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“It won’t be your fault.”
His green eyes pierce me. “We both know that’s not true. Just do me a favor and try not to get into trouble.” He sets the tray of glass on the bar. Shards clink like windchimes.
“Avoid broken mirrors, black cats, and walking under ladders, got it,” I joke.
“I’m serious, Zo.”
I know.
Agreeing to staying out of trouble in Mistpoint is basically agreeing to be locked in a bedroom. I can’t do that.
That’s not why I came home, but I don’t want Parry to regret asking me here.
I leave my suitcase on the ground and take a seat on the barstool. “You didn’t force me home, Parry. I could have said no. Hell, I could have told you to go fuck yourself.”
He grabs a fresh glass from the shelf. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did.”
“Because you’re nice.”
“Because I’m used to it from Durands. Your brother tells me to go fuck myself on a daily basis.”
Brian.
My oldest brother is also Parry’s boss. And the only reason Parry continues to work at The Drunk Pelican is his greatest trait and his biggest flaw.
Loyalty.
“You still hate Brian?” I ask.
“Some things don’t change in six years.” His brows rise. “Some things are everlasting.” He pours me a beer from the draft. “Like my hatred for Brian. Like the busted jukebox only playing Frank Sinatra.”
“Like the rot on this roof,” I add.
“Like your blonde hair.” He eyes my hair as he slides me the beer. Maybe I should’ve dyed my hair blue or green to be less predictable.
I focus a little harder on his scar. It looks healed. Can’t be new. “Some things have changed.”
Our gazes meet in a heavy beat.
“It was a sailing accident,” he breathes in a panty-dropping voice. But I know he’s not trying to drop my green Yoda panties. For one, Parry DiNapoli is gay.
For another, Colt would kill him.
I cup the glass of beer. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”
He smiles softly. “It’s in the fucking museum now, Zo. There’s no hiding anything. Plus, everyone here is nosy as hell—that hasn’t changed.”
“You mean we don’t live in Gossip Harbor?” I feign shock.
He lets out a small laugh. “Exactly.” After a beat, he continues, “Colt and I were sailing in the Spring Royal Regatta, and he got ca-ca-cauught up in the lines.” He clears his throat, then says, “I cut him free from the rope, and the wind just picked up at the worst time. I got knocked back and my knife…” He waves at his face.
I want to say I’m so sorry. But something else leaves my lips. Something worse. “You’re still hot.”
He laughs. Those full-bodied kind of laughs that shake the ground.
I try hard not to smile, already feeling the guilt spring up from being completely and utterly tactless. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
He can’t stop laughing. He braces his fist on the bar, bent over. “You definitely did.”
“I have no tact,” I remind him and take a large swig of the beer to stop my word vomit. To be honest, I just don’t do well with those somber situations. Where people need condolences and hugs. I don’t know how to be that person. No one ever gave me those tools. And here, in Mistpoint, it feels like everyone goes through so much shit that the words I’m so sorry don’t seem to carry any weight. So many of us are fucked up here.
Parry holds a stitch at his side, trying to gather himself. “Thank you for that. I needed it.”
“No one’s told you you’re still hot?” I wonder into a deeper frown.
He cocks his head in thought. “Let’s just say my ego has been chipped away these past few years.”
“Let me guess, Brian is doing the chipping?”
“He calls me Frankenstein about fifteen times a day, and I’ve told that asshole Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster. Jackass still doesn’t care.”
“Sounds like he’s still pissed you taught Colt how to sail.” Parry even introduced Colt to the sailing team. If Mitch Montague—the guy who died from the ‘84 regatta accident—is any indication, sailing is dangerous here.
But some people were born to be on the water.
Have the wind in their faces.
You can’t stop that kind of love.
“Yeah, Brian’s still carrying a raging hard-on against me,” Parry says. “Pissed I’m Colt’s best friend. Pissed I’m the cook at his bar.” He looks me up and down. “He’s going to be even more pissed I asked you here.”
“He doesn’t have to know you’re a part of this. I’ve come up with a bulletproof excuse for being here. One that doesn’t involve the truth.” I lean forward on the bar, closer to Parry. “To Brian and the entire town, I’m here on behalf of a publishing deal. I’m writing a book about Mistpoint Harbor.”
