The Navy Seal's Rescue. Jo Leigh
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at me,” Harlow said. “I just arrived from LA this morning. Oh, hey, there’s our waitress. Cricket, what do you want?”
Jessica stared at her friend, then burst out laughing.
The other two exchanged puzzled looks. “What?”
“No one’s called me Cricket in a really, really long time.”
Harlow frowned. “What are we supposed to call you?”
Jessica thought back to when she’d gotten the nickname, well before she’d started kindergarten. Maria and Stella had sold their husbands’ catches every morning, come rain or shine. They were always first to set up at the fish market and had bonded over both being married to men named Jimmy. Since Jessica had just seen Pinocchio, she’d thought they were talking about Jiminy Cricket, and she’d gotten all excited, hopping around in her tie-dyed sundress, barefoot as always, and that was it. Cricket had followed her onto the beach and into her classrooms. Even her mother, who was mortified at first, had come around when she realized how much it suited her. Although once Jessica had gone to college, she had let go of bare feet, high school mischief and her nickname.
“I have to admit,” Ginny said. “The first time I read one of your emails I thought who the hell is Jessica?”
Harlow nearly spit out the sip she’d just taken. “Jessica? Yeah, I kind of remember a teacher calling you that once.” She shook her head. “Sorry. Not me. I can’t call you that. Too weird.”
Jessica grinned, feeling truly at ease for the first time in forever. She’d needed this break. She needed them.
“To the resurrection of Cricket,” Ginny said, holding up her glass.
“Ditto.” Harlow held up her drink.
Jessica—no, Cricket let the name sink in deeper. Since she had only a white napkin sitting in front of her she waved it over her head like a flag of surrender, though she would’ve preferred a drink. “Cricket it is.”
* * *
WYATT COVACK HEARD his phone beep and hoped like hell it was part of a dream. He grabbed the extra pillow and just as he was about to put it over his head he heard the second ring. Cursing, though not loud enough to drown out the third beep, he opened one eye. The alarm clock was a red blur but he finally made out the three and the one. That’s all he needed to see to make him want to punch the wall.
Who the hell was calling him? Just about everyone he trusted with his cell number knew he’d worked until 5:00 a.m. and then hadn’t hit the sack until eight. The bar had closed at one but trying to win his two hundred back from that lousy cardsharp Bobby Cappelli had been damn hard work, and Wyatt dared anyone to tell him otherwise.
He’d left his phone on the kitchen counter, all the way on the other side of the cramped apartment. The place wasn’t very big, but trying to navigate past all the crap he’d left lying around was like crossing a minefield. Maybe worse.
As if the universe decided to prove the point, his bare right foot landed on something sharp. A pain shot up his leg. Dammit to hell. One of Josh’s Lego pieces. He swore the kid was out to kill him. Nerve clusters made the bottom of a person’s feet vulnerable. A ruthless target if you needed to extract information without leaving obvious marks. Made it a popular torture technique.
Wyatt winced. He hated that he knew that, and a lot more, all remnants of his former life. He’d heard time would eventually blunt the memories...reduce the flashbacks. If guilt didn’t punch his ticket first.
Before he made it to the phone the caller was sent to voice mail. He squinted at the call log. Sabrina. Oh, man. If she was calling in sick again, he was gonna...
He actually didn’t know what he was gonna do.
Sabrina was his backup. None of the other waitresses could handle running the bar in his absence. Most of them were kids who attended the local community college, a couple considered themselves artists and sold their work at street fairs. But waiting tables paid the bills. Especially during tourist season.
Most nights he was behind the bar, pouring drinks and filling pitchers, occasionally breaking up fights, and making sure last call didn’t stretch past one o’clock. But there were times when he had to just plain get away. Away from people. From responsibility. Get away from himself when he could manage it, which usually meant getting shit-faced. Other times he borrowed Marty’s chopper. Flying into the clouds had a way of letting him feel weightless and unburdened. And then there were those times when Becky needed him to watch the kids. Sweet-tempered, obedient Rose and Josh, the little terminator.
He rubbed his gritty eyes and waited for his vision to clear. Next he’d probably get a text from Sabrina. Best-case scenario, she’d be late. Worst-case? She was sick, again, and didn’t know how long she’d be out. He was beginning to think he should have a little man-to-man talk with her worthless boyfriend. Wyatt got the feeling the dumb bastard was responsible for most of Sabrina’s absences. That wasn’t what bothered Wyatt the most. Normally he wouldn’t think of butting into someone’s private life. But she was a nice girl who deserved a lot better than an abusive drunk.
On cue his cell signaled a text.
Just as someone knocked at his door.
“Are you kidding me?” he muttered and threw in a curse.
Another loud bang.
“Hold on, for crying out loud,” he yelled and glanced at the text, then searched the floor for his jeans.
When he’d bought Sam’s Sugar Shack two years ago, he’d left everything intact—the funky decor, the staff, the pseudo uniforms, which amounted to very short denim cutoffs and a cropped T-shirt with the bar’s logo. In good conscience he had offered to get rid of the Hooters look, but the waitresses shot it down. Better tips. Who was he to argue?
Hell, he’d hadn’t even changed the name of the place, which every local seemed to have a strong opinion about. The purchase price had included the apartment above it. Never having had a conventional job before, it seemed like a major win.
Big mistake. It made him too accessible.
He couldn’t even get away with turning off his phone. If he didn’t answer, someone always came knocking. Usually over something stupid. Civilians were a bunch of damn crybabies.
He pulled on his jeans and opened the door.
“Hey, boss. Sorry to bother you but—” Tiffy’s gaze froze on his bare chest. He was pretty sure she wasn’t admiring his pecs, although he did keep in shape. She was staring at the scars left by a pair of particularly nasty knife wounds.
He rubbed his stubbled jaw, using his arm to obstruct her view. “You were saying?”
“Oh, um, right. We’re really getting slammed downstairs and Cara and Viv are both late. Well, we knew ahead of time Cara was going to be late because she has an appointment with—I guess it doesn’t matter. Anyway, if you could come in early that would be totally awesome.”
“Early?”
“Yeah, um, like now?”
Wyatt sighed. “I gotta take a quick shower and I’ll be right down.”
Tiffy was still staring at his chest as he closed the door.
CRICKET STOOD ON the balcony of her suite, inhaling the salt air and feeling it cleanse the body and soul of Jessica and her problems. At least for the moment. This far up the coast you couldn’t smell the fish market. As a kid she’d rarely minded the odor, though sometimes if the temperature climbed too high in the peak of summer, the stink could get to anyone.
One of the advantages of the resort sitting on the bluff was being able to look down at the clear, beautiful water. She could make out the green roofs of the bungalows