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“Ah.” The bartender lifted his eyebrows. “That explains the resemblance.” He extended a hand. “Grant Taylor. I own the Mousehole. Welcome to Bliss Cove.”
“Thank you.” Lincoln shook his hand. “Nice place.”
“You guys want to order lunch, let me know.” Grant put two menus in front of them. “I picked up some swordfish at the docks this morning. You can have it either oak-grilled or blackened. I’ve also got a prawn pasta and rib-eye steak.”
Both Sam and Lincoln opted for the blackened swordfish, and Grant went back to the kitchen to place the orders.
“So what do you want to talk to me about?” Sam slanted his gaze to the leather portfolio resting on the bar. “Must be important for you to come all the way out here.”
Lincoln studied his younger brother. Aside from the deeper lines around his mouth and eyes, Sam looked the same as he had a decade ago. Messy dark hair, unshaven, dressed in a wrinkled T-shirt and faded jeans.
“You ever done a book signing?” he asked.
Sam blinked. “What are you—”
“Don’t even try. I’ve known for years that you’re Sam Harris.”
The fact that his brother was an internationally bestselling author of thriller novels had been a strange source of both pride and envy for Lincoln. He’d read Sam’s stories about the ex-CIA agent John Kane and was impressed with his brother’s ability to craft complex plots and unexpected twists.
The characters were kind of flat, but the stories were intricate enough that it didn’t much matter. Sam was a good writer. And he’d reached a level of success that no one—Lincoln included—had ever expected of him.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sam asked.
Lincoln shrugged. “Would it have made a difference, if I had?”
“Probably not.”
“That’s why, then.”
They fell silent. A Buddy Holly song came over the jukebox.
“I’ve always wanted to stay anonymous,” Sam finally said. “Not many people in Bliss Cove even know I write books as Sam Harris. So thanks for not telling anyone.”
“No reason I would have.”No one to tell, anyway.“How long have you been here?”
“In Bliss Cove? Over a year.” Sam moved his beer out of the way as Grant returned with their food. “I was just passing through, but then I found out the bookstore was about to close down, and I ended up buying it. For months, I kept thinking I’d leave again. Then…well, I found a lot of reasons to stay.”
Lincoln took a swallow of beer to prevent himself from remarking that he couldn’t think ofonereason anyone would want to stay. “Must get kind of slow, huh?”
“You meanboring.” Sam picked up his fork and dug into the swordfish. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Don’t you ever crave city life? Or travel?”
“Not really. But LA and San Francisco aren’t far away.”
“You like running a bookstore?”
“Well, I’m still doing it.” Sam set his fork down. “What’s with all the questions? What do you want?”
Lincoln pushed his plate away and reached for the portfolio. He opened it to the Folio Publishing legal documents pertaining to the board of directors.
“There’s a vacant spot on Folio’s board of directors,” he said. “I want you to take it.”
Sam stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“No. The company is half yours. You should have a say in how it’s run.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t want anything to do with Folio. I never have. And what do you mean, it’s half mine?”
