Page 6 of Tourist Season
I take a deep breath and blink away the memories, returning to my room at the inn. I look at my knife where it now rests on the nightstand, the blade as sharp as the day I’d used it to take my first trophy. My firstjustice. And then I look down at the patch of thin leather, the uneven edges bound to the page.
Memento mori.
Remember, you must die.
AZIMUTHHarper
IENTERA SHIPWRECKEDBEANwith my bag slung over my shoulder and an eye for anything out of place in the little coffee shop. There are the usual suspects. The three Roberts—Bob, Bobby, and Bert—who spend more time in the café than at their jobs filling the potholes that appear every spring. Maddison, the studious and quiet teenage barista who works full-time behind the counter for the summer. Alex, the boy who’s a year older than her, with his floppy hair and devil-may-care attitude. Maddison has the biggest crush on him, and despite several attempts at meddling with their work schedule when the Bean’s owner is occupied with his other restaurant, I can’t seem to get them together. I step into the line and try not to scowl at him. I’m pretty sure his oblivious stupidity is the only thing stopping these two from getting together. With a final perusal of the patrons, I step up to the counter.
“What can I get for you, Harper?” Maddison asks, giving me a sweet, shy grin as she grabs a to-go cup for me. She already knows I’m about to order an Americano, even starting to ring it into her point-of-sale system.
“The usual, please,” I reply, digging into my small bag for my wallet. I wince when my fingertips don’t graze it. “Shit. I forgot my wallet.”
“Don’t worry, I know you’re good for it.”
“No, it’s totally fine. I know I have some cash floating around in here.” I pull Bryce’s tinfoil-wrapped leg chunk from my bag and dig through the remaining contents until I grab a rogue ten-dollar bill, passing it across the counter with an apology. Maddison opens the till for change as my gaze pans across the tarts and cakes and glazed donuts. I deserve a little treat for my busy morning. It’s not easy work tracking down and murdering a man and chopping him up, all before lunch. Maybe a cinnamon bun—
“Anything you recommend?” a man behind me says. His voice is smooth. Decadent. Warmed with a subtle Southern accent. His tone is richer than any temptation behind the glass case. I turn. And that voice, as delicious as it is, is nothing compared to seeing him for the first time.
He’s tall enough that I notice the difference between us, not easily done when you’re nearly five foot ten. He runs a hand through his hair and it’s almost obscene. And heknowsit. I can tell by his lopsided grin, the way his lips tug back at one corner to reveal perfect teeth. He’s full of confident charm. When his hand drops back to his side, his hair falls into place as though it’s physically impossible for him to look anything less than perfect, even when he’s disheveled.Especiallywhen he’s disheveled. Shades of honey blond streak the rich brown strands that skim his cheekbones, the kind of color that can only come from time spent in the sun. He’s magnetic. And a whole hell of a lot of …dangerous.
I swallow, trying to gather my composure, and his attention drops to my throat, the greens in his eyes igniting with subduedamusement. An unusual wedge of brown at the bottom of his left iris is a stark contrast to the lighter shades. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for,” I say, trying to sound nonplussed. “Sweet or savory?”
His smile stretches, just a little, enough to coax out two dimples in his sun-kissed, faintly freckled cheeks. “I’m not sure, what did you go for?” At first, I don’t understand what he means, not until he nods to the tinfoil gripped tightly in my hand. “What did you get?”
“Umm …” I swear I only blink, but that brief motion feels like it’s about a thousand years long as my mind scours through every item on the menu I have memorized, landing on the only word I can seem to summon. “Meat.”
“Meat …?”
“Ball.” The guy’s head tilts. My throat strains around a desiccated swallow. “Ballmeat. I mean,meat … ball.Meatball sub. Footlong. Ish.”
Our gazes both drop to the tinfoil in my hand. It’s barely four inches long and maybe two inches wide at best. When our eyes connect, I can’t help but cringe. Though he gives me a polite smile, something about it is pitying. “I might try something else,” he says.
“Maybe the turkey,” I say as Maddison passes a sandwich over the glass case to the customer in front of me. The sandwich is fucking enormous, barely contained by the wax paper wrapped around it. It’s maybe three times the size of the tinfoil I shift behind the bag that rests against my hip.Why the fuck did I lie about that?I guess I’m not about to say, “Oh, it’s some dickhead’s mangled tibia,” but still. I could have done better than that, right? I blame this guy. It’s his eyes. Those unusual green eyes with thatrare seam of brown, colors that seem to spark to life when he’s amused. Just like they’re doing now.
The man’s grin is teasing. “Not the ballmeat. Got it.”
I snort. Literally.
And then I die.Notliterally, but I wish.
The man chuckles as though my piggish chortle was fucking adorable. I turn away just long enough to stuff the change in the tip jar and Bryce’s bone back into my bag. I swear my skin is on fire. Sweat itches along my spine. But when I meet his eyes once more, the man just grins. Leans back a little. Surveys my face, warmth radiant in his eyes. “So, what drink do you recommend to go with my not-ballmeat sandwich?” he says as he moves closer to me and surveys the chalkboard above the counter.
“I should probably say something about tea bagging, to really round out my mortification.”
The guy bites down on a grin, glancing down his shoulder at me. “Tea bagging is really staying on brand with the balls. Kudos.”
“I’m nothing if not consistent.”
Maddison reaches across the glass counter to pass me my coffee. I take it, and when I peek up at the man next to me, I find him watching the motion of my hand, his brow furrowed, his smile fading as though this moment is about to end too quickly. Maybe he feels the same tug in his chest that I’m feeling, and he doesn’t want that thread to snap.
I should turn away. Get out of here. Leave this tourist guy behind. It’s not like I need to flirt disastrously with some random man who’s probably only here for a few days at most. That’s not my way, no matter how much I sometimes long for a connection that I’m not even sure I’m ready to make. I should leave. Continue on my walk past the lighthouse where I like to stand on the cliffand look out at the sea. Toss Bryce’s mangled bone into the ocean where it will sink beneath the surface, never to be seen again, just another memory claimed by black water.
But before I can convince myself to move, his hand is on my sleeve. Such a gentle touch. Only a whisper of heat and pressure. And as simple as it might be, that touch sets off a current in my skin. It steals my breath. Quickens my pulse and warms my belly and crashes through my thoughts, wiping them clean. Just a heartbeat ago, I was clinging to every argument I could think of to leave. And now they’re simply … gone.
“I’d ask if I could buy you a coffee, but it looks like you’re all set,” he says as he nods down to the to-go cup in my hand. That teasing light is back in his eyes. “But if you want company while you eat some balls, I’d love to join you.”
Heat infuses my cheeks. His eyes seem to brighten. I should say no. I know it. But instead I say, “Okay.”
