After Austin passed, Bowie had found himself questioning life. What was the purpose of it? Why was he given the one he had? He spent most of his nights drunk, and during the day he longed for the person who shunned him, and his best friend. His life was in turmoil. He hated himself for what he had done, and he couldn’t even atone for his actions. Water under the bridge—that’s what Carly had said to him. Would she have said the same thing if she knew that while her son was dying, the unthinkable was going on? Probably not. In fact, Bowie was certain that if Carly knew the truth, she would’ve never called him to do this job.
Fifteen years ago, Bowie and Graham had put their lives on hold searching for Austin. Every morning they would take a boat out, trailing close to the shore, looking for his body. They went as far north as Canada, as west as they could before the temperatures dropped, and south until the water warmed, knowing there wouldn’t be anything left if Austin had gone this way. The men wanted, more than anything, to bring Austin home, giving Carly closure. They weren’t the only ones looking. Fishing crews put their jobs on hold to look for Austin. Every day, the townspeople would wait down by the docks as the boats came into port, hoping for an answer.
Bowie focused on his clipboard as he rounded the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black SUV barreling toward him. He jumped out of the way only to lose his footing after the vehicle almost sideswiped him. “Fucking out-of-towners,” he grumbled as he brushed his dirty hands against his pants. Determined to give the driver a piece of his mind, he went toward the car. The driver’s door was open, and a foot dangled out. He gripped the side of the door and peered into the cab. Bent over the console, the driver was rummaging through something, ignoring him and the fact that she could’ve killed him. “The inn’s not open. You’ll need to head back into town. You’ll find a place on Colonial, three blocks up from Third.”
The driver froze.
“Hey, are you okay?” Panic set in. Bowie wondered if the driver needed medical attention, maybe had suffered a heart attack, which could be why she hadn’t seen him. Maybe she was slumped over and not ignoring him. He reached for her arm and pulled her upright. He moved closer, leaning in as far as he could to get a look at the woman. His heart stopped. His lungs ceased to inhale or exhale. He didn’t know for how long, but he was sure every vital organ in his body shut down as he took in the woman. He knew her . . . well.
And he hated her.
She’d ruined his life.
He despised everything about the woman sitting in the driver’s seat. He recoiled at the feel of her arm pressed into the palm of his hand, and he stepped away as she slowly slid out of the SUV. She shut the door and leaned against it. Bowie desperately wanted to see her ocean-blue eyes, yet the thought of looking into them made his stomach roll. “What are you doing back here?” he seethed.
She looked down at her shoes. He followed. In fact, he was looking her up and down and unable to stop himself. She had filled out over the years. Her once-slender body now had curves and muscle, and she was still as beautiful as she was the day he met her. Bowie closed his eyes and wished the images of a young Brooklyn away from his mind. He had shut the book on his past a long time ago, and yet, here she was, standing in front of him.
“I asked you a question.”
Brooklyn let out a mechanical chuckle. “I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing sniffing around the Woodses’ property?” She stepped toward him, ready to do battle. She pulled her sunglasses off and stared Bowie dead in the eyes. His knees buckled. For as much as he hated her, he loved her the same. But he would never tell her.
“Oh good, you’re both here. We can go over the plans now that you’re back, Brooklyn.”
They both turned toward Carly, who was standing on the small porch with Simone by her side. Oddly, she appeared pleased, and Bowie couldn’t understand why. Carly smiled, beckoned them in, and turned back toward the house.
Bowie took this opportunity to give Brooklyn another cursory glance. She was gorgeous. But why is she here? It couldn’t be for Austin’s memorial. She hadn’t shown up the other fourteen years, so why start now?
That’s when it hit him. She wasn’t here to pay tribute to Austin. Brooklyn had returned to renovate the inn. If he wanted the job, he was going to have to work with the one woman who could bring him to his knees and drive him off a cliff at the same time—and as far as he was concerned, he was screwed.