Page 5 of Forget Me Not

I know most people on the island. I just moved here, officially, six months ago, to help Gran and Pap run the inn., but I spent most of my summers here, growing up. They’re older now, and they can’t keep up with things like they used to. Mom and Dad thought I was crazy, leaving my life in Portland to come out to Port Nova, they refuse to help, so . . . here I am.

Not sure which is worse. No help at all or my help.

I’ll get back to you on that.

“That’ll be twenty-four-ninety-five.”

I stare at the teen cashier, almost not registering what she said.

“Ma’am.”

“Sorry.” I shake myself, reaching in my bag for my wallet. “I was taking a nap, I guess.”

Where the hell is it?

I rifle through various art supplies, random gum wrappers, a hairbrush, even though I can’t brush my wild hair while it’s dry . . . a freaking screwdriver. But . . . my wallet’s not in the conglomerate of bullshit thrown in my purse.

“Sorry, it must be buried.”

My cheeks flame as I hunt the wallet down, but just as I find it, a big, strong arm comes out of nowhere, handing over a fifty.

“These, too,” a gruff voice sounds entirely too close to my back.

I pause, both mortified and exhilarated as the I stare at the man who must have gotten tired of waiting on me. He’s tall—a giant compared to my normal person height.

And handsome.

He’s impossibly handsome.

Holy shit.

“You don’t have to do that,” I stammer, before I can control myself.

One of these days, Nova, you’re going to learn how to interact with other humans. Especially hot ones.

“I’m paying you back,” I declare, attempting to open my wallet.

It’s then the man fixes me with the full weight of his stare. His chocolate eyes bore into me as if he can reach into my mind and read every single thought I’ve ever had. I swallow, the sting on my cheeks from how hard I’m blushing making me hot.

He’s terrifying. Almost feral in the way his black hair is tousled. Like a sexy lumberjack that part-times as an underwear model for chainsaws. Is that even a thing?

Should be.

He has a stubble on his face that tells me he doesn’t shave a lot, and a scar across his cheek that looks like it probably really freaking hurt when it happened.

He probably didn’t even notice it.

The way those brown eyes flash, as if he’s calculating something, makes my heart beat a little faster.

I don’t know this man, which means he’s a newcomer.

He also reeks of shellfish.

He’s a lobsterman.

“It’s fine,” he grumbles, looking down at my pitiful wallet, dirty from years of abuse and covered in llamas.

It was a phase, okay?

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