Page 31 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“Nothing we didn’t expect.”

Is he downplaying the sparks I felt flying off his best friend while he stood there watching, or did I misread the situation? “Is he going to be okay?”

Quinn laughs, the tension around his eyes softening. “Yeah, in about ten days.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s been in a loveless partnership for four years, and it’s finally coming to an end.”

Partnership. “Dawson is…married?”

Quinn finishes drying his hands on the dishtowel but balls it in his fist instead of hanging it back up on the range handle. “You know those romance novels about fake relationships? The ones where they’re actually perfect for each other and fall madly in lovewhilethey’re faking it?”

“LikePretty Woman?” I only watched it because Blake said it was funny. It was, but so far from reality as to be painful.

“That’s not Brielle and Dawson. On a good day, there’s mutual respect.”

“And on a bad day?”

“D.J. beats his head against the nearest wall.”

“Why did they get…” I try to force out the word. “Married?”

Quinn throws the hand towel to the counter and crosses his arms. “It was the only way to save his family’s business.”

My mind is doing cartwheels. I don’t understand this…agreement. What did this woman have that Dawson didn’t? Couldn’t he have found another way to save his family?

“Does he love her?”

Quinn barks a laugh. “No.”

“Does she love him?”

“Brielle loves money and power.”

“Kids?” The thought of Dawson fathering children with a woman he doesn’t love and plans to divorce makes me wince.

Quinn laughs. “That would require them sleeping together.”

This sounds…crazy. “So it’s just business?”

“It’s an agreement that’s benefitted them both.”

Before I can unscramble the questions multiplying in my brain, Quinn pushes off the counter and gently cradles my shoulders. “Once we wrap up our project here with a neat little bow, Brielle will sign the divorce papers, and Dawson will be free.”

After a reassuring smile, he walks to the stairs and climbs out of sight.

The oven timer beeps, making me jolt. I move the foil-wrapped rolls to the side of the oven rack, then slide in the salmon. Once the timer is set, I leave a note for them about the salad and instructions on how long to bake the crisp.

Then I tidy up one last time and slip out the door.

Inside the truck, there’s a slender metal tube and a small square package on my seat. Confused, I unscrew the tube and look. It’s a fly rod. Inside the box is a matching reel. I take a closer look at the new gear. The Sage rod is the top of the line—light and strong, practically indestructible.

Under the reel is a note:

Hold nothing back, Alexis.

Dawson

---