Page 3 of She Doesn't Have a Clue
“We aren’t friends,” she said, this time with a gravity to her words that carried all the weight of the past two years without him. “As far as anyone this weekend knows, we are just… former work colleagues.”
Jake’s gaze was nearly intolerable. “Former work colleagues?”
“Yes, who amicably parted before their last project could be completed,” Kate finished, feeling pretty good about the story she was concocting in real time. She might not have a grip on Loretta, but maybe she could still salvage this weekend. “So I think we just… we call a truce. For the weekend. Pretend… pretend we’re still…”
Still what? Still harboring fantasies about the other person when we’re two glasses of wine and half an episode ofThe Bacheloretteinto the evening? Still have their phone listed in most frequent contacts because we keep typing up long, weepy, apologetic texts and deleting them the next morning? Still can’t go to the dim sum shop on the corner without our hearts stopping if someone with tousled blond hair is occupying the back corner booth?
But no, Jake had been off traveling the globe, chauffeuring wealthy adrenaline junkies on extreme adventure tours. Probably leaving a trail of heartbroken women in every far-flung locale he visited. He hadn’t given a second thought to Kate in all those years, she was sure of it.
“Pretend we’re still what, Kate?” Jake asked, his voice soft and even, an underlying intensity to the words making her skin feel tight and prickly.
“Pretend we still care,” Kate said. “About each other.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Pretending?” His gaze narrowed on her. “That’s what you really want?”
Of course it wasn’t what she wanted, but Kate had plenty of practice not getting what she wanted. She put out a hand, determined to play the diplomat for the weekend.
“A truce,” she said. “And then we can each go our own separate way again. Just like before.”
Jake sighed, taking her hand in his warm, calloused fingers and sending a surge of electricity through her that could have powered the whole Pacific Northwest. “If that’s how you want to play it. Truce, Katey cakes.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “One time you catch me eating cake and you never let me forget.”
“Hang on,” Jake said, giving her a grin that turned her bones soft. “You weren’t just ‘eating cake.’ You were hiding in the bushes at my aunt’s condo eating a slice of cake the size of your head, and you threatened to fork me in the thigh if I even dared to sniff the frosting. It would have left an impression on anyone.”
As if Kate could have forgotten. Her mother had only recently moved into the retirement community and met Jake’s aunt through the bridge club. When Mrs. Hawkins threw a welcome party for her nephews, freshly arriving from Australia, Kate’s mother guilted Kate into attending. Everyone else was from the retirement community, and his aunt wanted some younger locals to “shift the bell curve of death a little lower.” Kate had planned to hide in the bushes with her cake until her mother was ready to leave, but then Jake had come out for some fresh air and caught her lurking.
He’d only been a few months out from the accident that ended his surfing career, still in a back brace and crutches that made getting around hilly Seattle intolerable. Kate’s mom had offered Kate as a taxi service, and she’d hardly needed much convincing. Jake was funny, surprisingly self-deprecating, charming, and hot as hell. He had incrediblestories of chasing big waves in Morocco, winning tournaments in California, and cave diving with his brother, Charlie, in Australia. He’d toured the world, been to every beach, and had kept a photo journal to prove it. Those aimless drives around the city eventually turned into Kate’s first big career break.
A series of part-photography, part-travelogue, all thirst-trap books calledThe Wandering Australian. They featured full-page spreads of pictures from Jake’s time chasing big waves around the world—historic architecture, crystalline waters, and waves that looked blown from glass. And in the middle of them all a shirtless, grinning Jake. They’d also featured vignettes of his trips written by Kate, shared over plates of nachos or pho bowls or, one fateful evening, a pitcher of margaritas in her apartment.
“Well, a gentleman wouldn’t bring it up again,” Kate sniffed, turning her attention toward the distant horizon.
Jake snorted. “A gentleman would have lost his fingers getting between you and that frosting.”
They settled into a silence that wasn’t quite amicable, but didn’t feel so actively hostile, as the waters turned rougher and the sky quickly darkened. Even in the luxurious interior of the boat Kate began to feel queasy, dropping onto the couch opposite Jake and cradling her head in her hands, wishing the hours away until they reached their final destination. When she thought she’d rather go down than suffer another minute of being tossed about, the speaker in the ceiling crackled to life.
“Hempstead Island, coming up.”
The private island of the Hempstead family that included Kennedy Hempstead had once been known as Rum Island. Situated to the northwest corner of the San Juan Islands archipelago, it was a prime location for hiding contraband alcohol from police boats during Prohibition. Russell Hempstead took the profits from his timber mill and purchased good Canadian whisky, selling it back to Seattle’s elites at triple the cost. He then opened his own bank, solidifying his family’s fortune for generations to come.
Kate crawled toward the large windows to watch their approach. Atleast the waters had calmed in the sheltered cove created by the extended outcroppings surrounding the main island. Still, the sky was a smothering blanket overhead, threatening to open up at any moment.
“I hope they weren’t planning on having this shindig outdoors,” Jake said from close behind her. He was only a few inches taller than her, five foot eleven to her five foot seven, but in close quarters those four inches might as well have been four feet. Kate turned in surprise, tilting her head back to look up at him, caught again by how different he seemed since the last time she’d seen him. Older, a few more scars, but still Jake.
“Kate,” he said, his brows drawing into a frown, but the sliding door banged open just then, startling them apart. An older man in a heavy raincoat with a grizzled white beard glared at them. If he’d had a parrot on his shoulder, you couldn’t have convinced Kate he wasn’t a pirate. “Come on, then, what are you two lovebirds waiting on?” he groused. “We need to get the boat secured before the storm comes in. Train’s a waiting.”
“Sorry,” Kate said, turning a furious red.
“Train?” Jake said in bemusement.
Sure enough, a small train waited just above the docks, the tracks leading around the lush greenery of the island. It looked more like an old car, like a Model T that someone had outfitted with train wheels, but there was a rack in the back for their trunks and a bench back seat with the door open and waiting. There was even a man in an old-school chauffeur’s outfit, complete with a puffy black-and-white-striped hat and dove-gray pants, holding the door.
“Welcome to Hempstead Island,” he said in a demure British accent. Of course the Hempsteads would have an imported British butler. Loretta would have a field day with him. The guilty butler was such a trope of the genre, it could almost be a fun twist if the butler actuallydiddo it. There were certainly plenty of wealthy, eccentric characters around Big Pine Key who could hire a suspicious butler. Maybe Miss Faraday, the reclusive heiress with dark family secrets and a penchant for Loretta’s Gin Rickeys on delivery.
Kate crawled in the back and slipped her phone out of her pocket,the littleEMERGENCY CALLS ONLYmessage at the top giving her heart palpitations. There were no service bars, and she was worried the message about emergency calls was optimistic at best. She hadn’t been able to send a text since the Seattle skyline disappeared. They were all alone out here, at the mercy of the comings and goings of a luxury boat currently being battered by the oncoming waves.
She swiped open the Notes app, letting the fun little loop-de-loop of panic in her gut fuel the potential Loretta scene as she typed.