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Scott creased his forehead in thought. “Can’t think of anything recent. Mrs. Barthes gave us a call when a seagull flew into her house and got trapped. Hank used a bucket to get it out safely. Had to break up a party up in the Fog Forest over the weekend. Group of high-school kids, as usual. That helpful?”
“Possibly.” Brooke tried to inject an enthusiastic note into her voice. “Let me know if anything else comes up, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
After wishing him a good day, she paused at a park bench to scroll through her work-in-progress list of ideas. The most promising one was a feature on a local food education program for underserved communities in rural areas.
Grant Taylor, owner of the Mousehole, had started the program a few years ago, and he’d recently expanded it into neighboring counties. Maybe it wasn’t incredibly “click-baity,” but it would be a solid, feel-good story about people helping others.
She’d email Michael about it later.
You can do so much better.
Sam’s words rang in her ears as she returned to Starfish Avenue. Easy for him to say, with his successful career and apparently steady income. She didn’t have either one—and for longer than she’d even realized. Getting an income from your grandfather when you were almost thirty didn’t exactly qualify as success.
Giving him power over you.
With effort, she shut Sam’s voice out. After she’d gone through all her texts and emails from the past three days, she’d discovered two more rejection letters from online magazines.
Though she didn’t love this level of contact with Michael, at least he was giving her a shot to advance her career. No one else had.
And she was choosing this route. She was finding a way to give herself a step up instead of hiding in a job that had almost been like receiving charity.
No longer. She’d earn her way through talent and hustle, not a handout.
She caught sight of Title Wave across the street. The Open sign hung in the door.
After a quick internal debate, she crossed the street and entered. A little bell over the door jingled.
Sam was studying a sheet of paper at the front counter, his dark hair flopping over his forehead, his jaw unshaven as usual, and his shoulder muscles all bunched up and practically straining his T-shirt. His strong features were set with concentration, and his thick eyelashes created shadows on his cut-glass cheekbones.
Warmth pooled in her lower body. Like every other woman in town, she’d alwaysnoticedSam’s good looks, but now that she had up-close-and-personal knowledge of both his strength andhim, her awareness was at a whole new level.
“Hey.” She tried to sound casual as she approached him. “I didn’t think you’d be open again so soon.”
He glanced up, faintly wary. “Why not?”
“With your deadline and all.” She waved her hand to indicate the store. “I’m surprised you’re here instead of pounding away furiously at your keyboard.”
“I’m still recovering from the weekend,” he replied dryly.
“Yeah, me too.” She hitched her backpack further over her shoulder. A sudden shyness overcame her. It was one thing when she and Sam were in the alternate, isolated reality of the cabin where normal rules didn’t apply. Now they were back on familiar territory. Real life.
A quizzical light appeared in his eyes. “You okay?”
Part of her registered it wasn’t the first time he’d asked her that. She liked the way he asked, too—not as if he were merely being polite. There was an undercurrent to the question, as if he really wanted to know the truth. As if her response, whatever it was, would have a direct impact on him.
“Yes, thanks.” She reached into a pocket of her backpack. “I wanted to return this.”
She pushed an envelope across the counter, scrawled with her name. She’d found it in her mailbox yesterday afternoon.
“Why?” Sam frowned as if the envelope were poisonous.
“It’s too much.” She pushed it closer to him. “When I said you could pay me what you wanted, I didn’t mean a small fortune.”
“Take it.” He shoved the envelope back toward her. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “If money is the reason you went to your ex for help, then I’ll give you even more. How much will it take for you to tell him to go to hell?”
Beneath a swell of reactive indignation, a tiny flame flickered in her heart. No one had ever been angry on her behalf. She’d never given them a chance to be. Her family and friends had been upset and sympathetic to know that she’d suffered a break-up on top of everything else, but she hadn’t wanted to burden them with the sordid details of how badly she’d been deceived. So the secret had festered inside her like an infection.
