Chapter Three

When someone touched her shoulder, Bridget jumped like a startled cat and nearly spilled her full flute of champagne all over her accoster.

“Whoa,” Mad Dog joked, rescuing her champagne as she spun his way. “The ceremony’s over. ‘I do’s’ said, cake served, speeches given. It’s all good.”

“Yeah, yeah—all good.” Except for the severe case of nerves she’d developed over the last three weeks, thanks to Archer popping up out of nowhere like a ghost from her past, then disappearing just as quickly, but only after divulging plans to relocate to Captivity.

She knew through the grapevine that he’d bought the Haines House—a cedar-and-glass architectural feast perched on the hillside almost directly across Captivity Cove from the Shanahan homestead. She knew he had a Cutwater power cruiser with twin outboards in a slip at the small boat marina. What she didn’t know was when the hell he’d turn up again. Living with the uncertainty added a layer of stress to her life that she truly did not need. Especially now. Especially right now, on her brother’s wedding day.

So stop wasting brain cells on him. He’s not likely to crash the end of Trace and Izzy’s reception.

Right. She looked around the Inn’s low-lit banquet room, where the reception was winding down. Under a rainbow shower of colored lights, her parents held each other up on the dance floor, swaying to the live band’s version of Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.” Izzy’s parents, in much the same condition, joined them. Old Jorg danced with Rose, who kept moving his roving hands firmly back to her waist.

The happy couple had already retired to the honeymoon suite upstairs. Tomorrow they would leave on a two-week land-and-sea tour of the Inner Passage with both sets of parents in sort of a “hey, now that we’re all family, let’s get to know each other” endeavor dreamed up and funded by the moms, and, after that, Trace and Izzy planned to spend another two weeks on their own—finally—at a lakeside vacation rental in the Canadian Rockies, away from family, an entire town’s worth of meddling Captives, and, basically, the world.

Bridget loved her parents, and Izzy’s seemed great, but she’d breathe a sigh of relief when they all boarded their plane. Holding down the fort at Captivity Air for the next four weeks seemed like the better end of the deal. She needed some space. Maybe she was sick of answering questions about her own love life. Weddings were like parent-crack, as far as she could tell. Hers weren’t even finished with Trace’s yet, and they were already squarely focused on marrying her off. Pronto.

No, thank you.

“Sorry I startled you,” Mad said.

“Not your fault. I was deep in my own damn head, I guess.”

“Yeah.” He looked at her and smiled. “You’ve been there a lot lately. Bet it’s freakin’ scary in there.”

Oh, he had no idea.

“Come on.” He took her arm and steered them toward the door to the lobby. “Let the old folks shut this down. Everyone else is headed to The Goose to continue the party.”

More party? She’d already had her fair share of champagne, and tomorrow kicked off her stint supervising the airfield. Granted, the Sunday morning schedule consisted of Trace and Izzy’s flight out with the ’rents, Izzy’s man of honor Danny’s flight to Anchorage, a couple lessons, and a few inbound private planes, but did she really want to stay out ’till all hours and start her tenure as boss behind dark sunglasses so nobody saw her hangover? That was so old Bridget.

Mad quirked a brow at her. “Or do you plan to go home and spend the rest of the night in your own damn head?”

Point to Mad. There were worse things than starting a day behind dark glasses. Friends and loved ones were beyond ready to celebrate something good happening for the Shanahan family, and they expected her to be part of it. “I just need to grab my purse and visit the ladies’ room. I’ll meet you over there.”

“Atta girl,” Mad said. He strode through the Inn’s comfortable, lodge-style lobby toward the interior entrance to the bar and grill, grabbing Lilah along the way.

Watching him walk away, his light hair extra blond against his dark groomsman’s suit, poked at something in her brain. Something she couldn’t quite reach to pull out into plain sight. Shrugging it off, she stopped at the reception desk to get her purse from the night clerk and then pushed through the door of the ladies’ restroom.

Alone in the small lounge, she placed her evening bag on the marble counter and took stock of herself in one of the two oval mirrors framed by interlocking antlers. Not too shabby, she decided, for a woman whose patience level and lifestyle rarely resulted in her wearing anything more cosmetic than sunscreen and lip balm.

Of course, she really owed tonight’s smokey eyes, contoured cheekbones, and Rock-Star Red lips to Izzy’s expertise. She especially liked the lip color. The deep ruby shade made her feel dangerous. Like a vampire. Ditto for the silky crimson slip dress with the high slash at the thigh and asymmetrical hem. Given the right occasion, she could see herself wearing all of it again.

Looking down at her aching feet, she frowned. The mile-high, black patent peep-toe pumps? Not likely to make an encore appearance anytime soon. They showed off her pedicure nicely and added several inches to her height, but damn, they threw a body off-balance. How—and, hello, why?—Izzy clicked around on stilts like this all the time mystified her.

Because she liked the lipstick, she fished it from the slim black purse and applied another layer. Because the sleek hair seemed a little too refined for The Goose, she eased the fancy jet-beaded hairpin from her temple and shook her head until her hair fell into its normal disarray. She shoved her long bangs back from her forehead, washed her hands, checked her phone, and then headed out.

Extending tonight’s festivities for one more drink wouldn’t hurt. She was beyond ready to celebrate something good happening in her family, too, after the hell of last year. Her twin brother, Shay, had crashed his plane into a mountain and died just after Thanksgiving—an abrupt and incomprehensible loss, like a limb suddenly severed. First there’d been numbness, then a sharp, searing pain, then finally a dull ache that only flared into breath-stealing agony when she made a careless move.

New Bridget tried hard not to be careless.

Still, turning herself around didn’t erase the mean, ugly guilt that nested inside her. On the darkest, quietest nights, it whispered that her most careless move was one she’d made before Shay had gotten into the cockpit that November day, when he’d asked her to run the passengers to Anchorage for him. She’d refused because she’d been too busy tangling sheets at the Inn with a visiting nephew of Annie and Ben Watkins, whose name she couldn’t even remember at this point. For most of his life, Shay had raised the bar on irresponsible and unreliable behavior, but he had come through for her in a major way when she’d needed someone, without her even asking. When the situation flipped, she’d turned him down flat.

Yeah, she could definitely use a few hours outside her own head. She let out a breath and eased her white-knuckled grip on her evening bag. Turned out it was a scary place.

The Goose, on the other hand, overflowed with good vibes. Luke Bryan jammed from the jukebox, singing about dancing on tailgates under a full moon. Ford sat in front of the bar, for once, wearing the shit out of his groomsman’s suit, talking with Lilah and Dr. Devan.

Mad and Wing, jackets abandoned, shirtsleeves rolled, went head-to-head at the pool table, surrounded by other locals and some summer staff, mostly in the under-forty demographic. She walked over to the bar.

“What, no kiss hello?” Ford teased.

She’d apologized to him weeks ago and knew the ribbing was his way of saying, basically, “No harm, no foul.” “What’s the point?” She also knew from several sources including Ford that Archer hadn’t fallen for the show. “Apparently, our last kiss wasn’t very convincing.”

“We could practice. Be ready to really sell it the next time one of your exes shows up.”

Something in her chest pinched. There were no other exes. Not like Archer. “I plan to try a different tactic next time.”

“A knee directly to the nuts?”

“Nah.” Though the thought brought a smile to her lips. “I’m kissing Lilah, instead.”

Many sets of male eyes blinked. At the other end of the pool table, Mad cleared his throat. “You could practice that right now,” he suggested. “We don’t mind.”

Lilah laughed. “Would the kiss come before or after the pillow fight?”

“The pillow fight that loosens the straps of your very hot ensemble?” She indicated the halter-style top of Lilah’s bridesmaid’s dress. Same dark red shade as Bridget’s but cut differently to make the most of Lilah’s eye-popping cleavage—perhaps all the more eye-popping because she kept it hidden under bulky tops most of the time. Below the halter, the gown poufed into a skirt that ended mid-thigh. Sort of a sweet, sexy baby-doll look, while notifying everyone that the wearer was all grown up.

“The one where I accidentally rip the slit in your skirt until it goes all the way up your thigh?” Lilah embellished.

“I’ll get pillows,” Wing volunteered, tossing his cue on the table. “The Inn’s lousy with them. Just give me five minutes.”

“Dream on, perverts.” Bridget laughed and, mood lifted, gave Lilah a loud smooch on the cheek.

“Ah, man.” Mad tossed his cue as well and came over. “That’s just mean. Ford, buddy, we’re gonna need some shots. First round’s on Wing.”

“Hey!”

“You lost,” Mad reminded him, gesturing at the pool table. “Loser calls it.”

“Fine. Whatever. Tequila,” Wing grumbled.

Ford started to get up, but Lilah waved him back. “Sit. I’ll get it.” She walked around the bar, set up shot glasses. Selecting Cuervo Gold from the shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar, she performed a professional pour.

They—all but Lilah—did two shots, the first one in honor of Trace and Izzy, the second in honor of Wing, for generously springing for two rounds. Feeling warm and mellow, Bridget let Mad pull her into his arms and slow dance to “Girl Crush.”

He grinned down at her. “You ready to take charge of things at the airfield for the next little while?”

“Yep.” You hope, an honest voice in her head added.

“Should we call you boss? Maybe boss lady? La jefa?”

“Is this your attempt at kissing ass?”

“Not really.” His grin never faltered. “I figure my days of kissing any part of you are over.”

“Finally come to your senses, huh?” It had been over six months since they’d indulged in recreational kissing, much less anything else. Seemed like neither of them missed it much, but neither of them had definitively called it quits, either.

He shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I always knew I mainly had geographic desirability going for me.”

“Same,” she said, feeling an odd pressure to justify herself.

Mad gave her a friendly hug. “And we kept things non-exclusive, which definitely tells a guy where he stands.”

“Mutually non-exclusive,” she pointed out. “I think we both knew where we stood.”

“True.”

“But we’re not still standing there, I take it?”

“We’re not.” He looked at her, frowned at whatever he saw in her expression, and added, “It’s okay, Bridge. Really. I’ll always be your friend, just not a naked friend.”

“Because I’m your boss, now?”

He laughed, which made her feel slightly diminished, as both boss and naked friend. “No. Sorry. I guess that should be a reason. Tell you what, I’ll add it to the list.”

There was a list? Holy shit. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

He had the grace to look chagrined. “Want to know the actual reason?”

Suddenly, no. “Couldn’t we just say things ran their course?”

He considered that. “We could. Um…I don’t think we should. Look, I’m a simple man. I don’t get many epiphanies. But I got one, concerning you, and I feel like I should share it.”

“Girl Crush” changed to an up-tempo dance song about someone wanting someone else to be happier, but she and Mad continued to sway slowly. Something uncomfortably close to a lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it down and mentally reinforced her brave face. “Share away.”

Mad actually looked excited. “Okay, so, remember a couple weeks ago when the rich dude with the custom Cirrus showed up and you freaked out, kissed Ford, and bolted like your pants were on fire?”

She resisted the urge to grind her teeth. “Yeah, Mad. I do, vaguely, remember that fine, fine moment of my life.”

“Right.” He patted the small of her back. “Course you do. Well, we all realized this guy, Archer, was someone from your past, despite the fact that you never mentioned him even once in the years I’ve known you. The air just kind of…I don’t know…crackled between you two.”

“Disdain,” she said. “The air crackled with disdain, on my part.”

“Uh-huh.” Mad nodded. “Well, I stood there, staring at the guy, thinking he looked sort of familiar. And then it hit me.”

“What hit you?”

“The epiphany.”

“You know what? I’m going to hit you in half a second if you don’t spill it.”

He smiled at her threat. “It hit me that he looked familiar because he’s about my height and kind of my coloring—light hair, light eyes. Get it?”

“Not really, no.” But the tequila in her stomach suddenly wasn’t sitting so well.

He stopped swaying them to the music. “Bridget, I was the stand-in. The body double. I was your surrogate Archer.”

Her what? She stared at the front of his shirt, processing his words. He seemed so damn excited by his conclusion, she hated to call bullshit on it, but…she looked him in the face. “Bullshit.”

Mad wasn’t paying attention to her. He stared somewhere over her shoulder, but his gaze quickly returned to hers. “Not bullshit. We look a bit alike. See?” With that, he took her shoulders and spun her around.

Putting her face-to-face with Archer.