Page 12 of Moonlit Hideaway
“That’s smart of them.” She stole another glance at the solid face of a man who wore his values on his sleeve—loving and protective of his daughter, respectful to his mother, and honorable about his guests’ privacy. She couldn’t quite put a finger on why he made her want things she’d never cared for.
Long, boring evenings sitting on a porch and watching the waves roll in, driving along a dirt road, waving to the neighbors, and maybe climbing the lighthouse to watch the sun rise and set.
“Here’s our so-called downtown,” he said, turning onto a newly paved street. “Twenty miles per hour speed limit, so if you’re in a hurry, you’ll just have to wait.”
“I didn’t know you have a golf course here.” She pointed to a golf cart puttering in front of them. “Aren’t the links still wet?”
“No golf course.” He chuckled. “That’s how people get around. You should see this place in the summer. Golf carts like bowling pins rolling every which way.”
His description cracked her up, and she joined him in laughter.
“I sure hope you didn’t mean what it sounded like.” She pictured his dually truck bouncing the golf carts every which way. “Why do you need such a big truck?”
“Towing mobile homes and rearranging them,” he replied. “We have a site on the sound side that gets flooded often. Extra money for the off-season, you know, when the inn is empty. Ah, here’s the grocery store. It’s called a variety store because you never know what’ll be in stock—it’s like a box of chocolates without the label. You might come in for bread and leave with a jar of homemade pickles and a bag of marbles. Anything you fancy, you’d better grab it. Hoarding’s big out here, and you might not see it again until our week before Christmas garage sale.”
Hank had no trouble parking because the lot was almost empty. The first thing Sierra noticed was the pirate flag and the store's name, Buc’s Booty.
“You sure they sell food in there?” she asked as she noticed the collection of garden tools, pots, and wind chimes outside. “And look, the hardware store is next door.”
“See? Variety. Food and hardware in one place.” He parked the truck, stepped around to get to her door, and gave her a hand. “Big step down.”
His firm grip around her arm felt safe, and Sierra realized she hadn’t been as jumpy as she was the day before. He released her arm before she was ready, and she missed that feeling of protection his presence enveloped her with.
She told herself to get a grip. She’d be gone in a month, two max. Marco wouldn’t waste time consolidating his power, and then, maybe he’d marry some other Mafia princess in the process or make a deal with one of her cousins.
She had no business interjecting herself into the lives of these salt-of-the-earth types whose idea of an outing was to take the ferry to the next island.
Hank opened the door for her, and they entered the smallest grocery store she’d ever seen. It was packed floor to ceiling with knickknacks, toiletries, t-shirts, tourist kitsch, sunscreen, hats, and sandals on one wall and a hodgepodge of cans and packaged goods on the opposite wall. The center was devoted to produce, and milk, eggs, and meat were in the cold section at the back.
“Good morning, Annie,” Hank said. “I’ve got Jane here visiting.”
“Good morning, Hank,” the lady behind the register greeted with a friendly smile. “And welcome to Moonlit Harbor. Is this your first time here?”
“Yes, and it’s lovely to be here at this time of the year,” Sierra replied, returning her smile. She figured the more she fit in as an enthusiastic tourist, the fewer questions would be asked.
The grocer pointed to the center island. “We’ve got a load of apples right before the storm from Henderson—Pink Ladies are finally harvested.”
“Pink ladies?” Sierra raised an eyebrow, wondering if it was an inside joke. “How do they taste?”
“You ought to try one,” Annie said, taking a pocketknife from her apron. “Here, let me cut you a slice.”
“Uh, sure,” she said, taking a bite as both locals looked at her as if expecting a reaction.
Sierra bit into the apple slice, expecting a burst of sweetness, but the tart zing hit her like a chorus drop in one of her pop songs.
Her eyes widened. “Oh wow, that’s got more kick than sweet.”
She fanned her mouth, playing up the shock of tartness as Annie and Hank shared a chuckle. They exchanged looks that said she had passed an unspoken island taste test.
“I’ll challenge you to pick a sweeter one,” Hank said, unrolling a produce bag for her. “Ready, set, go.”
Sierra didn’t know the first rule about picking apples, but she accepted the challenge as the two of them pawed through the pile of pinkish apples with a tinge of green at the collars.
She spotted one that was darker red, like a typical apple, and reached for it. Hank’s hand brushed hers as his fingers closed on it, and then he let go, and she raised the red one in triumph.
“This one?” she asked as Annie produced her pocketknife.
“Hold on,” Hank interrupted. “We haven’t made the bet. What do you lose when this one puckers your mouth?”
