Smitten in Summer
Lost Harbor, Alaska ~ Book 12
Chapter One
Trixie was used to being the talk of the town in Lost Harbor. She liked it that way because she figured it gave her the upper hand. She could get away with just about anything and people would shrug it off. “That’s Trixie Tran for you,” they’d say. Or, “There goes Trixie again, you never know the trouble she’ll get up to.” Or maybe, “Did you hear about the time Trixie ran for mayor … dated that actor from Outside… dressed as a nude model for Halloween in nothing but a body stocking?”
The more people talked about how she dressed or who she flirted with or what outrageous new project she’d started—hello, Harbor Hotties burlesque group—the less attention they paid to what was actually going on with her.
Sometimes she thought her entire life was like a pair of sunglasses shielding a hangover. It was her role in Lost Harbor, almost like a kind of performance art. A form of entertainment for the residents of the tiny town clinging to the edge of wilderness. Netflix or DVDs rented from one of the last video stores on the planet only went so far. Gossip was the real fun and she was happy to contribute her share.
But right now, she wished that no one in Lost Harbor had ever heard of Trixie Tran. Because her worst nightmare was coming true.
She grabbed her binoculars and aimed them out the storefront window of her ice cream shop, Soul Satisfaction. With its prime location on the boardwalk, she could see a slice of the open water beyond the harbor. Sometimes visiting boats dropped anchor out there; oil rigs or container ships taking shelter during a storm, for instance.
But the boat coming into focus in her binoculars was nothing like that. It was a party boat, sleek and black and aerodynamically crafted for maximum speed and rich-guy intimidation. And it looked awfully close to the luxury yacht that she’d seen in a certain rich guy’s Instagram feed, one she’d been following since the day Insta became a thing.
How many yachts in existence looked like this one? Was it just a horrible coincidence? If only she could see the name on the transom. She stood on tiptoes, propping her body against the counter so she could focus the binoculars. If the wind would swing the boat just a little to the east, she’d get a clear view of the stern.
Or maybe if she climbed a little higher she wouldn’t be peering through an obstacle course of bristling masts. With one foot, she snagged an empty milk crate and dragged it closer, then stepped on top of it. There. Now she got a clear line of sight to the big yacht riding the waves like a menacing black swan.
On the upper deck, she could make out a few people moving around inside a glassed-in observation deck. They were all wearing similar outfits, black with touches of red, like ninja sailors. They were probably crew members instead of guests. Where would the owner be? Holed up in the master suite with all the women he could cram in there? She scanned the lines of the yacht, trying to find evidence of a name somewhere.
Chase Owens’ yacht was named the Vibe Chaser, which fit him perfectly, although she could think of a few other names that would work. The No-Tell Bro-Tel. The Frat Boy Toy. The Spoiled Brat. The Douchebag. The Dickhead.
Okay, now she was just describing him, not naming his boat.
“What did you call me?” said a deep male voice from somewhere behind her. “I’m just trying to place an order.”
And shit—she’d been doing it out loud instead of silently to herself. Swinging around, she saw that a man and a little girl were standing next to the cooler that held the day’s selection of ice cream flavors.
“We’re closed,” she snapped, turning back to her view. Crap, she’d lost the perfect line of sight that showcased the yacht. Worse than that, she’d also lost her balance on the milk crate. As she tilted at an impossible angle, she windmilled her arms, the hand with the binoculars barely missing her neon “Open” sign.
A firm hand caught her by the upper arm and smoothly dropped her onto the floor. The same hand gestured at her sign. “Says you’re open.”
Lips tight, she turned to face her rescuer-slash-intruder. Slash potential customer, but right now she didn’t care about selling ice cream cones. “I decide when I’m open.”
The man stared down at her with a perplexed frown. He had an appealing face with strong dark eyebrows and hazel eyes that didn’t seem to miss much. “Are you the owner?”
“Owner, sole proprietor, manager, supervisor, president, vice president, chief executive officer—”
“I get the picture,” he said drily. “Well, President Ice Cream Shop Owner, my little girl here would appreciate an ice cream cone.”
“Piper,” the girl said firmly. “My name is Piper.”
Blunt speaking seemed to run in the family. Also, the two were clearly related. She had the same shade of hazel eyes and confident bearing. Especially impressive for someone wearing a ruffled skirt and yellow crocs. Trixie figured she was about seven, but that was just conjecture. One thing Trixie Tran was not, was a kid person. Ironic, considering how much money she made from kids’ universal love for ice cream.
Still, Trixie refused to let anyone else call the shots in her shop, not even a seven-year-old. That whole thing about the customer always being right? That didn’t apply past the doors of Soul Satisfaction. She held up a finger, indicating for them to wait, and stepped back on the milk crate with her binoculars. The wind had shifted and now the yacht’s bow faced her. She couldn’t make out anything at all, no name, no hull identification number.
Oh well. Might as well make some money.
She relaxed her face into her perkiest smile and hopped back down from the milk crate. “Welcome to Soul Satisfaction, the last ice cream before the wilderness. How can I help you?”
The man’s eyebrows lifted, but he showed no other reaction to her change in tone. This man was smooth. In control of himself. Honestly, it was kind of sexy. He was kind of sexy, now that she was paying attention. He had an early show of scruff and what she liked to call “smile-grooves.”
“My little girl—Piper,” he quickly corrected himself, “would like an ice cream cone. Normally we don’t introduce ourselves to strangers, but what’s done is done.”
“Excellent policy. Now if you could just write down her last name, birth date, and social security number, I can get her that ice cream cone.”
Quick amusement flickered in his hazel eyes. “Must be some damn good ice cream.”
As if they had choreographed it, the girl stuck out her hand, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter and dropped it into her palm.
“Swear jar,” he explained. “She’s going to be rich by the time she hits the tween years.”
Piper pocketed her quarter with a gap-toothed grin. “It’s a living.”
Trixie might not be a kid person, but it was hard to resist this particular child. “Yay you. Okay then, Piper with the Swear Jar. What floats your boat?”
“My boat? We don’t have a boat. I mean, we do, but not here. At home, my dad has a boat.”
“Oh yeah? Let me guess.” She scanned him head to toe, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. He was wearing a wool sweater that screamed “dad,” but it didn’t fool her. She could see right through it to the muscular build underneath. Still, she figured he was the upper-middle-class dad type. Probably a lawyer or a hedge fund manager.
“Sailboat. You like to compete in the local regatta. Or maybe it’s a classic wooden two-master that you’ve lovingly restored. Your wife is your crew and someday you’d like to quit the rat race and sail around the world.”
The man showed no reaction to her silly little character sketch other than a slight lift of one eyebrow. He really was a cool customer, so to speak. Some men might be offended, or maybe flattered, or eager to deny the existence of a wife. He simply shrugged off her jab, like water off a duck. He turned to his daughter. “Honey, ‘float your boat’ is a phrase. She means what kind of ice cream do you want?”
Piper’s eyes widened, and she repeated the phrase. “Float my boat. That’s funny.”
The kid was lucky Trixie hadn’t used another of her favorite phrases. Blow your skirt up. Or flood your basement. She moved behind the counter and picked up an ice cream scoop, ready for action.
“My boat,” Piper said carefully, “would be floated by one scoop of Mint-alicious Chocoholic and one scoop of Moose Turd Fudge.”
The man did a double-take, then frowned at the handwritten labels that identified each container of ice cream.
“No, it’s not actual moose turds. In case that’s what your very scary scowl is all about.”
“I’m not scowling. And no, that wasn’t what I was thinking. I was checking to see if there are nuts in it. And wondering why every damn thing in Alaska has to reference a moose.”
Piper thrust out her hand, he plopped another quarter into it, and they smoothly carried on. “I’m allergic to tree nuts,” the girl explained as she added her latest haul to her pocket.
Trixie was starting to find these two unexpectedly fascinating. “There are no nuts in the Moose Turd Fudge. I actually don’t carry any ice cream that has nuts, not even pistachios or peanut butter.”
“Peanuts are a legume,” the girl said seriously. “But I’m allergic to that too.”
“This is a no-nut zone. Well, I guess not entirely.” Her gaze flicked to the man in the split second before she realized her joke was completely inappropriate. “I mean, some people call me a nut,” she added quickly. “You probably wouldn’t argue with that.”
The man gave a sudden grin, which changed his face completely, giving him an air of lighthearted mischief. Now she understood the smile-grooves. “We don’t mind that kind of nut. You’ll be getting plenty of business from us.”
She shrugged, since she got all the business she could handle, all summer long, nuts or no nuts. “Sugar cone, waffle cone or a cup?”
“Whatever fits the most ice cream,” Piper said decisively.
“Oh, I can pile on as much as you want. I’m never stingy with my ice cream.”
Did that come across as suggestive too? For some reason, she felt her cheeks heat. She wasn’t a blusher, generally. Flirtations were her natural habitat. She was the one who enjoyed shocking other people. But somehow, under this man’s steady gaze—and in front of his child—her usual tricks didn’t seem to be working.
To chase away that uncomfortable feeling, she whipped out samples of each cone and the cup. Piper pointed to the waffle cone. “It’s huge,” the girl said with awe.
Her father caught Trixie’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head. She interpreted it as “if you fill that thing entirely with ice cream you’ll have to deal with the consequences.”
She winked at him to show she understood, then wished she could undo it. At this rate, he was going to think she was flirting with a married man, which wasn’t in her playbook at all. The fact that he didn’t wear a wedding ring—yes, she’d noticed, because it was second nature to observe such things—was irrelevant. A man with a child might as well be married, because inevitably there was a woman in the picture, in one way or another.
Whistling lightly, she piled a generous scoop of Mint-alicious Chocoholic into the cone, then topped it off with a slightly smaller mound of Moose Turd Fudge. That ought to keep the girl running in manic circles for a while. She added her signature swirl on top and looked up with a smile—only to see her nightmare coming true.
Chase Owens, surrounded by an entourage, was passing right by her shop. Wait. He was turning. Coming inside?
There was only one thing to do. She thrust the cone at Piper’s father and dropped out of sight behind the counter.
“Go,” she said in a strangled whisper. “Your ice cream is free. Welcome to Lost Harbor.”