Page 53 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

But there’s also reality—they live in Denver, and sooner or later, they’ll return there. Dawson will be divorced, and he’ll be able to start over.

What does that mean for the three of us? For me? Should we dial things back to a simmer, or use what little time we have left to blow the lid off the rules?

Maybe I’m overthinking it, and today was all we’ll ever have.

By four a.m.I’m awake after a fitful sleep, so I rise and make a quick snack, re-tape my hands, and grab my gear. Charlie trots alongside me, and when I step into Bitter Creek’s current with my rod and a box of flies in my vest pocket, he ambles along the shore, investigating.

I return home feeling renewed, but I’m restless.

Grandma is due home this afternoon, so I leave her a note. I hesitate to say that I might not come home tonight because…what if I have this all wrong?

Instead I sign “see you in the morning” because I’ll likely return after she’s asleep.

After a quick shower, I slip on a sundress and matching cardigan and dream up a killer menu for dinner tonight while curling my hair. I’ll make halibut with a browned butter caper demi-glaze, wild rice, and veggies, with flourless chocolate cake and whipped cream for dessert. If I have time, I’ll also pick blackberries from the wild patch near the house.

Thankfully Grams is still not home when I leave or she’d know something’s up—either from the tension in my face or my outfit—and I’m not ready to explain. Mostly because I can’t.

At the grocery store, I’m so jittery that adding items to my cart takes extra focus.

On a whim, I add a waffle mix, real syrup, and eggs to the cart for breakfast. I tell myself to quit dreaming. But what if our dinner turns into something else?

On my way to checkout, I toss in a box of condoms. The silver packaging flashes like an evil eye, so I stuff it underneath the carton of heavy cream.

Fortunately, the checker is too busy chatting with the manager about a special order to take notice of the condoms in my cart. After loading the groceries into the bed of Cooper’s truck, I drive to the docks.

Most halibut is sold commercially and shipped outside, but at this point in the season, usually a few boats sell direct. At the marina, I park between a white SUV and a refrigerated delivery truck, then sling my purse over my shoulder and grab my cooler from the back. A steady breeze off the bay tickles the hairs at my temples and sends a chill over my skin as I walk down the ramp to the main dock. The planks creak beneath me, and scents of creosote and boat fuel mix with the salt.

The halibut boats are at the far side, past the salmon fishing fleets. To my delight, the Orion sells me a two-pound fillet of fresh halibut. One of the crew skins it for me and wraps it in paper. I pay him and nestle the fish on the bed of ice in my cooler, then return the way I came.

When I pass Pier C, the docks are busier now with arriving boats, and I make the mistake of scanning the slips. Hayden is hosing down the deck of the Arctic Lady in his forest-green foul weather gear. His eyes meet mine. I hurry along, my steps drumming the planks. By the time I get to the top of the ramp, I’m breathing fast.

“You can’t just walk by and not say hello,” Hayden says, catching up. “That’s rude.”

I open the hatch of Cooper’s truck. “You looked busy.”

“Never too busy for you.” He takes the cooler from my hands and lifts it into the back—like a demonstration of chivalry.

I grit my teeth.

He gives me a once over. “You’re awfully dressed up.”

“So?”

He pops the lid of the cooler, then cocks his head. “That’s quite a lot of fish for a little thing like you.”

I lunge for the cooler lid, but he yanks it back. Off-balance, I fall against the tailgate and tip the cooler sideways, spilling ice everywhere and knocking over my bag of groceries. Not only does the paper-wrapped halibut tumble to the ground, but the groceries spill all over the bed, with the silver box of condoms on full display.

Before I can stop him, Hayden snatches up the box and waggles it in front of my face. “How does big brother feel about this?”

I cross my arms and glare at him because he knows the answer.

“That’s what I thought.”

“This is none of your business.”

He whips me to the side of the truck, pinning me to the shell with his hand on my throat, cracking my head in the process. I’m more surprised than scared, though that won’t last if I don’t play this right.

His furious gaze lasers on me. “The hell it’s not.”

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