Page 10 of Harbor Master

Cocoa snorts, elbowing my side. “Everyone knows him. Are you serious right now, Mac? You don’t know Dalton Meadows?”

I’m waspish. “Should I?”

Cocoa laughs, nodding at the GQ centerfold leaning next to the statue. “He’s, like, one of the top rock stars in the world. Even I know that, and I don’t know my own address. God, I can’t believe he’shere.Do you think he’s undercover? Is there a rehab or something in Sweet Cherry Cove? Ooh, maybe he’s here to make a music video!”

Seriously? She remembershim? Of all things?

Listen to me: I could not care about that motherfucker less. In fact, with this jealousy curdling my gut, I’d happily shove him in the marina.

But if there’s a chance these two have met, there’s no other choice. I tow Cocoa toward the handsome stranger, acid lapping against my insides.

He’s younger. Talented. Good looking.

Every instinct in me screams to drag Cocoa in the opposite direction.

“Hey.” We stop right in front of him, and the musician sighs before he looks up. He studies us from behind his sunglasses, mouth turned down. “Have you met this girl before?”

Say no.

Say no.

Please, lord, let him say no.

The man tilts his head, frowning harder. “Never heard that one before. Real original.”

Uh. What?

“It’s a simple question,” I grit out, even as Cocoa yanks on my hand. Nope. She needs answers, and I’m not moving until she gets them. “Answer it.”

The man stops playing. Sets his guitar gently in the open case near his feet.

When he straightens, a tendon is taut in his neck.

“No,” he says, enunciating each word. “I’ve never met your goddamn daughter.”

Daughter?

Well, fuck.

“Mac, come on.” Cocoa pulls harder at my hand, like she’s trying to steer a cart horse. Around the town square, seagulls hop over the cobblestones, feathers ruffled by the breeze. “He’s right, I don’t remember him. Not personally.”

“You don’t need to be rude to her.” Is this the longest conversation I’ve had with a stranger? Probably—and here’s why. “A simple ‘no’ would’ve done it.”

“No.” The man’s smile is bitter, his teeth so straight and white. “Third time lucky? Okay, man:no.”

My face is hot with anger as Cocoa finally drags me across the town square. See, this is why I don’t do people. Half the time, they make me want to slam my head against the nearest wall.

We stop in a patch of shade outside the bakery, the bad taste in my mouth clashing against the delicious scent of fresh bread. “Prick,” I mutter.

Cocoa presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. “He probably thought we were crazy fans.”

Fans? Try the opposite. “I’d sooner walk into the ocean than listen to his music.”

Small hands brush over my shoulders, soothing the knotted muscle. She’s fighting a grin. “I know.”

“He called you my daughter.”

Her smile fades. “Yeah. He did.”

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