Chapter Six

Dedication

To the nurses and doctors of NYU Langone Health—particularly 15 West, Tisch Building, Manhattan

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

An Excerpt From It Happened One Summer

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

About the Author

By Tessa Bailey

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

September 15

HANNAH (6:00 PM): Hey. Fox?

FOX (10:20 PM): Yeah.

H (10:22 PM): It’s Hannah. Bellinger? I got your number from Brendan.

F (10:22 PM): Hannah. Shit. Sorry, I would have answered sooner.

H (10:23 PM): No, it’s fine. Is it weird of me to text you?

F (10:23 PM): Not weird at all, Freckles. You make it back to LA safely?

H (10:26 PM): Not a scratch on me. Missing that

signature Westport fish aroma already (only half kidding). Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you for the Fleetwood Mac record you left on my sister’s doorstep. You really didn’t have to do that.

F (10:27 PM): No big deal. I could tell you wanted it.

H (10:29 PM): How could you tell? Was it me openly sobbing when I left it behind at the expo?

F (10:30 PM): Kind of tipped me off.

H (10:38 PM): Ah. Well. I wish you could hear it play in person. It’s magic.

F (10:42 PM): Maybe someday.

H (10:43 PM): Maybe. Thanks again.

F (11:01 PM): You didn’t have to tell me your last name.

There’s only one Hannah.

H (11:02 PM): Sorry, can’t say the same. I know several Fox’s.

October 3

FOX (4:03 PM): Hey Hannah

HANNAH (4:15 PM): Hey! What’s up?

F (4:16 PM): Just pulled back into the harbor after 3 days out.

F (4:18 PM): This is stupid, but you’re okay, right?

H (4:19 PM): I mean, my therapist would probably say that’s debatable. Physically I’m in one piece tho. Why?

F (4:20 PM): Just a weird dream. IDK . . . I dreamed you were missing. Or lost?

H (4:25 PM): That wasn’t a dream. Send a chopper.

F (4:25 PM):

F (4:26 PM): Fishermen don’t ignore the dreams they have on water. Sometimes they’re nothing, other times they’re a premonition.

H (4:30 PM): If anyone worries in this friendship, it should be me. I’ve seen the Perfect Storm.

F (4:32 PM): That makes me Wahlberg in this scenario?

H (4:33 PM): Depends. Can you pull off white boxer briefs?

F (4:34 PM): And then some, babe.

F (4:40 PM): So this is a friendship?

H (4:45 PM): Yeah. Are you on board? (fishing puns, they are happening)

F (4:48 PM): I’m . . . yeah. So I can just text you whenever?

H (4:50 PM): Yeah.

F (4:55 PM): Okay then.

H (4:56 PM): Okay then.

October 22

FOX (10:30 PM): Hey, Freckles. What are you up to?

HANNAH (10:33 PM): Hey. Not much. How can you tell if you have a “flat” tire?

F (10:33 PM): Why what’s going on??

H (10:35 PM): My car was making a weird noise, so I pulled over. I’m going to go check if it popped.

F (10:35 PM): Hannah it’s past ten o’clock at night. Stay in the car. LOCK THE DOORS and call a tow truck.

H (10:36 PM): Yeah . . . I won’t know how to describe where I am to them. One of the makeup artists at work had a séance. I think I’m in Los Feliz?

F (10:37 PM): You don’t know where you are?

F (10:38 PM): This is my dream. It’s happening.

Premonition.

H (10:39 PM): Come on. No way.

F (10:40 PM): You were just at a séance and don’t get to be skeptical.

H (10:41 PM): You know what? That’s fair.

F (10:42 PM): Map your location on your phone and call a tow truck.

F (10:43 PM): Please?

H (10:45 PM): Are you this protective of all your female friends?

F (10:48 PM): You’re the only one I’ve got.

H (10:49 PM): Fine. I’m calling a tow truck.

F (10:49 PM):

November 22

HANNAH (12:36 AM): Are you awake?

FOX (12:37 AM): Wide.

H (12:38 AM): Are you alone?

F (12:38 AM): Yes, Hannah. I’m alone.

H (12:40 AM): Let’s start “Leaving on a Jet Plane” at the exact same time and listen to it together.

F (12:41 AM): Hang on. I have to download it.

H (12:42 AM): You’re killing me.

F (12:42 AM): Sry my phone isn’t a music encyclopedia like yours. Why this song?

H (12:44 AM): IDK. I miss my sister. A little in my feelings about it. Have you seen her around town?

F (12:45 AM): I’ve seen her lipstick on Brendan’s collar.

That count?

H (12:47 AM): That’s why I’m bugging you, instead of her.

I don’t want to burst their bliss bubble.

F (12:48 AM): You’re not bugging me, Freckles. Ok ready?

H (12:48 AM): Yup. Go.

F (12:51 AM): It’s crazy how much better this song is than I remember. Why am I not listening to this all the time?

H (12:52 AM): Now you can. Isn’t it amazing?

F (12:53 AM): Uh-huh. Do I get to pick next?

H (12:55 AM): Oooh. Okay. Whatcha got for me,

Peacock?

F (12:57 AM): Something to cheer you up. You have the Scissor Sisters in that encyclopedia phone?

H (12:58 AM): Studio albums or live? Yes to both.

F (12:59 AM): Jesus, should have known. Start “I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’” in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

January 1

FOX (12:01 AM): Happy New Year.

HANNAH (12:02 AM): Same to you! May it bring you crabs.

F (12:03 AM): Any resolutions?

H (12:07 AM): Normally I would say no. But I want to take more risks this year. Put myself out there a little more workwise, you know? Don’t copy me. You are AT

CAPACITY on workplace risks.

F (12:09 AM): How else am I going to get crabs?

H (12:10 AM): At a restaurant, like a normal person.

F (12:10 AM): I always order the steak.

H (12:11 AM): That’s irony for you.

February 5

FOX (9:10 AM): It’s raining here. Give me something moody to listen to.

HANNAH (9:12 AM): Hmm. The National. Start with “Fake Empire.”

F (9:14 AM): On it. Got any plans for this weekend?

H (9:17 AM): Not really. My parents are in Aspen, so I have the house to myself. I have it to myself a lot lately. I keep expecting Piper to walk around the corner in a charcoal mask.

F (9:18 AM): Women put charcoal on their faces?

H (9:20 AM): That’s tame. There is such a thing as a snail facial.

F (9:21 AM): Jesus. I’m just going to pretend I never heard that.

H (9:28 AM): Do you have plans this weekend? Heading to Seattle?

F (9:35 AM): That’s always a possibility.

F (9:36 AM): But it’s my mother’s birthday. Might just run her over some flowers and say hey.

H (9:38 AM): You’re a good son. Does she ever come see you in Westport?

F (9:45 AM): No. She doesn’t.

F (9:46 AM): Thanks for the music rec, Freckles. Text you later.

February 14

HANNAH (6:03 PM): Happy Valentine’s Day! Doing

anything special?

FOX (6:05 PM): God no. I’d rather light myself on F (6:09 PM): Are you? Doing something special?

H (6:11 PM): Yes, sir. I’m on a date.

F (6:11 PM): With who??

H (6:15 PM): Myself. Very charming. Might be the one.

F (6:16 PM): Lock that girl down. She’s the kind you bring home to mom.

F (6:20 PM): Do you want to be on a date? With someone besides yourself?

H (6:23 PM): IDK. It wouldn’t suck? Unfortunately, my type would probably define this whole holiday as a commercial gimmick. Or he’d buy me dead roses to represent the evils of consumerism.

F (6:26 PM): That’s a pretty specific type. Are we talking about your director crush? Sergei, right?

H (6:28 PM): Yes. My sister likes to tease me about pining for starving artists.

F (6:29 PM): You like them dark and dramatic, huh?

H (6:30 PM): Careful! You’re going to give me an orgasm.

F (6:30 PM): If that was the plan, babe, you’d have had two already.

F (6:33 PM): Shit, Hannah. Sorry. I shouldn’t have gone there.

H (6:34 PM): No, I went there first. Blame it on the single glass of wine I’ve had. #lightweight

F (6:40 PM): Apart from being dark and dramatic . . .

what makes a man your type? What is eventually going to make a man The One?

H (6:43 PM): I think . . . if they can find a reason to laugh with me on the worst day.

F (6:44 PM): That sounds like the opposite of your type.

H (6:45 PM): It does, doesn’t it? Must be the wine.

H (6:48 PM): He’ll need to have a cabinet full of records and something to play them on, of course.

F (6:51 PM): Well obviously.

February 28

FOX (7:15 PM): How was your day?

HANNAH (7:17 PM): It had sort of a “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman feeling to it.

F (7:18 PM): Like . . . nostalgic?

H (7:20 PM): Yeah. A little blue. I think I miss Westport?

F (7:20 PM): Come here.

F (7:23 PM): If you want.

H (7:25 PM): I wish! We just started casting a new movie.

Not a great time.

F (7:27 PM): Have you kept your resolution? To take more risks at work?

H (7:28 PM): Not yet. I’m working up to it, tho.

H (7:29 PM): Seriously. Aaaany minute now. (crickets) F (7:32 PM): This is where I remind you that the first time we met, you were facing off with a boat captain twice your size, ready to tear his limbs off for shouting at your sister. You’re a badass.

H (7:35 PM): Thanks for the reminder. I’ll get there. It’s just . . . imposter syndrome, I guess. Like, what makes me think I’m qualified to make movie soundtracks?

F (7:37 PM): I get imposter syndrome.

H (7:37 PM): You do?

F (7:38 PM): If you could only hear me laughing.

H (7:39 PM): I . . . wish I could. Hear you laughing.

F (7:40 PM): Yeah. Wouldn’t mind hearing your laugh, either.

H (7:45 PM): How was your day, Peacock?

F (7:47 PM): Worked on the boat with Sanders, so a shit ton of Springsteen.

H (7:49 PM): Blue collar boys. Making money! Sweating in jeans! Bandanas in pockets!

F (7:50 PM): It’s like you were right there with us.

March 8

HANNAH (8:45 AM): Hey. I think you’re out on the boat.

H (8:46 AM): Hope you’re being safe.

H (9:02 AM): When you’re out on the water and can’t text back, I really notice it.

H (9:03 AM): The lack of you.

H (9:10 AM): So I’m glad we’re friends. That’s all I’m awkwardly trying to say.

H (9:18 AM): If you dream of me this time, try dreaming I can fly or turn invisible. Or that my best friend is Cher.

That’s way cooler than a flat tire.

H (9:19 AM): Not that I’m assuming you regularly dream of me.

H (9:26 AM): I don’t dream of you that often, of course.

So.

H (9:39 AM): Anyway. Talk soon!

Chapter One

Hannah Bellinger had always been more of a supporting actress than a leading lady. The hype girl. If she’d lived in Regency England, she would be the second at every duel, but never wield the pistol. That distinction was never more obvious than now, as she sat in the dark audition room watching a girl with pure leading-lady material emote like her life depended on it.

Hannah’s hands disappeared into the sleeves of her sweatshirt like twin turtles ducking into their shells, her hidden fingers curling around the clipboard in her lap. Here it came. The big finale. Across the Storm Born production studio, their lead actor ran through a scene with their final actress hopeful of the day. Since eight A.M., the studio had been a revolving door of wide-eyed ingénues, and didn’t it figure that not a single one of them would click with Christian until Hannah was past the point of starving, her mouth tasting like stale coffee?

Such was the life of a production assistant.

Sergei turned to Hannah where she huddled in the corner of the freezing conference room and raised an excited black eyebrow. The shared moment of triumph was so unexpected, the clipboard slid off her lap and clattered to the ground. Flustered, she reached for it but didn’t want to lose the moment

with the director, so she jackknifed and gave Sergei a thumbs-up. Only to remember her thumb was trapped inside the sleeve of her sweatshirt, creating a weird, starfish-looking gesture that he missed, anyway, because he’d turned back around.

You absolute turnip, you.

Hannah replaced the clipboard in her lap and pretended to write Very Serious notes. Thank God it was dark in the rear of the studio. No one could see the tomato-colored tidal wave surging up her neck.

The redhead, Maxine, beamed while simultaneously trying to wipe away her dripping mascara with the hem of her black T-shirt. “Oh wow. Thank you.”

I have been summoned.

She rose from her chair and set the clipboard down, retrieving the actor’s beverage from inside the mini-fridge along the wall and bringing it to him.

When she held out the metal travel tumbler and he made no move to take it, she gritted her teeth and held the straw to his lips. When he had the nerve to look her in the eye while sucking noisily, she stared back stone-faced.

This is what you wanted.

A regular job that would allow her to earn money—and not rely on the many millions her stepfather had in the bank. If she dropped her last name, slurpy ol’ Christian would spit out his cold brew. But apart from Sergei, no one knew that Hannah was the legendary producer’s daughter, and that’s how she chose to keep it.

Stepdaughter, she mentally corrected herself.

A distinction she never would have bothered to make before last summer.

Had that trip to Westport six months ago really happened? The weeks she’d lived above the Pacific Northwest bar, restoring it lovingly with her sister in tribute to their birth father, seemed like a hazy dream. One she couldn’t seem to shake. It rode her consciousness like dolphins outlined in a barrel wave, making her wistful at the oddest times. Like now, when

Christian was bugging his heartthrob eyes out, letting her know he was ready for straw removal.

Christian snorted, allowing a grudging uptick to one side of his mouth.

They traded a lip-twitching glare.

Without waiting for the girl to answer, Sergei pressed a row of knuckles to his forehead. “I am seeing an entirely different location for the shoot now.

The energy Christian and Maxine create together does not work against the backdrop of Los Angeles. I’m certain. It’s so earthy. So original. They sanded the edges off each other. We need a softer location. The sharp corners of LA will only snag them, hold them back.”

Hannah stilled, watched the table of producers trade nervous glances.

The artistic temperament was real—and Sergei’s tended to be more volatile than most. He’d once made the entire crew wear blindfolds on set so they wouldn’t dilute the magic of a scene by viewing it. Every set of eyes strips another layer of mystery! But that temperament was one of the main reasons Hannah gravitated toward the director. He operated on chaos, bowing to the whims of creativity. He believed his choices and didn’t have time for naysayers.

Real leading-man material.

What was that like? To be the star in the movie of your life?

Hannah had been playing second fiddle so long, she was getting arthritis in her fingers. Her sister, Piper, had demanded the spotlight since childhood, and Hannah was always comfortable waiting in the wings, anticipating her cue to walk on as best supporting actress, even providing bail money on more than one occasion. That was where she shined. Bolstering the heroine at her lowest point, stepping in to defend the leading lady when necessary, saying the right thing in a pivotal heart-to-heart.

Supporting actresses didn’t want or need the glory. They were content to prop up the main character and be instrumental in their mission. And Hannah was content in that role, too. Wasn’t she?

A memory trickled in without her consent.

A memory that made her jumpy for some reason.

That one afternoon six months ago at a vinyl convention in Seattle when she’d felt like the main character. Browsing through records with Fox Thornton, king crab fisherman and a lady-killer of the highest caliber. When they’d stood shoulder to shoulder and shared a pair of AirPods, listening to

Just an anomaly.

Just a fluke.

Restless, probably because of the nine cups of black coffee she’d drunk throughout the day, Hannah returned Christian’s cold brew to the fridge and waited on the periphery to see what kind of curveball Sergei was about to throw the team. Honestly, she loved his left turns, even if no one else did.

The tempest of his imagination could not be stopped. It was enviable. It was hot.

This guy was her type.

She just wasn’t his, if the last two years were any indication.

one of the producers asked. “We already have the permits.”

Sergei laughed in that way artists do when someone is too dense to grasp their vision. “A plant needs sunlight and water to grow, does it not?” His frustration was causing his normally light Russian accent to thicken. “We need a more subtle location for the shoot. A place that will lend focus to the actors.”

Latrice, the new location scout, raised her hand slowly. “Like . . . Toluca Lake?”

supporting actress position to be in, even if it was refreshing to have Sergei’s eyes on her longer than the usual fleeting handful of seconds. It reminded Hannah, rather inconveniently, of the way someone else gave her his undivided attention, sometimes picking up on her moods simply via text message.

So she blurted the next part in an attempt to block out that useless thought. “Last summer, I spent some time in Washington. A small fishing town called Westport.” She was only suggesting this for two reasons. One, she wanted to support Sergei’s idea and possibly earn herself one of those fleeting smiles. And two, what if she could sneak a trip to see her sister in the name of work? Counting their brief visit at Christmas, she’d only seen Piper and her fiancé, Brendan, once in six months. Missing them was a constant ache in her stomach.

Most residents have lived there since they were born, and they’re very, um”— set in their ways, unwelcoming, wonderful, protective—“routine-oriented. Fishing is their livelihood, and I guess you could say there’s an element of melancholy there. For the fishermen who’ve been lost.”

Like her father, Henry Cross.

Hannah had to push past the lump in her throat to continue. “It’s quaint.

Has kind of a weathered feel. It’s like”—she closed her eyes and searched through her mental catalogue of music—“you know that band Skinny Lister that does kind of a modern take on sea shanties?”

They stared back at her blankly.

Imagine a packed bar full of courageous men who fear and respect the sea.

Imagine them singing odes to the water. The ocean is their mother. Their lover. She provides for them. And everything in this town reflects that love of the sea. The salt mist in the air. The scent of brine and storm clouds. The knowledge in the eyes of the residents when they look up at the sky to judge the oncoming weather. In fear. In reverence. Everywhere you go there’s the sound of lapping water against the docks, cawing seagulls, the hum of danger . . .” Hannah trailed off when she realized Christian was staring at her like she’d swapped his cold brew for kitty litter.

Sergei said nothing for long moments, and she forced herself not to fidget in the rare glow of his attention. “That’s the place. That’s where we need to go.”

The producers were shooting flamethrowers at Hannah from their eyes.

Latrice tapped her clipboard, seeming kind of eager for the challenge.

Latrice nodded, shooting Hannah a wink.

More flamethrowers from the men who’d been silly enough to think they were in charge. “We haven’t even scouted locations—”

Don’t blush.

Too late.

She was a cherry tomato.

And that, as they say in the business, was a wrap.

* * *

Hannah escaped the collective glare of the producers and jogged from the room, already drawing the phone from her back pocket to call Piper. She ducked into the ladies’ lounge for privacy, but before she could hit the call button, Latrice popped her head in through the door.

Thank God they’d hired Latrice to take location-scout duties off Hannah’s plate. She was a dynamo. “We’ve so got this. I’m starting an email to you as soon as I make this call.”

Latrice dipped out again, and, bolstered by the vote of confidence, Hannah dialed Piper. Her sister answered on the third ring sounding out of breath.

Followed by the very distinct groan of bedsprings.

A fact Hannah unfortunately knew all too well after living with them for a couple of weeks over the summer. “What’s up, sis?”

Hannah hopped up onto the counter beside the end sink. “Is your guest room free?”

A rustle of sheets in the background. “Why? Oh my God. Why?”

Hannah could almost see the wild flutter of her sister’s hands in the vicinity of her throat. “Are you coming here? When?”

A beat passed. “Permits to film in Westport?”

Hannah’s chest squeezed at the familiarity of her sister’s ebullient nature set alongside her fiancé’s growly, no-bullshit personality. She missed them so much.

Brendan’s parents are coming to visit soon. They’ll be using the guest room.”

Hannah’s head tilted at her sister’s hasty retreat. “What?”

Piper humphed. “I was going to say that Fox has that empty bedroom at his place. And as you know, he’s out on the boat with Brendan for long stretches. But, like, he’s also home for stretches, which is why it’s a bad idea. Forget I said it.”

Stupid, really. The way Hannah sprang off the counter at the mention of the devilish charmer’s name and started shoving pieces of her hair back under the brim of her hat. “It’s not a bad idea,” she said, automatically defending Fox, even though they hadn’t seen each other in six months.

There had only been the daily texts.

That she definitely wouldn’t be mentioning to Piper.

Hannah took a deep breath, glancing toward the door of the bathroom.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Hannah cleared her throat. “Will you talk to Fox for me about using the guest room? He might feel pressured if I ask him directly. It’s just to put the idea out there, in case it’s March for sure and the guest room will be taken.”

Piper hesitated briefly. “Okay, Hanns. Love you.”

Hannah hung up the phone on a giggle from Piper and tapped the device against her mouth. Why was her pulse racing? Surely not because there was a possibility she could occupy a room in Fox’s apartment. There might have been an inescapable attraction toward the relief skipper the first time they met, but after his phone pinged for the thousandth time with blatant booty calls, it became woefully obvious that his incredible looks were used to his advantage with the opposite sex.

Fox Thornton has not her type. He was bad boyfriend material.

But he was her friend.

Her thumb hovered over the screen of her phone momentarily before tapping on their text thread, reading the one he’d sent last night just before she drifted off to sleep.

FOX (11:32 PM): Today was a Hozier vibe for me.

HANNAH (11:33 PM): My day was so very Amy

Winehouse.

There was nothing friendlier than sharing what kind of music defined their day. It didn’t matter how much she looked forward to those nightly texts. Staying with Fox imposed no risk whatsoever. It was possible to be just friends with a man who exuded sex—and she would have no problem proving it.

Satisfied with her logic, Hannah got on the phone and started organizing.

Chapter Two

Fox settled back into his couch cushions and tipped a beer to his lips, taking a long sip to disguise the urge to laugh at the serious expression of the man sitting across from him. “What is this, Cap? An intervention?”

It wasn’t that he’d never seen Brendan looking disgruntled before. God knows he had. Fox just hadn’t seen the Della Ray’s captain anything but blissful for the last six months since meeting his fiancée, Piper. It was almost enough to make a man want to reevaluate his position on relationships.

Yeah. Right.

This marked the eighth time Brendan had asked him to step up and lead the crew. At first, he’d been nothing short of baffled. Had he given the impression he could be responsible for the lives of five men? If so, it must have been an accident. He was content to take orders, do his job well, and skedaddle with his cut of the haul, whether his earnings came from crabs in the fall or fishing the rest of the year.

Thriving under pressure was in a king crab fisherman’s blood. He’d stood beside Brendan on the Della Ray and stared death in the eye. More than once. But battling nature wasn’t the same as taking charge of a crew.

Making decisions. Owning up to the mistakes he would inevitably make.

That was a different kind of pressure entirely—and he wasn’t sure he was built for that. More specifically, he wasn’t sure the crew believed he was built to lead them. Speaking from a lot of experience, a fishing vessel’s

team needed to have total trust in their captain. Any hesitation could cost a man his life. Those assholes barely took him seriously as a human being, let alone as the one giving orders.

Yeah. All he needed was a place to sleep and watch baseball, a couple of beers at the end of a hard day, and a willing, lush body in the dark.

Although the need for that last one hadn’t been all that pressing lately.

Hadn’t been pressing at all, really.

Fox popped his jaw and focused. “An intervention won’t be necessary.”

He shrugged. “Told you, I’m honored you’d think of me, man. But I’m not interested.” He wedged the beer bottle between his thighs and reached down to stroke the braided leather wrapped around his wrist. “I’m happy to relieve you when you’re belowdecks, but I’m not looking for permanent.”

That was fair enough. Anyone who walked into the two-bedroom overlooking Grays Harbor would assume Fox was in the process of moving in, when in reality he’d just passed his six-year anniversary in the place.

At thirty-one, he was back in Westport, with no plans to leave. Once upon a time, he’d purposely attended college in Minnesota, but that didn’t turn out so well. Served him right for thinking this place wouldn’t suck him back in. It always did eventually. Leaving the first time had cost him most of the ingenuity he possessed, and now? He channeled what was left into fishing.

And women. Or he used to, anyway.

Brendan grunted. “I’m going to wear you down, you stubborn bastard.”

Fox gave him a tight smile over his shoulder. “You won’t. And you’re one to call someone stubborn, dude who wore his wedding ring seven extra years.”

There he went, looking blissful again.

Fox chuckled, uncapped his second beer with his teeth, and spat the cap into the sink. “Speaking of your reason for ending your self-imposed celibacy, shouldn’t you be home having dinner with her?”

Fox’s throat closed up. He was halfway to sitting down when Brendan said those five words, so he twisted at the last second, staying half turned, stuffing an unnecessary pillow behind his back so he wouldn’t have to look his oldest friend in the eye. And, God, how absolutely pitiful was that? “Oh yeah? What for?”

Brendan sighed. Crossed his arms. “You know she’s still working for that production company. Somehow she convinced them Westport would be a good place to film.”

Fox’s laughter cracked in the sparse living room. “You must be thrilled.”

The captain was the unofficial mayor of Westport. He was notoriously a man of few words, but when he gave his opinion on something, everyone damn well listened. In some towns, football stars were revered. In this place, it was the fishermen—and that went double for the man behind the wheel. “I don’t care what they do as long as they stay out of my hair.”

He feigned annoyance. “So you offered mine.”

It was hard to tell if Brendan was buying his act. “Piper had kind of nixed the idea, but Hannah seemed interested.”

Fox’s thumbnail dug into the beer label and ripped a clean strip down the side. “Really. Hannah wants to stay here?” Why were his palms turning damp? “How long are they going to be filming? How long would she stay?”

But the other half of the time, they would be there together.

How the hell was Fox supposed to feel about that?

More importantly—and this was a question he asked himself way too often—how the hell was he supposed to feel about Hannah? He’d never, not once, had a girl for a friend. Last summer, Hannah and her sister had crash-landed in Westport, two rich girls from LA who’d been stripped of their allowances by Daddy. Fox had only been trying to help Brendan nurse his crush on Piper by distracting the younger sibling with a walk to the record store.

Then they’d gone to the vinyl convention together. Spent the last six months texting each other about everything under the sun . . . and she’d had the nerve to crawl up under his skin in a way that made absolutely no sense to him.

Sex was a non-possibility between them.

That had been established early on, for a host of reasons.

Number one being that he didn’t fish local waters.

If he needed the company of a woman—and he should really get back to doing that kind of thing sometime—he went to Seattle. No chance of accidentally sleeping with someone’s sister or wife or cousin’s cousin, and he could wash his hands of the whole encounter afterward. Return to Westport with no chance of bumping into a hookup. Easy. No muss, no fuss.

The second reason he couldn’t sleep with Hannah was the very man sitting in his living room. Fox was read the riot act last summer. It was seared into his memory. Sleeping with Piper’s little sister would spell disaster, because if she got attached, Fox would undoubtedly hurt her feelings. And that would make his captain and best friend’s life hell, because the Bellinger sisters stuck together.

But Fox had a third, and most important, reason for keeping his hands off Hannah. She was his friend. She was a woman who genuinely liked him for something other than his dick. And it made him feel terrifyingly good to be around her. To talk to her.

They had fun. Made each other laugh.

The way she translated song lyrics out loud made him think. In the six months that she’d been gone, he’d noticed the sunrise more. He’d started paying attention to strangers, their actions. Listening to music. Even his job seemed to have more gravity to it. Hannah did that somehow. Made him look around and consider.

Brendan was staring at him, brows drawn. Uncomfortable.

The captain hedged. “I think certain speculation might be par for the course. As long as what folks are speculating on isn’t really happening.”

The captain rubbed the center of his forehead. “Look, I hate having to say this to you more than once. Feels like overkill and . . . Jesus, your sex life is your own business, but it could be different with her staying here.

Close quarters and all that.”

Fox refused to make the conversation easy for his friend. And he suspected Brendan had known that coming here. They were men who regularly took responsibility for each other’s lives. They didn’t lecture each other. It was overkill. Maybe that was why the conversation hit below the belt this time, when before it felt more like a minor slap.

When the silence extended without Fox saying anything, Brendan sighed. “She’s my future sister-in-law. She’s not temporary in any way,

okay? Hands off.” He made a decisive gesture. “That’s the last time I’ll bring it up.”

Why on God’s green earth did he offer to do that?

Not a damn clue.

But he’d be lying if Brendan’s immediate gratitude didn’t ease the sting of their prior conversation. Fox might be a manwhore, but he could be trusted to protect someone’s back. He’d made a career out of it. “Yeah?”

Fox jerked a shoulder, took a sip of his beer. “Sure. If I think something is developing there, I’ll . . .” Sabotage came to mind. “Make sure she’s safe.” He didn’t even want to explore why those words spread like warm honey on his agitated nerve endings. Protecting Hannah. What a responsibility that would be. “Not that she isn’t capable of that herself,” he added quickly.

Brendan filled up his barrel chest and let out a gusting exhale, slapping the arm of his chair. “Well. Thank God this is over.”

Fox pointed his beer straight ahead. “Door’s that way.”

The captain grunted and took his leave. Fox didn’t even pretend to be interested in his beer after that. Instead, he got up and crossed the room, stopping in front of the cabinet he’d picked up at a rummage sale. Buying

furniture went against his grain, but he’d needed somewhere to store the vinyl records he’d started collecting. He’d bought his first on their trip to Seattle. The Rolling Stones. Exile on Main St. Even Hannah had approved when he’d picked it out at the record convention.

Anyway, the damn thing had started looking lonely, just sitting there all by itself, so he’d walked over to Disc N Dat and purchased a few more.

Hendrix, Bowie, the Cranberries. Classics. The stack had grown so much, it felt almost accusatory in its silence, so—after trying to talk himself out of it for a couple of weeks—he’d ordered a record player.

Fox reached back behind the cabinet where he kept the key, sliding it out of the leather pouch. He unlocked the door and looked at the vertical rainbow of albums, only hesitating for a second before pulling out Madness.

Dropping the needle on “Our House.” After listening to it all the way through, he pulled out his phone and started the song again, recording an audio clip and firing it Hannah’s way.

A few minutes later, she sent him back a clip of the Golden Girls theme song.

Through music, they’d just acknowledged she’d be staying in his guest room—and this was how it had been since she left. Fox waiting for the messages to stop, holding his breath at the end of every day, only releasing it when the text came.

Swallowing, he turned and looked at the guest room. Hannah was in LA.

This was a friendship based on something more . . . pure than he was accustomed to. And it was safe. Texting was safe. A way of offering more to someone without giving up everything.

Would he be able to keep that up with her living in the same apartment?

Chapter Three

For two weeks, Hannah and Latrice had worked overtime to make the location swap from LA to Westport happen in the name of artistic vision.

Westport business owners had been finessed, the chamber of commerce fluffed. Permits sealed and housing nailed down. Now they were T-minus ten minutes until the chartered bus reached the small Washington fishing village.

If Hannah was going to make professional strides during the filming of Glory Daze, it was now or never. She finally had to woman up and ask Sergei for the opportunity, because as soon as the bus pulled to a stop, he’d hit the ground running and she’d miss her chance.

Stalling shamefully, Hannah sunk down in the pleather seat and scrubbed her hands over her face. She yanked out her AirPods, cutting off Dylan’s greatest hits, and shoved the devices into her pockets. Reaching up, she removed her ball cap, running nervous fingers through her hair several times, struggling to see her reflection in the window. Her movements stilled when she realized the impromptu primp session wasn’t working. She still looked like a PA. The lowest woman on the food chain.

Definitely not someone Sergei would trust with an entire film soundtrack.

She flopped back in the seat, knee jiggling, and let the raucous sounds of the bus drown out her sigh. Over the top of the seat in front of her, she watched Sergei and Brinley, the music coordinator, lean their heads together to converse and then break apart laughing.

Now, Brinley?

She was leading-lady material. A tailored, tasteful, bobbed-brunette transplant from New York who had a different statement necklace for every

outfit. A woman who walked into a room and got the job she applied for, because she dressed for it. Because she exuded confidence and expected her due.

And Brinley had Hannah’s dream job.

Two years ago, Hannah had purposefully asked her stepfather to find her a low-level position at a production company, and he’d tapped Sergei at Storm Born. At Hannah’s request, her stepfather had asked his casual acquaintance to be discreet about their connection, so she could be just Hannah, as opposed to famed producer Daniel Bellinger’s stepkid. She had a bachelor’s in music history from UCLA, but she knew nothing about film.

If she’d leaned harder on her stepfather’s name, she probably could have landed a producer position, but where was the fairness in that when she didn’t know the industry? It had been a choice to learn from the sidelines.

And she had. Being in charge of boatloads of paperwork and record keeping meant she’d had a lot of opportunities to study Brinley’s cue sheets, synchronization contracts, and notes. No one technically knew she’d taken a quiet interest in that side of the production company. Hannah still lacked hands-on training, but two years later, she was ready to move up the ranks.

She observed Sergei and Brinley with a hole in her stomach.

They were behind-the-scenes talent, but approaching them was just like walking up to the lead actors. Still, she was growing weary of holding Christian’s straw and getting slurped on.

A salt-air breeze filtered in through the cracked bus window. While it jolted her with nostalgia, kissing her skin with welcome wherever it touched, it also told Hannah they were really close to Westport. If she wanted to make the slightest step toward progress, she needed to act now.

Hannah rolled her shoulders back and shoved the baseball cap into her tote bag, ignoring the curious looks from cast and crew as she picked her way up to the front of the bus. Her pulse ticked in the base of her neck, moisture fleeing from her mouth. When she drew even with Sergei and Brinley, they smiled expectantly. Kindly. As in, Kindly explain why you’re interrupting our conversation.

Not for the first time, she wondered if Brinley and Sergei were secretly seeing each other, but the gap of pleather seat between them—and the rock on Brinley’s finger from someone else—spoke to them being just friends.

Fact was, the two of them had to work closely. Coordinating music for movies was an intricate process, the score often crafted in postproduction.

But Storm Born had their own way of compiling the track list that would play beneath the dialogue or during montages. They created it while the filming process took place, relying heavily on the mood of the moment (read: Sergei’s whims). And they tended to use music that already existed and trimmed it down accordingly, rather than creating music to fit the film.

Hannah couldn’t dream of anything better than summing up a distinct moment with the right song. To help weave together the atmosphere. Music was the backbone of movies. Of everything. One line from a song could help Hannah define her own feelings, and the opportunity to put that passion to art was something she spent every day wanting.

Ask them. The bus is almost there.

Oh, good opener. A filler word.

Hannah dug deep for the girl who’d been brave enough to pitch Westport to a room full of producers and talent. She was starting to think her nostalgia for this place had spoken on her behalf. “Brinley. Sergei,”

Hannah said, making herself look them both in the eyes. “I was wondering if—”

Of course the bus chose that moment to stop.

And of course Hannah was too busy adjusting her clothing and twisting her rings and generally fidgeting to catch hold of anything that might prevent her from sprawling sideways down the center of the row. She landed hard on her shoulder and hip, her temple connecting with the floor.

A truly humiliating oof launched from her mouth, followed by the most deafening silence that had ever occurred on planet Earth.

No one moved. Hannah debated the merits of crawling under one of the seats until the world had the decency to end, but thoughts of hiding vanished when Sergei hopped across Brinley and stepped over Hannah’s legs, bending down to help her back to her feet.

Without waiting for an answer, Sergei directed an angry look toward the front of the bus where the driver sat watching them, unfazed. “Hey, man.

How about making sure everyone is seated before hitting the brakes?”

Hannah didn’t have a chance to rightfully claim the blame, because Sergei was already ushering her off the bus while everyone stared openmouthed at the PA with the growing knot on her head. Yup, she could already feel it forming. Good God. She’d finally mustered up the courage to ask if she could observe the soundtrack process. Now she might as well just quit and start looking for positions as a sandwich-board operator.

Although, there were worse consequences to stupidity than having the dreamy director’s arm around her shoulders, helping her off the bus. This close, she could smell his aftershave, kind of an orangey clove scent. It was just like Sergei to pick something unique and unexpected. She looked up into his expressive face, at the black hair that met in the middle of his head in a subtle faux-hawk. His goatee was engineered to perfection.

If she wasn’t careful, she’d read too much into his concern. She’d start to wonder if maybe Sergei could learn to love an accident-prone supporting actress instead of a leading lady, after all?

Realizing she was staring, Hannah tore her wistful eyes off the man she’d been crushing on for two years—and saw Fox crossing the parking lot in their direction, his striking face a mask of alarm. “Hannah?”

Her mind made a scratchy humming sound, like the one a record makes in between songs. Probably because she’d communicated with this man every day for six—no, nearly seven—months now but never heard his voice. Perhaps because his identity had been whittled down to words on a screen, she’d forgotten that he commanded attention like a grand finale of fireworks in the night sky.

Without turning around, she knew every straight woman had her face pressed up against the windows of the bus, watching the maestro of feminine wetness cross the road, his dark blond hair blowing around in the wind, the lower half of his face covered in unruly, unshaped stubble, darker than the hair on his head.

With that pretty-boy face, he really should have been soft. Used to getting his way. Maybe, possibly even short. God, if you’re listening? But instead he looked like a troublemaker angel that got booted out of heaven, all tall and well-built and resilient and capable-looking. On top of everything else, he had to have the most dangerous job in the United States, the knowledge of fear and nature and consequences in his sea-blue eyes.

The relief of seeing Fox practically bowled her over, and she started to call out a greeting, until she realized the fisherman’s gravitational-pull eyes were homing in on Sergei, setting off a tectonic shift of plates in his cheeks.

She was about to raise a skeptical brow and ask to see his medical degree, but then she remembered a story Piper had told her. Fox had once given Brendan makeshift stitches for a bleeding forehead wound. All while keeping his balance during a hurricane.

Such was the life of a king crab fisherman.

Couldn’t he just be super short? Was that so much to ask?

Fox licked the seam of his lips, brows still drawn, and his attention slid back toward the director. “We’ll take a closer look when we get home. You have a bag I can carry or something?”

Close? To Fox? Seven months ago, she would have thought that a stretch. Now? It wasn’t exactly a lie. Lately, she’d been talking to him more often than Piper. “Well—”

Fox cut her off. “We should get that bump looked at, Freckles.”

Was something afoot here?

Both men were inching toward her subtly, like she was the last slice of pizza.

Was her head wound releasing some kind of alpha pheromone?

Fox and Sergei sized each other up, clearly ready to argue about who was going to get her bag. The way her day was going, it would probably

ensue in a tug-of-war, the zipper would break, and her underpants would rain down like confetti. “I’ll grab it,” Hannah said, before either one of them could speak, hotfooting it away from the masculinity maelstrom before it affected her brain.

She turned for the bus just as Brinley glided down the stairs, giving Fox a curious look that Hannah was amazed to see, thanks to the window’s reflection, he didn’t return. Those sea-blues were fastened on her bump, instead. Probably trying to decide which needle to use to mutilate her.

Before she could try a third time, Fox reached past her and opened it with a flick of his tan wrist. “You’re having a shit day, aren’t you?” he said for her ears alone.

She exhaled. “Yeah.”

He made a humming sound, tilted his head sympathetically. “Tell me which bag is yours and I’ll bring you back to my place.” Gently, he tugged on a strand of her hair. “Make it all better.”

It was totally possible she’d hit her head and ended up in an erotic sex dream with Fox Thornton. It wouldn’t be the first time—not that she would admit to that in a court of law. Or even to her sister. There was simply no way to combat the subtle transmissions he gave off that screamed, I’m good at sex. Like, really, really good. She was powerless against it. Thing was, that went for every other woman he came into contact with, too. And she had no interest in being one of thousands. That’s why they were friends.

Hadn’t that been established? Why was he hitting on her?

How are you going to do that?”

Dimples, for crying out loud. “Why? What were you thinking?”

Hannah had no idea what her reply was going to be. She started to stammer something, but the view of Sergei and Brinley strolling toward the harbor together made the words catch in her throat. He didn’t glance back

once. Obviously she’d imagined the new spark of interest she’d seen in the director’s eyes. He was just being a good boss by making sure her head injury wasn’t serious.

Tearing her attention off the pair, she found Fox watching her closely.

After falling and being escorted off the bus by Sergei, she must have been in a state of distraction. Now that it was just the two of them—

although Angelenos were beginning to file off the bus—a bubble of gratitude and fondness rose up in her middle and burst. She’d missed this place. It held some of her most treasured memories. And Fox was a part of them. His text messages over the last seven months had allowed her to hold on to a piece of Westport without intruding on her sister’s bliss. She appreciated him for that, so she didn’t second-guess her decision to hug him. With a laugh, she simply walked into his arms and inhaled his ocean scent, smiling when he laughed as well, rubbing the crown of her head with his knuckles.

She rubbed her cheek on the gray cotton of his long-sleeved shirt, stepped back, and shoved him playfully. “Hey, Peacock.”

No one was hitting on anyone. Or pulling alpha moves.

Friends. That’s what this relationship was.

She wasn’t going to mess that up by objectifying him. There was more to Fox than a chiseled face, thick arms, and an air of danger. Just like there was a lot more to her than being a coffee holder and note taker.

Fox seemed to notice the glumness eclipse her joy, because he picked up the only black bag in the pile—correctly assuming it was hers—and threw his opposite arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward the apartment building where he lived, across from the docks. “You let me fix your noggin, I’ll throw in a cookie with that ice cream.”

She leaned into him and sighed. “Deal.”

Chapter Four

Y ou’re off to a fine start, idiot.

After his intervention with Brendan, he’d had a few weeks to sit on the fact that Hannah was coming to stay with him. A lot of that time had been spent out on the water, the ultimate head clearer. It was going to be no problem. A girl would be sleeping in his guest room. He’d be in the other room. With no expectation of sex. Great.

Causal sex was easier than this.

Before Hannah, Fox had relied on his personality a grand total of once in his life when it came to a woman. His one and only serious relationship hadn’t gone over well, mostly because it had only been serious to him. His college girlfriend’s perspective had been entirely different. Yeah, Fox had learned the hard way that he couldn’t escape the assumptions people made about him—that he was temporary entertainment. Growing up, he’d ached to escape this town and the role his face—and to be fair, his actions—had carved out for him. God, he’d tried. But those expectations followed him everywhere.

So he’d stopped trying.

If you’re laughing with them, they can’t laugh at you, right?

Looking down at the crown of Hannah’s head, Fox swallowed hard.

They were walking past Blow the Man Down, and he could practically hear every stool in the place swiveling to watch Fox escort Hannah toward his apartment. They would be making jokes. Chuckling into their beers.

Speculating. And, shit, how could he even blame them? Most of the time, Fox was the one making jokes about himself.

How was Seattle? they would ask him, eager to be entertained by his exploits. Distracted from their fishing stories for a moment.

Filthy place, he’d say, winking at them. Filthy.

Now he had the nerve to put his arm around Hannah? Distractingly pretty, endlessly interesting, not-after-his-dick Hannah. They were the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood crossing the street in front of the docks, her no-nonsense bag dangling from his free hand. And when they stopped in front of his building so he could unlock the door, Fox was painfully aware of Hannah glancing back from where they’d come, hoping to catch a glimpse of her director.

He’d never been jealous over a girl in his life. Except for this one. When he’d caught sight of Sergei bundling Hannah down the stairs of the bus, his head ducked toward her in concern, that ugly green had splashed across his vision like a rogue wave across the deck, reminding him of the first time he’d heard the director’s name. His first impulse had been to break the guy’s nose—the opposite of what he should be doing. If Hannah was his friend, why would he want to mess up her budding romance?

Maybe he was jealous in a friendly way?

A total possibility.

People got jealous over their friends. Right? It stood to reason that Fox’s first female friend would be the one to inspire the feeling. He did covet this relationship, even though it scared him. If he was a scale, hope would sit on one side, fear on the other. Hope that he could be more than a hookup to her. Fear that he’d fail at it and be exposed.

Again.

She squinted an eye. “Did you miss the whole head-injury thing?”

Hannah walked over his threshold, hesitated like she was going to come clean, then stopped. “I was promised ice cream and a cookie.”

It was purely his nature to distract himself with something physical. One second Hannah’s feet were planted on the ground, the next he’d plucked her up and settled her onto his kitchen counter. He’d performed the action without a thought. At least until her pretty lips popped open in surprise as her butt hit the surface of the counter. The feel of her waist lingered on his palms, and he was definitely thinking then about things he shouldn’t.

Reeling his hands back, Fox cleared his throat hard. He stepped to the side to open a cabinet and removed his blue metal first-aid kit. “Talk.”

She shook her head as if to clear it. Then opened her mouth, closed it again. “Remember how I told you I wanted to assert myself more at work?”

She’d told Fox about her dreams of compiling song lists for films last summer, namely the day they’d gone to the record expo together. Fox remembered every single thing about that day. Everything she’d said and done. How good it felt to be with her.

Realizing he was staring into space, recalling the way her elegant fingers walked through a record stack, he wet a cotton ball with antiseptic and stepped close, hesitating only a second before pushing the hair back from her forehead. Their gazes met and danced away quickly. “Are you going to cry when this stings?”

and Brinley if I could observe the soundtrack process, and that’s when Hannah went splat.”

Fox snorted. “You were born ready for making soundtracks. I have seven months of text messages to prove it.”

At the mention of the texts, their eyes clashed, splotches of pink waking up in her cheeks. Blushing. He had a friend’s blushing little sister sitting on his kitchen counter. Jesus Christ. Before he could reach out and test the temperature of those splotches with his fingertips, he went back to sorting through bandages.

Hannah nodded but said nothing.

Kept right on saying nothing as he applied Neosporin to her cut and laid the small Band-Aid on top, smoothing it with his thumb.

Not leaning in to kiss her when they were inches away felt foreign. Had he ever gotten this close to a woman besides his mother without the intention of sealing their mouths together? Flipping through his memories, he couldn’t pinpoint a single time. On the other hand, he couldn’t recall all the times he had kissed women. Not with any clarity.

He’d remember kissing Hannah.

No the fuck you won’t.

With grabby movements, Fox collected the Band-Aid wrapper and opened a lower cabinet so he could brush it into the trash. “Wanting to observe doesn’t seem like a big ask, Hannah. I’m sure they’ll say yes.”

Hannah hummed, looking at him thoughtfully. “She’s the music coordinator. Brinley.” She picked up a hand and let it drop. “I can’t see myself doing anything that woman does. She’s . . .”

Fox’s confusion cleared. “You mean, she’s one of the actresses?”

Nope, still confused. “I’m lost, Hannah.”

She fell forward slightly with a laugh. “Never mind.”

Damn. She’d only been here for five minutes, and he already wasn’t living up to the friend status. Did she not want to confide in him? It scared him how much he wanted to earn her trust.

Fox moved to the freezer and took out the ice cream. Chocolate-vanilla swirl had seemed like a surefire bet when he picked it out at the supermarket yesterday. Best of both worlds, right? Watching her reaction, he took a spoon out of the drawer and stabbed it into the top, handing her the entire pint. “Explain what you mean about Piper and this Betty chick being leading ladies.”

Fox made a face. “An LA name if I’ve ever heard one.”

She seemed to wrestle with her thoughts while taking a relishing bite of ice cream and drawing the spoon from between her lips slowly.

Mesmerizingly.

Fox coughed and dragged his attention higher.

Wow. Here she was. Confiding in him—in person. About her insecurities. About the guy she wanted to date. This was his first heart-to-heart with a girl. No flirting or pretense. Just honesty. Up until that moment, it was possible Fox hadn’t fully grasped that Hannah really, actually, one

hundred percent only thought of him as just a friend. That all those texts weren’t a unique, platonic style of foreplay. After all, she had eyes. She’d seen him, right? But there was no unspoken interest on her part. This really was just friendship. She apparently liked whatever the hell Fox had lurking on the inside. And even though he felt like he’d been socked in the fucking stomach, he still wanted to meet her expectations. Although, he suspected his ego would be purple with bruises by the time this was over.

Those twitching lips spread into a smile. “Thanks.”

Fox could see he might have made Hannah smile, but the issues were far from solved. For one, she liked the director, and for some reason Fox couldn’t fathom, the dumbass wasn’t chasing after her with a bouquet of red roses. How could he help with that? Did he want to help her with that? It was a fisherman’s nature to plug leaks, fix problems when they arose. For another, Hannah not feeling one hundred percent happy was a definite problem in his book. “The guy was jealous, you know. Back at the bus when I came to pick you up.”

Her head came up, expression hopeful, but it faded just as quickly, unlike the knot tying tighter inside him. “No, he was just being nice,” she said, digging back into the ice cream. Chocolate side only, he noted for next time.

Next time?

She wrinkled her nose. “Is jealous the same thing as intimidated?”

She snort-laughed.

That’s why he kept his arm around you way too long.” Fox grabbed at the

sweaty, icy skin at the nape of his neck. “He didn’t like that you were staying with me, and he especially didn’t like me calling you Freckles. He was intimidated and, therefore, jealous.”

Fox didn’t add that he was speaking from experience.

Intimidated by some artsy goatee-sporting guy from LA. A Russian, no less. Russians were their main competition during crab season, as if he needed another reason to dislike the motherfucker.

God, he was jumpy. “Anyway, all I’m saying is . . . he’s not not interested.”

Alarm stole downward through Fox’s fingertips. He’d walked straight into a trap. One he’d set himself. “You can’t let him think that, Hannah.”

Trying to mask the panic, he let out a crack of laughter. “You don’t . . .

No. I’m not letting you associate your reputation with mine, all right? A couple of days in this town and he’ll probably hear all about it. Trust me, if he’s worth a damn, the fact that I got to bandage your bump will make him jealous enough.”

Hannah blinked. “If he’s worth a damn, he won’t believe everything he hears. Especially about someone he doesn’t know personally.”

You know, a little lip biting and arm squeezing . . .”

Nothing was doing it for him lately. Nothing but the three little dots popping up in their text thread. And now head wounds. How pathetic was that? “Don’t worry about what does it for me. I’m talking about this guy.

He’s probably clueless, and a lot of men will remain that way without a little encouragement.”

Visibly amused, she tilted her head. “Are you one of those men?”

Fox sighed, resisted the urge to scratch at the back of his neck.

How did the conversation get here? First, he’s giving her pointers on landing the director, and now he’s inadvertently bragging about his luck with women? Off to a great start, man. “Look, I’m not in the relationship race and I never will be. Clearly you are. I was just trying to be helpful.

Flirting with Sergei is one thing, but the bottom line is we’re not letting anyone incorrectly assume”—he sawed a hand back and forth in between them—“this is happening. For your own good, okay?”

Hannah definitely wanted to discuss it further, pick it apart, but thankfully she let it drop. “You don’t have to tell me you’re not in the relationship race,” she said, biting her lip. “I can see your apartment just fine.”

Grateful for the subject change, he breathed a laugh. “What?” He chucked her chin. “You don’t think women are into the waiting-room look?”

Fox took the ice cream and spoon out of her hands and set them on the counter. “You’re not getting that cookie now.” He grabbed her by the waist and tossed her facedown over his shoulder, prompting a squeal as he stomped toward the spare room. “I’m not putting up with an ungrateful houseguest, Freckles.”

Her laughter cut off abruptly when they entered her room—as he’d already begun to think of it—no doubt noticing the row of scented candles, the folded towels, and the pink Himalayan salt lamp. He’d seen it in a tourist shop window and decided she definitely needed one, but at this juncture, the purchase made him feel utterly silly.

Shaking his head at himself, Fox eased Hannah off his shoulder and dropped her gently onto the queen-sized bed, his chest tugging at the way her hair flopped down to cover one eye. “Oh. Fox . . .” she murmured, scanning the row of supplies.

None of them were right for a friend.

For everything.”

He started to leave but stopped when she said, “And just for the record, I would be honored to fake sleep with you. Sordid reputation and all.”

With a stone blocking his windpipe, all he could do was nod, grabbing his keys on the way out of the apartment. “Cookies are in the cabinet,” he called, walking out into the sunshine, welcoming the way it blinded him.

Chapter Five

Hannah came to a stop outside her grandmother’s door and removed her AirPods, silencing her “Walking Through Westport” playlist. It mainly consisted of Modest Mouse, Creedence, and the Dropkick Murphys, all of which reminded her of the ocean, whether it be pirates or a hippie playing harmonica on the docks. As soon as the melody cut out, she knocked, pressing her lips together a moment later to stifle a laugh. Inside the apartment, Opal was muttering to herself about morons who let solicitors into the building, her footsteps ambling closer.

At what point would having a grandmother on her father’s side begin to feel normal? Opal’s existence had been kept from Hannah and Piper growing up, but they’d discovered her—by mistake—last summer. And the woman was a delight. Fierce and sweet and funny. Full of stories about Hannah and Piper’s father, too. Was that the reason Hannah had taken four days to come for a visit?

Sure, she’d been kept very busy on the set of their first location. On top of Hannah’s other duties, they’d needed her on set for the filming of the high school lovers’ reunion scene between Christian and Maxine outside the lighthouse. Getting it right had taken the full four days—but during the night she’d gone home to Fox’s empty apartment, instead of going to see Opal. Piper had been out of town those four days, having taken her in-laws for a side trip to Seattle, so Hannah decided she should just wait. That way they could all visit together. There was more to her stalling, though.

Hannah pressed a hand to her stomach to subdue the bubbles of guilt.

Now that her sister was back in town, she’d called and asked Piper to meet her at Opal’s this afternoon. Where was she?

Hannah was still craning her neck to see the end of the hallway when Opal answered the door. The older woman blinked once, twice, her mouth falling open. “You’re not selling magazine subscriptions at all. You’re my granddaughter.” Hannah leaned in, and Opal enveloped her in a back-patting hug. “When did you get into town? I don’t believe this. All I can make you is a ham sandwich.”

Her grandmother flushed with pleasure. “Well, then. Come in, come in.”

The apartment had changed drastically since the last time Hannah was there. Gone was the outdated furniture, the combined scents of lemon cleaner and must that left a sense of solitude hanging in the air. Now it smelled fresh. Sunflowers sat in the center of a new dining-room table, and there was no longer a plastic protector on the couch. “Wow.” Hannah set her tote bag on the floor and unzipped her Storm Born windbreaker, shrugging it off to hang on the peg. “Let me guess. Piper had something to do with this?”

Affection for her sister wiggled its way in next to Hannah’s guilt but did nothing to eclipse it. Over the last seven months, she’d spoken to Opal only a handful of times on the phone. She’d sent a card at Christmas. It wasn’t that she didn’t adore the woman. They got along very well. She’d made Opal a Woodstock-themed playlist last summer, and they’d totally bonded over it. Even now, the welcoming vibes of the apartment wrapped around Hannah and warmed her.

It was when the stories about her father—Opal’s only son—inevitably started rolling that Hannah got uncomfortable.

Hannah flat out couldn’t remember him. She’d been two years old when the king crab fisherman had been sucked to the bottom of the Bering Sea.

Piper could remember his laugh, his energy, but Hannah’s mind conjured nothing. No melancholia, no affection or nostalgia.

For Piper, restoring Henry’s bar had been a journey of learning about herself and connecting with the memory of Henry.

For Hannah, it was about . . . supporting Piper on that journey.

Of course, seeing the finished product after weeks of manual labor had been satisfying, especially when they changed the name to Cross and Daughters, but the coming-full-circle feeling never happened for Hannah.

So whenever she came to see Opal and her grandmother brought out pictures of Henry, or stories were told about him over the phone, Hannah started to wonder if her emotions were stunted. She could cry over a Heartless Bastards song, but her own father got nothing from her?

Hannah joined Opal on the new indigo-colored couch and cupped her knees through her jeans. “I’m actually in town because the production company I work for is shooting a short film. Kind of a heartbreaking art house piece.”

With a sound of delight, Opal slapped her thigh. “That was your idea?”

Hannah fluffed her ponytail. “Yes, ma’am. I made my director think it was his idea to add locals for authenticity. It’s a good thing I don’t use my powers for evil, or everyone would be in big trouble.”

It would be fantastic if she could use her powers to move ahead in her career, too, wouldn’t it? Greasing the production wheels was easy for her.

There were no personal stakes. No risk. Applying herself to music coordinating was scarier. Because it mattered.

A great deal.

Opal laughed, reached over to squeeze Hannah’s wrist. “Oh, sweetie, I’ve missed your spunk.”

The sound of a key turning in the lock made Hannah whip around, and Opal clapped happily. Piper was only halfway through the door when Hannah launched herself over the back of the new couch and plowed into her sister, tension she’d hardly been aware of seeping from her pores.

Hugging Piper was like walking into a room filled with your best memories.

Her sheer-sleeved romper, impractical heels, and expensive perfume made Hannah feel like they were back in Bel-Air, sitting on the floor of Piper’s room, sorting her jewelry collection.

They hopped in a happy circle, laughing, while Opal fumbled with her phone, trying and failing to open her camera app.

The sisters pulled back, wiping their faces in very different manners.

Hannah swiped for efficiency, while Piper dragged a careful pinkie in a perfect U shape to repair her eyeliner. Arm in arm, they moved around the couch and sat down plastered up against each other. “So when are you moving here permanently?” Piper asked, her tone still slightly watery.

Hannah sighed, resting her head on the back of the couch. “Part of me doesn’t hate that idea. Get my job back at Disc N Dat. Haunt the guest room at your house forever”—she poked at a sequin in Piper’s bodice—“but LA is keeping me, I’m afraid. It’s where my dream career awaits.”

Piper stroked her hair. “Have you made any headway on that?”

Opal leaned forward. “Dream career?”

It was fleeting and subtle, but she felt Piper stiffen, giving off definite protective-older-sister vibes. “Oh, did he?”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “This is your one and only reminder that me staying with Fox was your idea.”

Piper sputtered, “He might as well be mauling you!”

But it has been established that he won’t be appreciating me.”

Hannah released a gusting breath toward the ceiling. Mostly to hide the weird twist that happened inside her when she thought of the album and how she’d gotten it. “It’s no big deal, really.” Liar. “Last summer, we all went to Seattle. Me, Piper, Fox, Brendan. We broke off for a while, and Fox took me to this record convention. And I found an album that sang to me.

Fleetwood Mac. Rumours.” A paltry description for a shock to the nervous system. “But it was expensive. At the time, me and Pipes were on a tight budget, so I didn’t buy it . . .”

Opal made an O shape with her lips. “Oh my. That is romantic.”

Piper and Opal traded a very superior look.

Part of her couldn’t even blame them. Fox buying her that album was the one thing she couldn’t seem to define as one hundred percent friendly. It sat in a place of honor back home, facing out on the hanging rack that displayed her albums. Every time she passed it, she replayed the moment at the convention when she’d gasped over the find, tracing the square edge of the album with her fingers. The warmth of his arm around her, the unsteady

pound of his heart. How for the first time, she’d let someone into the music with her, instead of disappearing into it alone.

Hannah shook herself. “You’re actually helping me prove my point, Pipes. If he wanted to . . . appreciate me, why would he wait until I was leaving to hand me his golden ticket like that?”

Piper rearranged the perfectly curled ends of her hair, physically accepting the end of the subject. “So. How is LA? Does she miss me?”

Their mother, Maureen, had left Westport over two decades earlier in a cloud of grief after Henry Cross’s death, relocating to Los Angeles where she’d worked as a seamstress for a movie studio. She’d met and married their stepfather at the pinnacle of his success as a producer. Seemingly overnight, the three of them had gone from residing in a tiny apartment to a Bel-Air mansion, where Hannah still lived to this day.

With Piper in residence, the mansion never failed to feel like home. But ever since Piper moved to Westport, Hannah felt more like a visitor. Out of place and disconnected in the gigantic palace. It had become obvious that their parents led a separate life, and lately, she’d started to feel like an observer of it. Instead of someone who was happily off living her own.

Piper angled her body to face Hannah, head tilted. “Such as?”

Being the focus of the conversation was unusual, to say the least. It wasn’t that it embarrassed her to be the center of attention. There was simply no use involving everyone in problems she could fix herself, right?

Like finagling a trip to Westport because loneliness and a sense of missing something had started getting to her. “Never mind.” She waved a hand.

Hannah shrugged a shoulder. “It’s time. It’s time for me to . . . grow up the whole way. I got stuck halfway through the process.” She thought of Brinley. “No one is going to consider a promotion for a girl who lives with

her parents. Or they’ll consider me less, anyway. If I want adult responsibilities, I have to be one. I have to believe I am one first.”

Hannah explained. “What I want from a career and my love life are totally separate, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want Sergei to look at me like I’m a woman, you know? Instead of the scruffy PA.”

The guy was jealous, you know. Back at the bus when I came to pick you up.

Fox’s voice filtered in through her thoughts. She’d been busy over the last four days, getting everyone settled in their temporary housing, unpacking supplies in the trailers, meeting with the local business owners.

But she hadn’t been so busy that she wasn’t aware of Sergei. Of course she was always aware of him on set. With his passion on full display, he was a magnet for attention. But if the director had really been jealous of Fox, he’d forgotten all about it and gone back to treating Hannah with polite distractedness.

Trust me, if he’s worth a damn, the fact that I got to bandage your bump will make him jealous enough. There went Fox’s deep rasp in her head again, when she should be thinking of Sergei. Still . . . she couldn’t stop replaying what the fisherman said to her in the kitchen. About his reputation. About how he wouldn’t want people assuming they were an item, because he thought it would be a bad look for Hannah. He didn’t really believe that nonsense, right?

She pretended to cry, and Hannah laughed. “But I couldn’t have done it without you, Hannah. You made me consider possibilities I never dreamed of. That’s how I know you’re capable of anything. Don’t let a head injury and feeling scruffy stop you. My sister is dependable and creative and doesn’t take anyone’s shit. If this studio doesn’t give you the opportunity,

another one will. Dammit.” Piper smiled prettily. “And I’m sorry for cursing, Opal. I’m just trying to get my point across.”

Piper was being Hannah’s supporting actress for once, and that fact wasn’t lost on her. The role reversal, coupled with the warm pressure behind her eyes, probably accounted for Hannah doing something totally out of character. “Can you help me out with the scruffiness? Just for tonight.” She poked a finger through the thumb hole of her sweatshirt.

Her sister slowly laid a hand on her arm, nails digging in lightly. “Are you asking me to dress you up?”

Hannah swallowed a smile and did as she was told. There might have been a speck of vanity inside her that wanted to catch Sergei’s attention at the crew party tonight, and she wondered if a Piper-style dress might do it.

But that definitely wasn’t her reason for dressing up. If she wanted to move to the next level in this industry, people had to start taking her seriously.

Plain and simple? In Hollywood, image mattered, whether it should or not.

Sparkle got attention and forced people to listen. To consider. No one would ever ask Piper or Brinley to hold their straw or stir their coffee counterclockwise, would they? I’m looking at you, Christian.

Nor would they expect Brinley to do all the heavy lifting at the studio without paying her properly. For a long time, Hannah had reasoned that it didn’t matter what her paycheck looked like. She lived with her parents in Bel-Air, for crying out loud. They had an Olympic-sized swimming pool in the backyard and a full-time staff. Since getting back in her stepfather’s good graces, money was available to her again, if she ever needed funds beyond her paycheck. But her meager earnings were becoming a matter of principle. They wouldn’t have managed this location shoot without her—

and Latrice—pulling several all-nighters. The difference being, Latrice got paid what she was worth.

Dressing for success seemed almost too easy compared to the hard work she’d been doing lately, but giving it a try wouldn’t hurt.

Their grandmother got to her feet and power walked to the other side of the living room, taking a slim blue folder off the top of her bookcase.

Knowing whatever was in that folder would pertain to her father, Hannah’s stomach started to drop. This was the part of catching up with her grandmother she always dreaded: when Piper and Opal would be moved to tears over some piece of Henry’s history, and she would feel like a statue, trying to relate.

Both sisters leaned in and squinted down at the small handwriting that took up several pages of stained and age-worn paper.

Hannah felt a tug of almost reluctant interest. She’d gotten her hopes up a few times that a photograph or a token of her father’s might bring on some tide of emotion, but it never happened, and it wouldn’t now. “Was he a good singer?”

Piper made a pleasurable sound, picking up the folder and leafing through. “Hannah, you should take these.”

Opal reached over and rubbed Hannah’s knee. “Maybe Henry is where you got your love of music.”

Why did she want to deny that so badly?

What was wrong with her?

It was right there on the tip of her tongue to say no. No, my love for so many kinds of music is mine. I don’t share it with anyone. It’s a coincidence.

But, instead, she nodded. “Sure, I’d . . . love to take them for a while and give them a read.”

Opal lit up. “Fantastic.”

Hannah accepted the folder from Piper and closed it, a familiar desperation to change the subject from Henry settling over her. “Okay, Pipes. We’ve been in suspense long enough. Tell us about Brendan’s parents. How is the visit with your future in-laws going?”

Her sister settled back into the seat, crossing long legs that had been buffed to a shine. “Well. As you know, I brought them down to Seattle this week, since Brendan is out on the boat. I planned all our time there, down to the second.”

Opal and Hannah fell back in their seats laughing.

Hannah raised her hand. Piper smacked it down.

The spread of anticipation in Hannah’s belly had nothing to do with Fox coming home tonight along with Brendan. She was simply excited to see her friend again and not be alone in his oddly barren apartment.

Piper split a look between Opal and Hannah. “Give me some ideas?”

Hannah thought for a second, slipping into her supporting role as easily as a second skin. “Ask her to teach you how to make Brendan’s favorite childhood meal. It’ll make her feel useful, and it’s not terrible knowledge to have, like for birthdays and special occasions, right?”

going to bond it up with my future mother-in-law. What would I do without you, Hanns?”

Hannah pressed her nose to her sister’s skin and inhaled, absorbing the hug, the moment, “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper playing in the back of her mind. It was tempting to stay there, to bask in the comfortable feeling of being the one to prop others up. There was nothing wrong with it, and she loved that role. But being comfortable had kept her in the second-fiddle position so long . . . and tonight she was finally going to conduct the orchestra herself.

Chapter Six

Hannah walked extra slowly down the sidewalk, a bottle of wine in hand.

Her snail’s pace had a lot to do with the three-inch heels, but it was mainly the dress delaying her progress. As soon as Piper unzipped the garment bag, she’d started to shake her head. Red? Red? Her wardrobe had been compiled for comfort and functionality. Lots of grays, blues, blacks, and whites so she wouldn’t have to worry about matching. The only red items she owned were a baseball hat and a pair of Chucks. It was a color you used for a pop. Not the whole ensemble.

Then she’d put it on—and she’d never been more annoyed to have someone be right. There was something kind of nineties about the dress, and that spoke to the grunge-headed old soul inside Hannah. It reminded her of the red minidress Cher wore to the Valley party in Clueless. Piper had agreed, making Hannah say, “I totally paused,” at least forty-eight times while they straightened her hair.

In most lines of work, this outfit would have been considered inappropriate, but entertainment was its own animal. At the end of the night, it wouldn’t be unusual to catch crew members making out in the hallways. Or right out in the open. Often there were drugs, and always alcohol. But really, as long as everyone showed up the next morning and got their job done, pretty much anything went. While judgments and gossip were inevitable, being unprofessional after hours made you one of the gang as opposed to a pariah.

A block away from the rented house, Hannah could see the silhouettes of cast and crew in the dimly lit windows and hear the low thunder of music. The raucous laughter. Well aware of how rowdy industry parties could get, even on this small a scale, she’d booked a place on the semi-

outskirts of town to avoid noise complaints. And it was a good thing she had, because someone was already passed out on the front lawn and it wasn’t even ten P.M.

Hannah stepped over the intern with a low whistle, hiked up the steps in her admittedly gorgeous shoes—who knew she’d feel so fancy with sparkly little bows on her toes?—and walked into the house without knocking, since no one was going to hear it, anyway. Before leaving Fox’s apartment, she’d given herself a pep talk in the mirror of his bathroom, which smelled like the collision of a minty glacier and something more interesting . . . like a ginger-laced essential oil.

Did he use essential oils?

Why was she so tempted to go into his bedroom and check for a diffuser so she could inhale directly from the source?

With an impatient tongue click, Hannah stepped into the house and immediately had to check her urge to find the person in charge of the playlist. If she let herself, she’d sit in the corner all night searching for the perfect next song—probably some Bon Iver to chill everyone out after the crazy week—and that wasn’t the mission tonight.

Resigning herself to a night of ambient techno, Hannah took off her coat and draped it over the closest chair, waving to a couple sound engineers on her way down the hallway to the living room where everyone seemed to be congregated.

The song ended right as she walked into the room. Or it might have been all in her head, because everyone—and she meant everyone—turned to stare. If this was what a leading lady felt like, she’d rather be an extra.

Only, she wasn’t happy with that anymore, right? So even though her palms were clammy and she kind of felt like an asshole for wearing a designer cocktail dress to a casual hang, she had no choice but to brazen it out and proceed with the plan.

There was some laughter, but then mostly everyone went back to their drinks and conversation, allowing Hannah to exhale. Some liquid courage would not go amiss. One drink, and then she’d make the professional move of a lifetime. Hopefully.

Hannah spotted the liquor and mixers station on a bar cart in the corner of the room and headed that direction, reminding herself she was a certified lightweight and not to overdo it. She was still recovering from her foray into day drinking with Piper at the local winery last summer.

She pursed her lips and perused the various liquor bottles. “What can I drink to give you a personality?”

Looking pointedly at her dress, Christian gave an appreciative snort.

Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “You’re going to make my drink?”

He added some grapefruit juice and ice to the cup, all but shoving the prepared drink into her hands. “I hate that I like you.”

It cost them both a visible effort not to laugh.

dressed up,” he said, his attention straying briefly to Hannah’s hemline. “If I didn’t see you sparring with Christian, I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

Christian drawled, giving her a lazy elbow in the side.

It might have been the dress and the liquor rapidly dulling her nerves that encouraged her to speak up. Or it could have been Piper’s supportive words earlier in the day. All Hannah knew was that if she didn’t ask for what she wanted now, she never would. “Brinley,” she blurted, grabbing her own wrist so the ice in her cup would stop rattling. “I was wondering if I could assist you in any way with the score. Not that you need assistance,”

she rushed to qualify. “I was more just hoping to learn from you. From the process.”

Silence descended on the circle.

It was not unusual for people to use parties as a chance to industry climb. But it was unusual for a personal assistant to address someone so much further up the ladder—in mixed company, no less. Maybe she should have waited. Or asked to speak to Brinley and Sergei alone? She hoped Brinley might find the request more palatable since it was posed casually instead of officially. Hannah didn’t want the woman thinking she was trying to steal her job.

Brinley rocked on her heels a moment, then shrugged, eyes zipping back to her phone. “I don’t have a problem with you observing—if Sergei can spare you?”

It struck Hannah how long Sergei had remained uncharacteristically silent, his forehead lined as he studied her. When Brinley prompted him, he jolted, as if becoming aware of his own silence. “You’re vital to me on set, Hannah. You know that.” There was no help for the flush that rose in her cheeks over Sergei saying those words. You’re vital to me. She stopped just short of pressing her drink to her cheeks to cool them down. Meanwhile, the silence stretched, the director running a finger around the inside of his black ribbed turtleneck. “But if you can manage both, I won’t object.”

Heat prickled the backs of Hannah’s eyes, an unexpected jab of pride catching her in the breastbone. Relief—and the distinct fear of failure—

traveled so swiftly through her limbs, she almost dropped her cup. But she forced a smile, nodding her thanks to Sergei and Brinley.

A collective laugh/groan from everyone in the group broke the tension, thankfully, and the subject was changed to Sunday morning’s agenda.

They’d been waiting for a good-weather day to film a kissing scene between Christian and Maxine on the harbor, and the next few days called for sunshine.

While Sergei engaged the small gathering with his vision of a wide, sweeping shot of the kiss, she flipped through her mental music catalogue for the right song, the right feeling . . . and she was surprised to find nothing landed. Nothing.

Not a single song came to mind.

That was odd.

What if she’d finally been given this opportunity only to lose her knack for plugging in the right sound for any occasion? What if she forgot how to weave together atmosphere, something she’d been doing since she was old enough to operate a turntable?

The thought troubled Hannah so much that she didn’t notice Christian refreshing her drink. Twice. The electronic music started to match the tempo of her pulse, and when she got the urge to dance, she knew that was her cue to stop drinking. Although . . . it was a little late for that. A pleasurable buzz tickled her blood, and she lost all self-awareness, talking to anyone who would listen about any topic that popped into her head, from the running of the bulls in Pamplona to the fact that people’s ears never stopped growing. And her brain told her it was interesting. Maybe it was?

Everyone seemed to be laughing, one of the actresses eventually pulling her out onto the makeshift dance floor, where she closed her eyes, kicked her shoes off, and fell into a rhythm.

At one point, her neck tingled, and she opened her eyes to find Sergei watching her from across the room, though his attention was quickly diverted when Christian asked him a question. Hannah went back to dancing, unwisely accepting another drink from a makeup artist.

Her movements slowed when the air in the room changed.

It kind of just . . . lit up.

Hannah looked around and noticed everyone’s eyes were glued to the entrance of the living room. Because Fox was standing there, one forearm propped high on the doorjamb, watching her with amusement.

There was no other way to herald his arrival but to be rendered mute and immobile. Fox swaggering into the party was like a shark swimming slowly through a school of fish. He was freshly windblown from the ocean, his tan skin slightly weathered from salt, sunshine, and hard work. He towered over everyone and everything. Cocky. So cocky and confident and stupidly hot. Outrageously hot.

A twitch in Fox’s cheek indicated he heard what was being said, but he didn’t take his eyes off Hannah, and she started to . . . get kind of pissed.

Yeah, no, she was pissed. Who called dibs on a human being? Or referred to him as a spank bank? How dare they assume it would be that easy to just . . . appreciate her friend?

What if it was that easy, though?

What if he liked one of them back?

That wasn’t any of her business. Was it?

She watched as more whispers reached Fox, and his smile lost power.

Not for the first time over the last four days, she replayed what he’d said her first day in town. I’m not letting you associate your reputation with mine, all right?

Now his step hesitated on the way to Hannah. Was he second-guessing approaching her? Because all these people were watching?

Without another thought, she set down her drink on a nearby windowsill and walked toward the man with purpose. The fizzy pop of alcohol in her bloodstream might have been contributing to her actions in that moment, but it was more indignation than anything else. These girls didn’t even know him. Nor did it sound as if they’d learned anything about his actual character while in town. Where were these assumptions coming from?

She’d made them, too. Hadn’t she?

Day one. She’d called him a pretty-boy sidekick. Assumed he was a player.

There were all those times she’d texted, asking if he was alone. Tongue in cheek. Like there was a very good chance he’d be with a girl. Hooking up.

So maybe the sudden, crushing need to apologize drove her forward. No one else was going to judge Fox on her watch, and no way was she going to let him hesitate to approach her at a party. He was in the middle of a room being objectified, and she wanted to be the anchor for him.

She wanted to comfort him.

Okay, maybe she was jealous, too. At the possibility someone else was calling dibs, but she didn’t want to think about that too hard. Instead, she licked her lips, picking a landing spot for her mouth.

Hannah was approximately five feet from Fox when his expression changed, and he read her intention. His creeping insecurity vanished, and he rocketed to inferno status on a dime. Those blue eyes darkened, and that square, bristled jaw flexed. Ready. A man well used to being wanted and knowing what to do about it.

He whispered her name right before she pushed up on her toes, locking their mouths together, right there in the entrance to the living room. She was immediately bowled over by the hunger of his masculine lips, and then he turned her, pressing her back to the inside of the arched doorway, opening his mouth on top of hers and licking into the kiss with a choked sound.

With her thoughts muddling and a languid heat rendering her arms limp, Hannah realized she’d made a huge mistake. She was Eve in the Garden of Eden, and she’d just taken a bite from the apple.

Chapter Seven

Big mistake.

Huge.

Unfortunately, trying to stop kissing Hannah was a laughable endeavor.

Fox shouldn’t have come here in the first place. But he’d walked into his apartment after four nights on the water expecting her to be there, only to find a note that she’d gone to a party. His apartment had smelled like summer, a garment bag hanging on the back of the guest-room door. And he’d paced while staring at it, wondering what the hell she owned that needed a special bag.

He’d tried showering and drinking a beer but found himself out walking through town, searching for this party for which she’d obviously dressed up. Wasn’t that hard to locate a house full of outsiders in a place like this.

He’d seen a dude staggering down one of the blocks and asked where he’d come from, reasoning that he would just check on Hannah, make sure she got home all right. Hadn’t he promised Brendan he’d keep an eye on her?

That little red dress, though.

He loved it—and he hated it with every fiber of his being.

Because she didn’t wear it for him. She wasn’t even kissing him for him.

Before Fox left for the trip, Hannah had mused about a way to make the director jealous. Letting the man think she and Fox were more than friends.

Fox had spotted the son of a bitch the second he walked into the room, not twenty yards from where Hannah was dancing so adorably. He was watching them kiss right now. She’d obviously ignored Fox’s warning about comingling their reputations, and now . . . Damn.

He couldn’t stop for the life of him. They were already kissing, and selling his authentic enjoyment wasn’t exactly difficult. Not at all.

Jesus Christ, she tasted incredible. Fruity and feminine and grounding.

Even though he’d stepped off the Della Ray earlier, he was only now back on solid ground.

Did he push her up against the entryway too forcefully? He’d never needed to get his tongue inside a woman’s mouth so badly. He’d never been gripped by urgency or jealousy or a thousand other unnamed emotions that had him pulling down her chin with his thumb to get deeper. God. God.

She’s not temporary in any way, okay? Hands off.

Brendan’s voice in his head forced Fox’s eyes open, only to find Hannah’s shut tightly. So tightly. He traced his thumb down to her throat and felt the moan building there, would have died to taste it. He could probably keep this up—bring her home from this party and take her to bed, orgasm her into a stupor—because seducing women was an effortless skill.

Yeah, a little more of this and she’d spend the night underneath him, but did she truly want that? No. No, she had her cap set at another man. They were giving the impression that sex was definitely happening, but actually sleeping with Fox when she wanted Sergei? That wasn’t Hannah’s style.

She was too loyal. Too principled. And he wouldn’t take that away from her, no matter how insane she tasted. No matter how hard she was making his cock with those committed strokes of her tongue, her hands pulling at his shirt.

Bottom line was, Brendan was right.

Hannah was the furthest thing from temporary, and Fox only did short-term. Very short-term. That personal rule kept him from getting his hopes up, from thinking he could be one half of a relationship again. Women didn’t bring Fox home to meet their parents. He was more of the side-piece type. He’d been told his whole life that he’d turn out exactly like his father, and he’d confirmed a long time ago that he shared more than a pretty face with the man. He was perfect for making Hannah’s director envious.

Yeah. A ruse was all this could be. A friend helping a friend.

Unfortunately, he knew enough about women to know Hannah wasn’t faking her enjoyment. Those breathy whimpers were for his ears alone. It was on Fox to make sure they didn’t take this too far. As in, all the way back to his bed.

Despite the effort it cost him, Fox broke the kiss, pressing their foreheads together as they both struggled to catch their breath. “All right,

Freckles,” he said. “I think we convinced him.”

Her eyes met his in a daze. “What? Who?”

For the first time, Fox felt his heart speed up into a sprint while off the water. Had Hannah just kissed him . . . to kiss him? Because she wanted to?

He thought of the way she’d stopped dancing when he walked in, the way she’d moved in his direction as if drawn by a magnet. Had he misread everything? Was this not about making the director jealous? “Hannah, I . . .

thought you were trying to show Sergei what he’s missing?”

She blinked at him several times. “Oh. Oh. Yeah, I know,” she said in a rushed whisper, shaking her head a couple of times. “I knew what you meant. S-sorry.” Why wouldn’t she look at him? “Thank you for . . . being so convincing.”

Fox couldn’t account for the ripple of pain in his stomach when she glanced sideways at Sergei to see if he’d been watching.

Oh yeah, the guy was looking, all right.

This plan was already working.

He suddenly ached to bury his fist in the wall.

When Hannah shifted, Fox realized he still had her flattened against the entryway and backed off before she felt his erection.

She shook her head. Stopped. A smile bloomed across her face, and all he could do was watch it happen, dazed. “I did it,” she murmured. “I asked to assist with the musical score and they said yes. And I didn’t fall and nearly crack my head open this time.”

Dumb heart. Dumb, pointless heart, please stop turning over.

The problem was, Hannah was extra cute after a few drinks and happy with her good news. All Fox could think about was kissing her again, and

he couldn’t. He’d done his job; now he needed to move back into friend territory fast. She seemed to have no problem putting him back there, right?

He treasured this friendship, so he needed to follow suit. Pronto.

Songs were the way she communicated her moods and feelings. How she interpreted everything. He’d known it last summer, and that knowledge of her had only grown over seven months of text messages. Knowing exactly what she meant made him feel . . . special. “Where did the songs go?”

There were some interested parties . . .”

It took him a minute to realize what she was getting at. “You mean the girls who called dibs on me when I walked into the room?” He kissed her forehead so she wouldn’t see how much that bothered him. It shouldn’t.

He’d embraced the way people saw him. “Hard pass, Freckles. Let’s go get ice cream.”

* * *

The first three times Hannah teetered in her heels, Fox started to worry that she was, in fact, shit-faced. Had she really wanted that kiss? At the very least, if he’d known she’d had a lot to drink, he wouldn’t have let it go on so long.

The clear quality of her speech put most of his fears to rest—all except the one about Hannah breaking her neck in those heels. So on their way out of the convenience store, he stepped in front of her, gesturing impatiently so she wouldn’t suspect that he wanted to carry her. “This is not the kind of ride I usually offer women.” He bent his knees a little to accommodate their

height difference. “But the ice cream is going to melt if we have to take a trip to the ER, so hop on.”

He loved that she simply jumped. Not a second’s hesitation to read his intentions or tell him a piggyback ride was crazy. She just shoved the pint of chocolate ice cream under her arm and leapt, looping her free arm loosely around his neck. “You noticed my lack of high-heel game, did you?

Know what’s crazy? I actually like them. Piper wouldn’t tell me how much they cost—I highly suspect because she never checked the price tag—but the astronomical price means they’re kind of like walking on cotton balls.”

She yawned into his neck. “I’ve been judging her for wearing uncomfortable shoes for the sake of fashion, but they are cozy and they really do elongate the leg, Fox. I think I just need some practice.”

Okay, she wasn’t drunk, but she’d had enough alcohol to ramble, and he couldn’t stop grinning as they passed beneath a streetlight. “They look nice on you.”

What a gigantic understatement. They made her legs look delicate and strong at the same time, flexing her calves. Making him acknowledge how perfectly they would fit into the palm of his hand. Making him want to stroke the contour of them with his thumbs. Fox swallowed, tightening his grip on her bare knees. Don’t go any lower or higher, asshole. “So you got the green light to assist on the musical score. What does that mean?” His throat flexed. “Will you be spending more time with Sergei?”

If she heard the slightly strangled note in his voice, she chose to ignore it. “No. Just Brinley. You know, the leading-lady type?”

Some of the pressure crowding his chest dissipated. “I’m not on board with you calling other women that. As if you’re not in the same category.”

She dropped her chin onto his shoulder. “I felt like I was tonight. Got my big, dramatic movie kiss and everything.”

The quiet disappointment in her tone had Fox turning sharply, stomping up the stairs to his apartment, the crowded sensation back in his chest, along with that foreign smack of jealousy that he really didn’t want to get used to.

What was he supposed to do here? Refuse to give her advice and make his pointless envy obvious? For a split second, he considered giving her terrible suggestions. Like telling her that men love to diagnose strange skin rashes. Or be the sole male attendee at drunk karaoke nights with the girls.

Hannah was too smart for that, though. He’d just have to hope she ignored this advice like the last time.

Why was he hoping that again? Wasn’t he supposed to be her friend?

Find something heavy and tell him you need it lifted. You will have emphasized your physical differences and thus, the fact that he’s a man and you’re a woman. Men need way less prompting to think of . . .”

Jesus, it was like he’d eaten something spicy. He couldn’t stop clearing his throat. Or thinking of her with the director. “Right,” he practically growled.

Fox doubted Pencil Arms could lift a pebble, let alone a boulder, but he kept that to himself. “You’re a fast learner.”

He blew out a breath while retrieving the keys from his pocket, using the moonlight to decipher which was the one for his apartment. “Fine. A little strained.”

Fox probably never would have admitted that out loud if he wasn’t thrown off by his jealousy. Damn, this was not a good look for him.

It wasn’t as if he wanted Hannah to be his girlfriend, instead.

God, no. A girlfriend? Him? He doused the ridiculous flicker of hope before it could grow any larger. It was bad enough he’d allowed that kiss to go so long tonight. No way he’d drag her all the way into the mud with him.

As soon as they cleared the threshold of his apartment, Fox kicked the door closed behind them and Hannah slid off his back. He couldn’t stop himself from observing the way she tugged the skirt of her dress down. It had ridden high, torturously so, on her legs. And, God, the skin on the inside of her thighs looked smooth. Lickable.

Strained, indeed.