Page 5 of Harper

“Let me guess—Ramona again?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“What now?”

“She made a scene in town, screaming at me and carrying on.”

“Did she use profanity?”

“Yes, sir.”

Great. Just what I need at peak tourist season.

I tell Tanner that while someone screaming swear words in the middle of the street isn’t a great look for Skagway, yelling at someone in public isn’t actually illegal.

“Can I file a restraining order?” he asks.

I don’t expect this question. The Stewarts generally try to take care of things themselves without the help of local authorities, which means that Tanner must be at the end of his rope. I tug the napkin from my collar and close the cardboard container holding the rest of my burger. A restraining order is serious business.

“It’s possible, yes, especially if you could get a few witnesses who saw her screaming at you. Alaska Statute 11.61.120 prohibits harassment, and that includes some forms of verbal street harassment. If someone on the street exhibits the intent to harass or annoy you or insults, taunts, or challenges you ‘in a manner likely to provoke an immediate violent response,’ you can report him or her.”

Tanner tilts his head to the side, looking at me so thoughtfully, and looking so damn much like his sister, I wince, averting my eyes. I busy myself straightening an already-neat pile of papers to my left.

“Why didn’t you go to law school, Joe?”

My stupid heart speeds up as a deluge of memories flood my brain. You got in, Joe! You got into law school! I’m so proud of you! Her winsome smile. Her sweet voice. Her throaty laugh. Her body—oh, sweet Jesus, her body—so warm and soft and willing beneath mine.

God, how I miss her.

“Joe?”

“Wasn’t in the cards,” I mutter, pushing back on those memories. I hate how quickly they can bubble up to the surface, making me weak with sadness and regret.

I hate that it’s been a decade since she said she loved me and five years since she spoke my name.

I hate it that I can’t seem to get over her—can’t seem to move on with my life—no matter how decisively she’s deleted me from hers.

Tanner shifts in his seat, leaning forward. “But—”

I lock eyes with the man I’d once hoped to call brother-in-law and use a growl reserved for genuine troublemakers. “Leave it, Tanner.”

He stares back at me for a minute, then shrugs. “Okay, Joe. Okay.”

To unravel the tension in the room, I get back to business, pressing the intercom button on my phone. “Vera, I’m sending Tanner out. Give him a DV-150 form, okay?”

“Protective order?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Copy, boss.”

When I look up at Tanner, he’s back to brooding.

“Protective order,” he grumbles. “Makes me feel like a pussy.”

“No shame in this, Tanner,” I tell him. “Ramona’s tested the patience of a saint, and you’re no saint.”

“True enough, Joe. I’m not.” He chuckles at himself. “But the truth is that I’m not actually doing this for me.”

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