Page 29 of Rescued by the Single Dad

“Brooke?” Talia asked, resting a hand on Brooke’s arm and bringing her back to reality. “You okay?”

Brooke flashed them all a big, happy smile. “Sounds wonderful.”

The Town Center Grocery Store was more than just a grocery store. It was the hub for all hardware, food, clothes, houseware, gardening, pharmaceuticals, tech and everything else you could think of. What started out as a small general store for food, quickly developed into a sprawling monstrosity with additions built onto additions until the place was two-stories tall and resembled a contorted octopus from the sky. Add in the fact that there was also a big courtyard with food vendors, an ice cream shop, a newly opened kombucha shop, a cannabis store, a liquor store, and various tourist trinket shops, and the place was always busy, with parking nearly impossible to find.

However, Clint knew a secret parking spot—as did many other locals—and he pulled off down an alleyway one block away from the town center. It was a one-way street, and a dead-end, so tourists didn’t really venture down the road. But if you drove ahead, there was a small gravel pullout that could accommodate six vehicles if the drivers didn’t park like inconsiderate idiots.

And today, they weren’t.

He snagged the last spot, angle parking like the rest, and hopped out of his truck.

Brooke’s list grew damp in his palm as the sun beat down overhead with zero remorse. Even though school wasn’t out yet, swarms of tourists loaded the ferries every Friday to come and take in the magic and quirkiness of San Camanez. There were several campsites on the island, as well as cabins and bungalows to rent—like the ones Clint and his brothers owned—but a lot of people just came over for the day as well. There was plenty to do on the island. Hiking, biking, beaches, wine tours, cidery tours and every Saturday and Sunday the field across the street from the Town Center Grocery Store had a farmers’ market where anyone who grew or made anything could come and peddle their wares.

That was half the reason the parking lot was so full right now. It was Sunday, and the field was jam-packed with people looking to buy homemade pies, kitschy bracelets made of beach shells, and Seth Griswold’s “WORLD FAMOUS” no-meat jerky.

He nodded and waved to over a dozen people as he hoofed it down the narrow shoulder of the road to the grocery store.

Everyone knew everyone on the island.

And that also meant that everyone knew everyone’s business.

He and his brothers would have to remain extra vigilant to keep Brooke’s existence a secret.

“Hey, Clint,” came a gruff but friendly voice behind him.

Clint spun around just as he was about to climb the worn wooden steps up to the grocery store. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Hugh Tapper. A long-time islander who ran a pottery studio out of his home. He did well for himself, making most of his money from expensive commissions made by wealthy tourists. He was known for his strong opinions and blunt ways of delivering them.

Clint made sure to throw on a big smile and thrust his hand out. “Hugh, how are things?”

Hugh’s grizzled mouth beneath his bushy gray mustache dipped into a deep frown. “So sad about ol’ Bonn, huh?”

“Terrible news,” Clint agreed. “Even though we knew he wasn’t well, a part of me really thought ol’ Bonn would live forever.”

“I think we all did.” Hugh nodded.

Another thing about Hugh, he always had his finger on the pulse of the island. He knew what was happening almost before anyone else.

So it was serendipitous that Clint should run into him. Hugh would know when Bonn’s celebration of life would be.

“The island elders are meeting tomorrow to discuss Bonn’s land, huh?” Hugh said, but in a way like he was confirming this news with Clint.

Clint frowned and shrugged. “Are they?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they are. Celebration of life will be next weekend. Apparently, Bonn organized everything right before he died. Down to what kind of food he wanted served and even the music.”

Clint chuckled as melancholy over the death of such a prominent island figure scraped the back of his throat. “Good ol’ Bonn.”

“Anyway, you take care,” Hugh said, glancing behind him when a child made a sudden high-pitched screech in delight. “Gotta get back to the studio. Got a big commission.”

Clint clapped Hugh on the shoulder over his checkered flannel. Even in the dead of summer when it was over one-hundred-degrees in the shade, Hugh always wore flannel and jeans. “Be sure to text me a picture of the finished product.”

Hugh waved his hand in dismissal. “You know I don’t like that texting stuff.” He disappeared into the crowd.

Chuckling, Clint climbed the stairs to the grocery store, holding the door open for another familiar face.

“Thanks, Clint,” said Mrs. Delaney, a woman in her mid-fifties who had inherited land from her grandfather and moved her and her family over to the island about ten years ago.

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