Page 13 of When Summer Returns

“When do we start?” she asked.

“First things first.” Luke moved behind the bar with fluid grace, emerged with a white apron similar to the one he’d tossed at her that first day. “Uniform of the day, Ms. James.”

This time, when he offered it, she accepted with a small smile. “Does it come with hazard pay?”

“Only if you survive the lunch rush.” He checked his watch. “Miguel will be here in twenty minutes. Want me to show you how to set up the bar while we wait?”

“Absolutely.”

For the next hour, Jessie absorbed information like a sponge—learning where supplies were stored, how to check inventory, the proper way to slice fruit garnishes, and the meticulous process of restocking the bar for service. Luke was a surprisingly patient teacher, demonstrating each task with clear explanations and no condescension.

“Not bad,” he said, inspecting her lime wedges. “Though we might need to implement a standardized size chart.”

“Everyone’s a critic.” She flicked a piece of lime peel at him. “Some of us didn’t attend Citrus Cutting Academy.”

“It was a correspondence course,” he replied with exaggerated dignity. “I still have the certificate somewhere.”

“Framed above your bed, no doubt.”

“Just below my Maraschino Cherry Stem Tying diploma.”

Jessie laughed, the sound startling both of them with its ease. It was a genuine moment, unplanned and natural despite the tension that had lingered between them.

The moment was interrupted as a tall, powerfully built man appeared at the bar from the beach side, having just parked his department-issued golf cart at the edge of the sand. It wasn’t your typical tourist cart—this one was modified for island law enforcement with all-terrain tires that could handle both sand and pavement, a light bar mounted on the roof, and the Sheriff’s Department star emblazoned on the side. Sheriff Reece Wells stepped out with the easy confidence of someone who owned whatever ground he walked on.

Sheriff Reece Wells was roughly Luke’s age—early thirties—but where Luke’s good looks tended toward the golden California surfer, Reece was all dark intensity. Black hair cut short on the sides but slightly longer on top, heavily lashed dark eyes that missed nothing, and a perpetual three-day stubble that somehow managed to look deliberate rather than neglectful. The tan BDU tactical pants and black polo shirt with the Sheriff’s Department logo embroidered over the left breast had replaced the traditional uniform years ago—practical concessions to island life. His service weapon was holstered at his hip, a silent reminder of authority despite his casual appearance.

A tribal tattoo band circled one impressive bicep, visible below the sleeve of his polo, with what looked like more ink disappearing beneath the fabric. There was something dangerous about him, a coiled energy that suggested he could handle himself in any situation. Jessie remembered him as the island’s most notorious teenage troublemaker—always in some kind of mischief with Luke not far behind. The badge was the last thing she’d ever expected to see on Reece Wells.

“Well, I’ll be,” he drawled, his weather-beaten face registering surprise before settling into wary assessment. “The rumors are true.”

“Morning, Reece,” Luke said, straightening from his position beside Jessie. “Coffee?”

“Wouldn’t say no.” The sheriff removed his sunglasses as he rested his elbows on the bar, revealing eyes so dark they were almost black. His gaze flickered over Jessie with calculated assessment. “Jessie James. Last time I saw you, you were stealing Peterson’s boat for a midnight joyride with this reprobate.”

“Reece,” she acknowledged, recognizing him despite the added years. “As I recall, you were conveniently looking the other way that night.”

“Statute of limitations,” he said with a smile and a shrug. “Can neither confirm nor deny.”

Luke placed a mug of coffee before the sheriff, who accepted it with a grateful nod. “Reece stops by most mornings to make sure we haven’t broken any laws overnight,” he explained.

“Pure professional diligence,” Reece agreed. “Nothing to do with Mateo’s breakfast burritos.”

“Which won’t be ready for another thirty minutes,” Luke said. “So you might as well tell me what really brought you by at—” he checked his watch, “—seven forty-five in the morning.”

Reece sipped his coffee, gaze shifting between them with undisguised curiosity. “Wanted to see if Harold Biggs was spinning tales again. Claimed he saw Jessie James back on the island, pretty as ever and sitting right here at your bar yesterday.”

“And now you’ve seen for yourself,” Jessie said. “Mystery solved.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Reece’s shrewd eyes assessed her. “Just confirmed one piece of the puzzle.”

Luke’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “Jess is back to handle her father’s estate. Including his share of the bar.”

“Is that right?” Reece turned to her, those penetrating dark eyes missing nothing. “Planning a long stay?”

The question seemed loaded with more than casual curiosity. Jessie smiled pleasantly, refusing to be intimidated. “Haven’t decided yet. Depends on how quickly we can settle things.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting.” Reece drained his coffee mug and set it on the bar with a decisive click. “You know where to find me if you need anything. Island law enforcement at your service.”

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