Page 1 of Rogue Wave

1

“Sea cucumbers eject their guts when stressed. Same.”

—It’s science

Hazel

I’d never considered murder before. But I guess today was going to be an exception.

I’d moved into my place two months ago. Eight weeks and three days to be exact, and my neighbor was just as sexy, and just as big of a pain in my ass, as he was when I’d first moved in.

His name was Hank, and he was the sheriff of our town, Foggy Ridge. Our hot sheriff. I wasn’t usually into guys like that, mostly because I had an authority problem. By that, I meant I didn’t like people bossing me around or telling me what I could and couldn’t do, and that was all Mr. Sheriff McSaltypants had done for the past eight weeks and three days.

“You can’t park there!”

“You can’t mow your grass this early in the morning!”

“You can’t smile!”

Okay, so that last one didn’t actually happen, but he was probably thinking it. A lot. But damn, was he sexy. Which must be the only reason I enjoyed needling him so much.

Now he’d stuck a ticket on my front door, letting me know I was in violation of some stupid neighborhood rule about washing my car in the street.

Technically, I had been washing my car in the street, but that was because my driveway was really short and angled, which made it nearly impossible to wash it there. So, I’d opted for the cul-de-sac because it was large and gave me more room.

He hadn’t even been home at the time, so how did he know? I’d only noticed the ticket when I’d gone to lock up my front door on my way out.

I growled. “Why is he such a curmudgeon?” I mumbled.

“I will not let him ruin my day. I will not let him ruin my day,” I chanted as I stood on my front porch and tried to calm myself.

And it was going to be a great day too. There had been a big storm last night, which meant the beach would be lined with a ton of great stuff that had washed ashore. That was the number one reason I’d moved here.

Though if I had known Grouchy McStubbornpants would be my neighbor, I might have thought twice about it.

I loved my place, though. It was a quiet, dead-end road with only five houses. The first part of our street was lined with trees, creating a tranquil forest of privacy. Dottie was on the right and George on the left, both of whom were in their upper sixties. After that, it was Dougie on the right and Hank on the left, with mine tucked in between.

But the best part—and the entire reason I’d chosen to buy this house, even though it was slightly over my budget—was the trail behind my house that wound through Hank’s backyard and down to Crescent Coral Beach.

There was nothing better than taking a stroll on the beach, but to do it at low tide right after a storm—perfection!

I crumpled up the paper in my hand, dropped it to the porch floor, and decided to stomp on it a few times for good measure before I disposed of it.

“What did that piece of paper ever do to you?” Dougie’s voice sounded from behind me.

I watched him roll down the sidewalk in front of my house in his wheelchair, a comical grin on his face.

Dougie had been such a welcoming neighbor. He was funny, kind, volunteered down at the VA hospital, and I assumed he was around forty years old, though he refused to tell me his birthday. It was the one and only thing he was weird about, so I’d let it go.

I took a deep breath before answering, trying to sound more pleasant than I felt. It wasn’t Dougie’s fault that Hank was a rude dictator.

“Let me guess… Another love letter from the sheriff?” he teased.

“Violation notice,” I corrected. “For washing my car in the street.”

Dougie laughed and shook his head as he wheeled his way down the sidewalk and started to come up my driveway as I threw the paper into my trash bin.

“I don’t know why he hates me so much.” I threw my hands up in exasperation.