She slammed the door in his face.

Chapter Six

Brendan locked the door of his house and double-checked his watch. Eight fifteen, on the dot. As was a captain’s habit, he took a moment to judge the sky, the temperature, and the fog density. Smelled like the sun would burn the mist off by ten o’clock, keeping the early August heat minimal until he could finish his errands. He pulled on his beanie and took a left on foot toward West Ocean Avenue, traveling the same route he always did. Timing could make all the difference to a fisherman, and he liked to stay in practice, even on his off days.

The shops were just opening, the squawking calls of hungry seagulls blending with bells tinkling as employees propped open doors. The drag of a chalkboard sign being hauled out to the curb advertising fresh catches, some of which Brendan’s crew had caught themselves on their last outing. Shopkeepers called lazy good mornings to each other. A couple of young kids lit cigarettes in a huddle outside the brewery, already dressed for the beach.

Since they were nearing the end of tourist season, there were markdowns advertised everywhere. On fishing hats and postcards and lunch specials. He appreciated the cycle of things. Tradition. The reliability of weather changing, and the shifting seasons setting people about a routine. It was the consistency of this place. Enduring, just like the ocean he loved. He’d been born in Westport, and he never intended to leave.

A ripple of aggravation fanned out beneath his skin when he recalled the night before. The stone tossed into the calm waters of how things were done. Outsiders didn’t simply show up and claim ownership of things here. In Westport, people worked for everything they had. Nothing was handed over without blood, sweat, and tears. The two girls didn’t strike him as people who had an appreciation for the place, the people, the past it was built on. The hard work it took to sustain a community on the whims of a volatile ocean—and do it well.

Good thing they wouldn’t be sticking around for long. He’d be shocked if Piper made it through the night without checking in to the closest five-star hotel.

I can be in a room full of people that I know and still not feel like I belong.

Why did his mind refuse to let that drop?

He’d gnawed it over for far too long last night, then again this morning. It didn’t fit. And he didn’t like things that didn’t fit. A beautiful girl—with admittedly sharp humor—like Piper could belong anywhere she chose, couldn’t she?

Just not here.

Brendan waited at a stoplight before crossing Montesano, breezing through the automatic door of the Shop’n Kart, the wrinkle of irritation smoothing itself out when he saw that everything was in its place. He waved at Carol, the usual register attendant. Paper gulls hung from the ceiling and blew around in the breeze he’d allowed inside. Not many people were in the store yet, which was why he liked to come early. No conversations or questions about the upcoming crab season. If he expected a big haul, the course he’d charted. If the crew of the Della Ray would beat out the Russians. Talking about his plans would only jinx them.

As a seaman, Brendan was all about luck. He knew he could only control so much. He could construct a tight schedule, guide the boat in a direction of his choosing. But it was up to the ocean how and when she gave up her treasures. With crab season quickly approaching, he could only hope fortune would favor them once again, as it had the last eight years since he’d taken over from his father-in-law as captain.

Brendan picked up a handcart and headed west, to the freezer aisle. He didn’t have a list and didn’t need one, since he got the same groceries every time. First things he’d grab were some frozen burger patties and then—

“Siri, what should I make for dinner?”

That voice, drifting over from the next aisle, made Brendan stop in his tracks.

“Here’s what I found on the Web,” came the electronic reply.

A whine followed. “Siri, what is an easy dinner?”

He ground a fist into his forehead, listening to Piper speak to her phone as if it were a living, breathing human being.

There was some frustrated muttering. “Siri, what is tarragon?”

Brendan dragged a hand down his face. Who had let this girl child out into the world on her own without supervision? Frankly, he was kind of shocked to find her in a supermarket at all. Not to mention this early in the morning. But he wasn’t going to question her. He didn’t care about her explanation. There was a schedule to adhere to.

He trudged on, ripping the burger patties out of the freezer and throwing them into the handcart. He turned to the other side of the lane and picked out his usual bread. No-frills wheat. He hesitated before turning down the next aisle, where Piper was still yacking at her phone . . . and couldn’t help but draw up short, a frown gathering his brows together. Who the fuck wore a sequined jumpsuit to the grocery store?

At least, he thought it might be called a jumpsuit. It was one of those deals women wore in the summertime with the top attached to the bottom. Except this one had shorts that ended right below her tight ass and made her look like a goddamn disco ball.

“Siri . . .” Her shoulders sagged, her handcart dangling from limp fingers. “What is a meal with two ingredients?”

Brendan let out an inadvertent sigh, and with a toss of hair, she glanced up, blinking.

He ignored the stab of awe in his chest.

She’d gotten prettier overnight, damn her.

With a roll of his shoulders, he tried to ease the tension bracketed by his rib cage. This girl probably inspired the same reaction in every man she ever came across. Even in the harsh supermarket lighting, he couldn’t pick out a single flaw. Didn’t want to look that closely. But he’d have to be dead not to. Might as well admit it. Piper’s body reminded him, for the first time in a long, long time, that he had needs that couldn’t be satisfied forever by his own hand.

Add it to the list of reasons her stay in Westport couldn’t be over fast enough.

“Still here?” Jaw bunched, Brendan tore his eyes away from her long, achingly smooth-looking legs and moved down the aisle, dropping pasta and a jar of sauce into his basket. “Thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“Nope.” He could sense how pleased she was with herself as she fell into step beside him. “Looks like you’re stuck with me at least one more day.”

He lobbed a box of rice into his basket. “Did you make peace with the mice horde?”

“Yes. They’re making me a dress for the ball right now.” She paused, seeming to study him to see if he got the Cinderella reference. But he gave away nothing. “Um . . .”

Did he just slow his step so she could keep up with him? Why? “Um, what?”

To her credit, she didn’t bat an eyelash at his shitty tone. Her smile might have been a little brittle, but she kept it in place, chin up. “Look, I sense you’re in a hurry, but . . .”

“I am.”

That fire he’d seen in her eyes last night was back, flickering behind the baby blue. “Well, if you’re late for an appointment to go roll around in fish . . .” She leaned forward and sniffed. “Might as well cancel. You’re already nailing it.”

“Welcome to Westport, honey. Everything smells like fish.”