Author: Jill Shalvis

Lance, clearly not willing to be babied, held her off, pounding a fist to his own chest to try to catch some desperately needed air. When he’d finally recovered, he looked over Chloe’s head at Sawyer. “If you’re here to make sure she’s not going to Eagle’s Bluff tonight, the coast’s clear. She’s not going.”

“Wait— What?” Chloe said, dividing a look between both men. “Nick has more dogs?”

Lance’s face went blank. “Had.”

Sawyer sighed. “You took them already.”

“That would be breaking and entering, and stealing,” Lance said.

Ah, Christ. Sawyer didn’t know whether to be relieved that Lance hadn’t dragged Chloe into it again, or be pissed off that he’d once again taken matters into his own hands instead of letting Sawyer handle it. He settled on pissed off because it was easier. “It has to go through proper channels to get it stopped permanently. You know that.”

“Proper channels are too slow for the dogs,” Lance said unapologetically.

“If you get caught with them, Raybo will press charges.”

Lance shrugged. He didn’t care. And why should he? The guy was already facing a virtual death sentence with the CF, which left him hell bent and determined to say “fuck you” to karma whenever possible.

Chloe was giving Lance a dark look. She was pissed. But Lance just shook his head. “Like you needed another mention in the paper as a troublemaker.”

“I don’t care what people think, Lance. I care about you. And those dogs.”

“You care what people think of the inn. You care that people whispering about you might keep the inn from getting good word of mouth. You care that it could hurt your sisters.”

Chloe let out a breath. “Yeah. I do.”

The sudden scent of acrid smoke had Sawyer frowning, and turning on his heel, he headed back outside. Beyond the inn and the cottage was the ocean. He couldn’t see it in the dark, but he could hear it pounding the shore. Off to the left was the marina building and dock, and beyond that, woods. The trees were thick as feathers, growing right up to the waterline in some spots. He couldn’t see a fire, but he could sure as hell smell it. It was illegal to have a campfire without a permit, not to mention they were in the middle of high fire season, but suddenly from somewhere beyond the tree line came an undeniable glow.

Sawyer turned back to the door, nearly plowing over Chloe, who’d come out after him. It was automatic to reach for her, to grip her arms until balance was restored, but for a beat, they were plastered to each other. Her hair brushed his jaw, her soft breasts pressed against his chest, and as tended to happen with her, he felt something stir inside him other than a frustrated indifference.

She murmured a soft, nearly inaudible apology but didn’t pull away.

“My fault,” he said, looking down in her face. “Who’s in your woods?”

“Tucker and some of his friends,” Lance said from behind her.

Tucker was Lance’s older brother, which meant the friends with him were Jamie and Todd, and aside from the fact that Todd and Sawyer went way back, to a time Sawyer preferred not to think about, the combo of those four guys usually spelled mayhem. “They have a permit?”

Lance laughed.

Right. No permit. “They doing anything illegal out there besides the campfire?” Sawyer asked.

“Maybe drinking beer.”

Perfect. When Todd drank, he became the King of the Terminally Stupid. The others were never far behind. Sawyer stepped off the porch, stopping when Chloe followed him. He grabbed her wrist, his thumb brushing the very small tattoo she had there at her pulse point, an Asian symbol he didn’t know the meaning of.

“I want to come with—”

“No,” he said, knowing the smoke would bring on her asthma. “Wait here.”

At the command, her face closed, and for a moment he wished…

Hell. He had no idea what he wished when it came to her. She twisted him in fucking knots. It used to be they just rubbed each other the wrong way, but lately he’d been extremely caught up in rubbing her the right way. Which actually, when it came right down to it, made him the King of the Terminally Stupid.

Chapter 3

“It’s always darkest before dawn. So if you’re going to steal your neighbor’s newspaper, that’s the time to do it.”

Chloe Traeger

Chloe held Sawyer’s steely gaze with one of her own, though she got a crick in her neck doing it. He was big, armed to the teeth, and if the flash in his eyes meant anything, his irritation level was on the rise.

Nothing new when it came to her.

To be fair, she’d certainly earned his wrath on several occasions, back when she’d first arrived in Lucky Harbor. But she’d grown up over the past year and was learning—or trying anyway—to curb her impulsive, reckless behavior. Having grown up with a mother whose only consistent passion had been following the Grateful Dead, Chloe hadn’t learned a whole lot about roots or long-lasting relationships. Or long-lasting anything for that matter. But she was working on it, on becoming more aware of both herself and how her actions affected others. And also what it meant to care. There was no doubt that she was still a work in progress, but then again, she’d never claimed to be anything but.

And slightly tamed though she might be, she could still dig in her heels with the best of them. So when Sawyer commanded her to “wait here,” the urge to do the opposite was strong.

It would appear that she wasn’t quite as grown up as she thought.

In response to her unspoken reaction, the very corners of Sawyer’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like a grimace to go with the faint lines of stress around his eyes and mouth and the tension in his shoulders.

He was tired. From the look of it, he’d already had a hell of a long day, which only added to the ruffian edge to him. He wore a button-down untucked over the gun at his hip, and jeans that fit him perfectly across the butt. Yes, she’d checked.

And let’s not forget the testosterone and pheromones and all around general air of badassness. He was a man always ready for anything, anytime, and he wasn’t someone to tangle with. Something she knew all too well. He was intense, hard, unyielding, and—

“The smoke, Chloe. Stay back because of the smoke.”

—and uncompromisingly fair. With a sigh, she nodded.

He gave her one last long look and walked toward the woods. She’d never been drawn to ridiculous displays of naked courage or sheer brawn, but Sawyer really brought it to a whole new level.

“You’re drooling,” Lance said dryly, having stepped up to her side.

She ignored him, not taking her eyes off the spot where Sawyer had vanished. No, she wasn’t drooling, but something just as bad. She was tingling. It’s okay, she told herself. A woman would have to be dead not to feel anything when she looked at Sawyer Thompson, and Chloe wasn’t close to dead.

Yet, she thought wryly, feeling the smoke begin to invade her lungs. Twice a day, she took meds to control her asthma, but she also carried a fast-acting inhaler for the in-between times when she hit trouble—like now. She pulled it out of her pocket and took a puff. Then she looked over at Lance. “Where’s your sweatshirt? Your lips are blue.”

They both knew his lips weren’t blue because he was cold, but Lance obligingly went back inside for his sweatshirt. “You’re so predictable, Chloe.”

Chloe was many things. She was a sister, a friend, an esthetician. She was a wanderer and an adventurer. She was also hard-willed, stubborn as an ox, and quick to temper. But one thing she wasn’t, was predictable. “Take that back,” she said.

“Predictable,” he repeated. “Among other things.”

“Such as?” She stepped off the porch but stopped when Lance grabbed her wrist.

“You’re staying,” he said. “I don’t want to get arrested tonight for aggravating an officer.”

“He won’t arrest you for that.” But he was right, there was no reason to piss Sawyer off. And yet, dammit, staying went against the grain. Like so many other things in her life. It was her asthma’s fault. It held her back, and because of it, she tended to push the envelope too far in other ways. She understood that, from the outside looking in, it might seem like she had a secret death wish, but she didn’t. It was just that when she was in the midst of an asthma attack, she often felt so close to death that she, well, dared it. But she just wanted to run or dance or laugh hard, or have sex without needing an inhaler and possibly an ambulance.

Not exactly a common problem, but one that often left her straddling a fine line between socially acceptable behavior and the wild yearnings her mother had always encouraged. Her sisters wanted her to stop pushing those boundaries and settle down a little. And it was that which bothered Chloe more than anything. The message was simple: If she wanted to be accepted, even loved, by those she’d come to care about, she’d need to change. But dammit, she wanted to be accepted just as she was, imperfections and all. “Predictable,” she said like it was a dirty word.

Lance sighed and put a hand over hers. “Okay, maybe not predictable so much as…”

“Crazy?”

He laughed softly.

He got her, and always had. So it really sucked that they had no chemistry together. “Lance?”

“Yeah?”

She squeezed his fingers. “I’m really annoyed that you aren’t sexy.”

“Gee, thanks,” he said dryly.

“To me, I mean.” She nudged her shoulder against his. “I want to want you. You know?”

Lance slid a hand to her ass. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll change your mind— Oof,” he said when she elbowed him, but he laughed good-naturedly. He knew. They both knew. First of all, he was like her brother and had been since the day they’d met. And second, he was totally, completely, pathetically hung-up on one of the cute nurses at the medical center where he spent far too much of his time.