Calusa Cove might be coastal, but it wasn't New England. No bitter cold winds coming off the ocean in the middle of winter. No ice storms. No snow. Just heat and humidity. And on the odd chance the temp dropped below fifty, the iguanas would fall from the trees. Strangest thing ever.
This small town might not have been the change she expected, but deep down, she knew it was the change she'd needed. And while not much happened regarding her assignment, the town wasn't as quiet as it appeared. This town had more than its share of drama, crime, and mayhem.
For six months, Juniper had been resentful that she wasn't in the thick of it. That she wasn't racing off with a weapon inher hand and Kevlar strapped to her body. She'd told herself she missed it. That the stillness of the town was punishment.
Then, last night, a man walked into the Crab Shack with a gun, and she'd discovered that action didn't feel the way she remembered. Her pulse had soared, sure. But underneath it, in the half-second she reached for a sidearm that wasn't on her hip, what she'd felt wasn't readiness. It was the question she’d been asking since Mark died. Whether she still trusted her own instincts. Whether she could make the call without someone beside her to make it with her.
She was no longer sure that being in the field was the thing she'd actually been missing.
When Mark passed, she’d had nothing to hold her together. Too many pieces of her were gone. She'd made more mistakes in the two years following his death than she had in her entire career, and it nearly cost lives.
Bea had been the one who’d sat next to her when the brass wanted to fire her. Bea had suggested a little time off, followed by administrative duty, and then this cushy job. Ever since then, Bea had been the one calling what few shots needed to be made.
The door to the bar area swung open.
"Good morning." Manny stepped inside holding a large bin.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, straightening. Of all the things she'd imagined herself doing if she ever left the FBI, being a bar owner hadn’t been one of them. That said, she didn't hate it. Actually, she enjoyed it. "You're not on the schedule ‘til dinner."
"Today's order from Tate Alexander." He strolled right on past her. "I promised Liam we could work on some new recipes for lunch specials. Don't worry, you don't have to pay me, and I won't stay all day. Just long enough to walk young Liam through it."
"You better be out of here in an hour."
"Yes ma'am." He paused at the kitchen door. "And you should know, Stacey Mohawk just pulled in with her lapdog cameraman." Manny winked. "Looks like you've gone and stirred up some juicy gossip. And with Sterling, no less."
"Get out of my line of sight before I stuff one of those fresh-caught fish in your mouth."
Manny laughed and pushed through the kitchen door.
The last thing Juniper wanted was to deal with Stacey Mohawk. The woman was a terrible reporter. Why the station kept her on was a question the entire town asked—aloud, no less. Stacey stated the facts, then bolted her own opinion onto them, and that was where it always went sideways. She didn't get the major stories, not unless she broke them, so she tried damn hard to turn every dented outboard motor into breaking news.
Juniper needed to stay small. The smart move would've been the office, a closed door, and Liam sent out front with ano comment. But running from Stacey only made her look like she had something worth chasing, and a woman with nothing to hide didn't hide.
So, she stayed put.
She didn't have to wait long. Five minutes to be exact.
Stacey breezed in like she was making a statement with her heels clicking across the plank floor in an annoying rhythm. Her cameraman—because Stacey never went anywhere without one—stood a few steps behind her.
"I'm always surprised at how little you've changed this place." Stacey stopped at the bar, set both palms on the wood, and glanced around. "Considering all that happened with Paul Massey going to prison for running drugs and kidnapping the police chief and his wife…" she made some weird noise with her mouth, almost like a tsk sound. "…I would've expected that you got this place for a steal and could have afforded to?—"
"Can I help you with something?" Juniper had no time for Stacey's judgments that came in the form of a mini dissertation.
"I was hoping you'd have a minute to go on camera and talk one-on-one about what you witnessed last night."
"I don't do interviews." Juniper snagged a towel and tossed it over her shoulder. "I'm sure you can get all the facts you need from Dawson."
"I'm not looking for facts," Stacey said. "I'm doing a piece on how communities come together in times of crisis. I heard you were quite the hero last night."
"People say a lot of things." She tugged the rag off her shoulder and wiped a spot on the counter. "It doesn't make them true. I didn't do anything special."
"That’s not what half this town is saying." Stacey shifted on her stilettos. How she stayed upright in those was amazing. "It won't take long. I just want to hear, in your words, what happened, how you were feeling, and?—"
"The answer is no."
Stacey sighed. "Fine. But if you change your mind, the story isn't going to air until tonight. You can call me right until four. Or, I could do the interview live on the evening news."
Juniper wanted to laugh. This woman was relentless. Probably the reason the station kept her on. "I'm not going to change my mind."
