “Why would I cause ye any trouble, Sloane?”

She stared at him, refusing to blink at the way her name on his tongue made her melt just a little, even after all this time. Instead she forced herself to repeat other words he’d spoken. Ones that had crushed her. “Go home and fucking stay there.” She whispered. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

Something flashed across his face, so fleeting she couldn’t make sense of it. Regret? Her eyes narrowed.

“Sloane.” He stepped closer. “Tha’ was . . . a long time ago.”

For a split second she’d thought he was going to say a mistake. Her stomach fluttered tremulously before going cold and shaky once more.

Gods, what is with me and my stupid obsession with this man? He had been harsh, yes. But it wasn’t Mac’s fault he hadn’t returned her foolish, youthful attraction.

Feeling an all-too familiar rush of exhaustion, she turned away. “Yes. It was. Five years. A whole marriage and divorce ago.” The last came out harsher than she’d meant it to and to her horror, her eyes started to burn. Blindly, she reached for the door again.

His hand on her arm stopped her short. “We heard about that, even here.” The words were soft now, almost a whisper. “My condolences.”

Sloane looked down at his fingers on her arm, their warm weight heavy on her chilled skin. Unable to help herself, she laughed, though the tears were closer than ever. “Try congratulations,” she said thickly, pulling away. “See you round, Mac.”

Or not, she fervently hoped.

He lifted his hand at last and she pulled the door wide when his voice stopped her once more. “Let me buy ye dinner tonight. At Conla’s.”

She resisted the urge to lay her aching head against the doorframe, feeling slightly hysterical. “For god’s sake, Mac.”

Gentle hands turned her until she was facing him again, but she didn’t look up. The toes of his dusty work boots brushed her own pretty, but functional DSWs.

“Ye willna no’ eat anything decent otherwise.” She could hear the smile in his voice fade away when she refused to meet his eyes. “And . . . we are gonna be neighbors, after a fashion.” That was true enough. Her new place on Bride was only about five miles from Mac’s place, which she had told herself over and over would not be a problem when she bought the damn house. Something that in hindsight seemed pretty fucking naïve. “Ye wouldn’t deny me the chance to be neighborly, now would ye, love?”

Startled, she looked up. The endearment was a meaningless term used by the whole of the UK, but one she could never remember Mac employing—and surely not in that deep, caressing tone. Or with something in his face so warm and concerned it made her breath come short. What the hell was going on here? Dazed, Sloane could only stare, her mouth half open.

Mac pressed a forefinger, warm and rough, under her jaw and up, tucking a wayward strand of gold behind her ear. Those damn flutters started up again and her cheeks heated.

His eyes darkened from blue to grey as she yanked back. He nodded once, decisively, before reaching around her to push open the door. Bells tinkled. “I’ll take tha’ as a yes.”

She couldn’t seem to think, couldn’t move.

He gave her a gentle push. “Be ready at half seven or so.”

Nodding numbly, barely noting the druggist’s wide eyes, Sloane snatched her bag and whirled out the door.

She was back at the flat, determinedly stirring tablets of Alka-Seltzer into two mugs, Jenny’s snores rumbling in the background, when it hit her.

Sloane dropped the spoon into the sink, not even wincing at the sharp ring of steel striking steel.

Had Mac gotten her to agree to a date?