“Did he go sideways with you?” Silas demanded in a stern, protective tone.
“No more than I think he would with anyone else.” She carefully entered the boat, placing her groceries on the floor by the back bench. “Do you think he’ll only be seasonal? There’s no way that place will hold up over winter. I’m surprised it even has electricity.”
“Or plumbing.”
Cassidy shrugged. “Not my problem. I’ll just start sleeping with earplugs.”
“Earplugs?”
“So when the lake swallows him up, I won’t have to hear his screams.”
Chapter two
Mac
LADY OF THE LAKE
Machadn’trunintothe woman from the Trading Post again. He’d looked, too. Every time he drove into town, he looked for a woman with long red hair and wide, tortured eyes in the face of an angel. He was on alert for the woman who possessed full, reddish lips that were a step beyond what nature should allow; firm breasts he knew would fit his hands perfectly and rested high and perky on a too-thin frame, and long legs, the kind that would wrap around him and hold on fiercely.
He’d imagined what lay beneath those clothes that fit her like they belonged to someone else. Whoever had been taking care of her wasn’t doing his job, not as well as a woman like her deserved. Not in his opinion, at least. And somewhere in her haunted gaze, she knew it. Her little act of passive-aggressiveness with the beer amused him; intrigued him. That he’d seen right through her had thrown her.
Yeah, she’d been talking to him. He wanted to continue the conversation.
She was damaged; it was obvious. And he liked damaged things lately—look at the pile of deteriorated wood he’d purchased and called home. He knew he was the laughingstock of the lake. He just didn’t give a shit what everyone else thought of him. The more they disliked him, the better; they’d steer clear.
He could ask the kid at the store or someone at The Northern, but that was beneath him. He didn’t chase women down, especially married ones. But if he had the chance, he’d be more than happy to give the sad little housewife a new perspective. He wasn’t a homewrecker, but it appeared hers was already wrecked. If her man wasn’t going to step up, no reason why he shouldn’t. It would be for mutual satisfaction, giving her a few moments of what she was lacking—he had no interest in picking out china patterns.
But he hadn’t seen her. Could be she was a passer-through, but she was comfortable in the store, and Lonnie seemed to know her. That meant she belonged here, which meant she was one of four types of people in this tiny town. There were: the year-rounders, who held prestige; the seasonal folks who came back like clockwork and were the second in the hierarchy; the new seasonal folks who hadn’t been here before and were met with idle suspicion; and the vacationers who either rented from the absent seasonal lake-dwellers, camped, or stayed in one of the nearby hotels. The vacationers were met with a fair amount of wariness.
Mac was a year-rounder. He was looking forward to the end of the season when the outsiders would leave, and things would be quiet. Of course, he’d have to scope out companionship possibilities without getting entangled. Still, his remote piece-of-shit cabin on this remote lake in the upper Eastern Seaboard of the United States was now his home.
Sure, it was probably going to crumble into the lake tomorrow, and there was a good chance the plumbing wouldn’t make it through the next winter, but he had a house. That made him luckier than most.
And he had a dog. Sort of. It was his neighbor’s dog with a ridiculous name: Fred. Whoever the old farts were—he’d seen the old woman once from a distance when he’d attempted to introduce himself. She’s been disguised beneath a floppy sunhat and hidden behind sunglasses while she worked in the garden—yeah, he’d pussied out. But it seemed like they left their dog a lot.
Mac first noticed it when the dog was sitting patiently on the dock looking out across the lake; the boat usually bobbing there was gone. It had happened more than once. On the fourth time, Mac wandered along the lakefront and whistled to the dog. Fred had looked over at him but hadn’t moved from his post.
Good boy.
But Mac had broken him of that. Owners who left their dog behind deserved as much. However, Fred would tear away from whatever he and Mac were doing—hanging out and drinking beer (Mac, not Fred)—and return to his post whenever the whine of a specific motor echoed across the water. Mac would slip into his shack, not interested in entertaining the old folks. He went out of his way to avoid them even though he knew he’d have to go over again eventually. But not until he was serious about buying a boat.
He kept replaying the image of the woman in the garden and putting it off. There was something about her that bothered him. Something he couldn’t shake. Each time the woman popped into his mind, he pushed her away. Mothering was not something he had the patience for. Every time he drove down the drive, he held his breath, bracing for the inevitable encounter, but so far, nothing.
A few times, Fred had sought him out on his own, no doubt looking for treats or simple companionship. Mac had been delighted and rewarded him with vigorous play; Fred had eaten it up. Still young, it was clear no one played with the dog… but then again, older owners wouldn’t have the energy.
It wasn’t all play, though. Mac amused himself by teaching Fred other commands, as well. His owners would never know it, but it made Mac feel closer to Fred. Like he had his own dog. He felt less lonely in the world. He’d cheers Fred with his beer and compliment him, “Best neighbor, mutt.”
Life on the lake was just what he expected and needed. His routine consisted of waking from a drunken stupor, attacking the shack, which was turning into more of a shit show every day, and then watching the sunset, drinking on his porch. Sometimes he’d head to the bar, where he’d end up banging some chick in the alley, bathroom, or in his truck. Every night tended to end the same: smashed to the point of oblivion so he could sleep. Insomnia was the bitch who rode him the hardest. When he woke up, he’d reach for more alcohol to numb his mind back to sleep and pray for day.
One night he hallucinated a chick on the dock.
Waking up from his alcohol-induced stupor with a shout from the horror show in his brain, he’d stumbled from the two-room shack onto the porch, sweating and needing air. He’d popped open a can of beer and drank it in one go as the night air fought to cool his naked body. Finished, he’d crushed the aluminum and glared drunkenly out at the moonlit waters of the lake.
And there she’d been, withhis dog.
Mac had blinked, trying to clear his vision as he stared. She’d stood for a whole minute, tiny camisole top and tinier panties, hair back in a ponytail, also looking out at the water. She was ethereal, the fog clinging to her, to the dock; she looked peaceful.
She’d been too far away for him to see well, but he knew she was nearly naked, and that was all he needed to know. He’d dragged a hand across his bare chest, looking down at himself for a moment, entertaining the thought of joining her.