Page 8 of Smitten with the Single Dad

She shook her head and huffed out a small humorless laugh, but the forced smile must have pulled funny on her fat, split lip and she winced. “The only people I really know all work forhim. We came over to the island as a going away party for me. I’m moving to New York. My new job starts in two weeks.”

“What about family?” Dom asked.

She shook her head again, her eyes sad. “Mom is dead. Dad is dead. Brother is dead. It’s just me.”

Dear god, how fucking sad.

Even though Wyatt was no stranger to immense loss, he was so fucking grateful for his brothers, all their kids, and the women joining their family. The support system and village they were cultivating not only kept him sane, but it also kept his heart from shriveling to dust whenever the grief bubbled up.

“Are you staying somewhere on the island?” Dom asked.

“No. We came over for the day. Everyone else left.Hesent them home while I was in the washroom. Is there another ferry tonight?”

Wyatt and his brother shook their heads.

“Only the staff seabus,” Wyatt said. “But we don’t have time to get you to the dock in time for that.” He checked his watch. The seabus that shuttled summer island staff back over to Seattle early in the morning and late at night, left in less than fifteen minutes. And it was always on schedule.

Her bottom lip wobbled and big, fat tears welled up in her eyes. “I feel so stupid.” Her gaze dropped to the gravel. “I’ve dismissed his advances all year and even tonight. I have never flirted. Never led him on. I shouldn’t have had anything to drink. I shouldn’t have even come today.”

“But you’re not drunk,” Dom said. “You asked me to switch out your vodka sodas with just straight soda water. And even if you were drunk, that doesn’t give him license to force himself on you or assault you. Even if you consented at first, then changed your mind. That still doesn’t give him the right.”

Vica sniffed. “Most people won’t see it that way.”

“Most people are idiots,” Wyatt said.

Just then, Bennett came trudging up the side of the pub, his face cast downward so they couldn’t read his expression. His hands were in the pockets of his chinos. When he reached them and finally lifted his gaze, he didn’t even have to say anything for Wyatt to know what happened.

Fuck.

“We need to pull up the CCTV footage we have around the pub,” Dom said, also reading Bennett’s expression. “Call Myla and Everett.”

Wyatt nodded and pulled out his phone.

“I already did,” Bennett said solemnly.

“W—wait, I don’t understand. What’s going on?” Vica asked. “What happened? Is he okay?”

Bennett swallowed, his gaze shifting between Wyatt and Dom before landing on Vica. “His windpipe was severely crushed. Justine tried to do a cric, but he started to bleed out and … we couldn’t revive him. He died. I’m sorry.”

Vica’s eyes went wide as dinner plates as she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “No,” she murmured, shaking her head. “No. I just needed to get away. I just needed to hurt him. I wasn’t supposed to kill him. Just hurt him. They taught me how to hurt so I could get away. So I could escape. They never trained me to kill.” She was speaking a million miles a minute now, saying the same things over and over again. Italian mixed with her English, and her words developed more and more of a panicked stutter and a thicker accent.

“Who trained you?” Dom asked.

Wyatt carefully reached out and gripped Vica by the shoulders to ground her. She trembled like a leaf in a windstorm, but his grip seemed to help—or at least he hoped it had helped.

“M—my brother and his friends. They were in the 4th Alpini P-paratroopers Regiment … and … and they taught me how to defend myself.”

Ah, that made sense.

Wyatt and three of his four brothers were all former marines. If they’d had any sisters, they absolutely would have done the same thing. And they alreadyplanned to start teaching Clint’s daughter Talia, and Bennett’s daughters Aya and Emme, how to defend themselves too.

The door to the pub opened and a few chipper people, laughing like they hadn’t a care in the world, came sauntering out.

“What’s going on?” the tall blond guy asked, his cheeks ruddy from too much booze.

“You got a ride home, pal?” Dom asked, always in bartender-mode and making sure his patrons were being responsible and taken care of.

“I’m the DD tonight,” said a short woman in dark jeans and a gray hoodie, who was part of their little five-person group. “Pulled the short straw.”

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