Page 47 of Three Days of Holiday

Thank you for reading Three Days of Holiday! If you’d like to find out more about the stories in Pelican Bay or read my other series you can find information about all of my books on my website: www.authormeganmatthews.com

You can also visit the town of Pelican Bay online at: http://pelicanbaymaine.com/

Fans can also join my Facebook Reader Group for the inside track on what’s happening behind the scenes, special giveaways, and advanced reader copies of new books.

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Megan Matthews writes smutty romance by day and hides behind her secret identity as a responsible Pinterest mom when other parents are around. She believes morning shouldn’t start until noon and chocolate should be calorie free. Living in Michigan she prefers sun over snow, hot chocolate over coffee, and wine over beer.

Preferring books over nature, Megan once displayed the entire Goosebumps series on her bookshelf. Her taste in reading has matured. She now prefers her heroes with rippling muscles naked in bed over brace-faced nerds running from murderous dummies.

You can follow her online:

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SECURITY RISK SNEAK PEEK

**Continue reading for a sneak peek of Security Risk **

SECURITY RISK CHAPTER 1

My salvation lies straight ahead.

Exit number six — Pelican Bay.

It took one week and 1,965 miles of driving, but I’ve successfully left my life in Westford, Oklahoma. I’ve had a full week to clear my head and leave my previous poor choices behind me. One hour south of the Canadian border rests the sleepy seaside town of Pelican Bay. The town where I’ll begin my new life.

A smarter life.

A happier life.

A quiet life.

The small, discreet town on Maine’s northern coast sits on rocky beaches surrounded by thick evergreen woods. It’s almost cut off from the rest of the world. It’s also about as far as you can get from Oklahoma while still on American soil. But those are added perks and aren’t included in the reason I’m ultimately here.

A short man in a brown uniform, the name Johnwritten on his name tag, delivered the final decision in the form of certified mail two weeks ago.

My great aunt Gertie died.

I’d known that. I didn’t know she left me her two bedroom one bath nine-hundred square foot home in her will. A quick stop at a local lawyer’s office to sign the paperwork and I became a home owner. It was anticlimactic. No one released balloons or took pictures with me holding a set of keys. All those things excited new homeowners do. For my safety I kept my milestone a secret from everyone but my mother. It’s easier to flee if no one knows where you’re going.

Gertie’s house wouldn’t be much to some, but it provided me with an escape exactly when I needed one. Less than seventy-two hours after signing the papers, I loaded my car with four boxes of clothes, two boxes of shoes, and random pictures and other memories.

And seventy-five thousand dollars from Mario’s safe. Hey, a girl needs start-up funds for a fresh new life.

There aren’t many job options in Pelican Bay. The small fishing and tourism town won’t have much use for a twenty-six-year-old with a bachelor’s degree in community service. The four years of live-in-girlfriend status where I occasionally helped out at my boyfriend’s pizza chain is sure to be a resume booster. Or not. Especially when I can’t use him as a reference.

The paved country road curves to the right. A large wooden sign with “Welcome to Pelican Bay” in thick cursive stands on the side of the two lanes, parts of the paint chipped away through the years of tough Maine weather. The town logo, a pelican sitting on a fence post, greets everyone who drives into town, the same symbol Iremember from my time spent on the coast as a teenager. “Population, 2,986” painted on a rectangular piece of wood hangs below the welcome sign. They’re proud of the fact the entire town would fit in one apartment building in Westford.

Oh well, 2,987 now, Pelican Bay. Tabitha is moving in.

The road darkens as I drive past the lit up sign. My cell phone beeps three times — the little marker set as my car disappears off the GPS screen. I slow and turn off the now useless phone determined to get to Aunt Gertie’s house from memory. It can’t be too hard.

The coast of Maine is jagged and rocky, the water cuts through the land in harsh divides, creating inlets and bays throughout the area. I’ve spent the entire drive up the coast enjoying the view of each little seaside town. It’s a different world in this part of the country, unlike anything in Westford. I couldn’t be happier; although, it doesn’t take much to beat the concrete jungle I’ve left.

Large patches of evergreens dot both sides of the road, but I spot lights ahead. A sure sign I’m closer to town. The school buildings on the right side of the road are newer, with an addition added since my last visit, but I cross First Street and the scenery becomes familiar — the small combined police and fire department, the last government building before the shops of Main Street consume the view out my front window.

I sigh, happy. Pelican Bay hasn’t changed. Each little shop is its own small, unique building on either side of the main road into town. Small details dot every store front from sloped roofs to the shingled siding you find in coastal towns. Nothing like the rows and rows of similar brick buildings in Westford. There’s Bonnie’s Diner withthe large glass windows, the beauty parlor next door, and the small gas station across the street. I cross the Second Street intersection and almost stop the car. Tom’s Grocery and Goodies, my favorite deli, is vacant, the large windows boarded up with ugly sheets of plywood. His classic neon sign above the door is gone.

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