Chapter Eleven

You will apologize, obviously.

Izzy faced herself in the bathroom mirror and applied an armor of makeup to conceal the effects of a sleepless night and unrelenting embarrassment over her behavior yesterday evening.

Apologize, advise your client such a lapse of judgment will never happen again, and then conduct yourself in a professional manner from here on out.

Her future depended upon it, no matter what Danny said about things that happened in Captivity staying in Captivity. What if they didn’t? Her boss was a longstanding Shanahan family friend, for Christ’s sake. Practically a relative. Even if she were inclined to take Trace up on his offer to keep a secret—which she wasn’t, because it was wrong—it was doubly wrong to ask him to keep a secret from someone with whom he ought to, legitimately, be able to confide in regarding both his personal and professional life. Because there was something about him, that sadness in his eyes, a red flag in his determination to divest himself of his role in the business his family founded, that warned her he needed to confide in someone.

And yes, it might have been better to get this all resolved yesterday evening, but she couldn’t find it in her to regret that Trace had gathered his things as soon as he’d realized who was on the line, blown her a kiss, and shown himself out while her body wept, and her conscience flinched. She’d needed all night to settle her hormones and put her head on straight. Her attraction to him surpassed anything she’d ever felt for anyone, including the litigation associate she’d dated-slash-slept-with for three unmemorable months over a year ago. The physical disappointment her body had to endure was irrelevant. She’d simply be thankful he’d proven she could feel such intense attraction to someone, but alas, acting on it, with him, wasn’t to be. Even if they waited until after the deal closed, what was the point? She was destined for Los Angeles, and the next level of her career. There would be no return to Captivity for her.

And for him? She paused in the process of bundling her hair into a tidy knot at the back of her head. She didn’t know his long-term plans, but for some period of time he’d be tied to the airfield. After that, very little suggested he’d want to come to L.A. and be her fuck buddy. Securing her hair with pins, she pictured him with Jorg yesterday, with Lilah and Rose. With Bridget. Whether he saw it or not, he was an intrinsic part of Captivity, and it, him. And wasn’t that another red flag? For a man who appeared so anxious to sell out of a business intrinsic to his entire life and move on to the next thing, there was a distinct lack of definition around that next thing. As far as she could tell, he wasn’t leaving Captivity Air for another goal or destination. He was simply leaving.

She strode to the closet and confronted yet more proof of the fact that Trace was a favored son of this town. New boots occupied one cubby. Taking them, and a dark blue insulated vest, she walked on to the main room, started to head toward the sofa, then changed course to sit on the bed when memories of the previous evening’s sofa shenanigans sent her pulse spiking.

The boots. Another symbol of how committed the gang in Captivity were to Trace’s happiness. Lilah had brought them up last night, after spying Trace crossing the lobby on his way out. Despite her assurances that everything was fine and he’d simply needed to go home to tend to Key, she knew by the younger woman’s poorly concealed concern that Lilah suspected she and Trace had fallen victim to a lover’s quarrel. One serious enough to ruin their romantic dinner and send him home alone.

Izzy sat on the bed, slipped the first boot on, and started lacing. If Lilah thought they’d had a spat, odds were good she’d shared the impression with Rose. And how many people had Rose discussed it with? She tied a bow on the first boot and started on the second. Would she find herself the recipient of pitying gazes and misguided matchmaking attempts? Jeez. What a mess.

The boots, however? Total success. The ugly brown vulcanized rubber and sueded leather creations looked like the Frankenstein’s monster of footwear, but they laced to the mid-calf, and, if the claims on the box could be trusted, were waterproof, insulated, offered arch support—a feature that had taken on new importance after last night’s muscle cramp—boasted a high-traction outer sole and rustproof hardware. A cuff of soft, tan faux fur encircled the top of the shaft, which she suspected accounted for why Rose, Lilah or the lady at Watkins General Store had chosen them for her. One of them had noticed the small nod to fashion and frivolity in such an aggressively practical item of outerwear, and thought, “These are the boots for that big city girl who caught Trace’s eye.”

All these incredibly kind, special efforts on her behalf—well, Trace’s behalf—made her feel so guilty. On the other hand, thanks to the deception, nobody had a clue she’d spent the better part of last night sublimating extreme sexual frustration into a beautifully formatted and thorough asset inventory. Assuming Trace blessed it this morning, she’d submit item one of the due diligence checklist a full day ahead of schedule. Chuck would be pleased.

With that thought bolstering her, she pulled her vest on over her white wool turtleneck and headed downstairs. According to the text Trace had sent her this morning, he planned to swing by the inn to pick her up in about thirty minutes. That left her enough time to walk to a souvenir store and pick out a surprise to send to Danny. Preferably something as tacky and embarrassing as the “surprise” he’d planted in her luggage. Reindeer jerky? Polar bear poop? An I really moose you! T-shirt?

She stopped at the front desk and got the scoop from Rose. The general store sold souvenirs. Rose also provided her with a pocket map of the all the major attractions in town. Armed with the map, she stepped outside to take the short walk down Captivity’s main street, aptly named Main Street, to the general store. Morning sun beamed down, turning the remaining snow into a wet, slushy mix. Grateful for the boots, she zipped her vest, donned her gloves and ear warmers, and slid her sunglasses on.

“’Morning, beautiful. Going exploring?”

She turned to find Mad Dog, Wingnut, and a tall—not quite Trace tall, but tall—man with disheveled brown hair and a stubbly jaw, all standing under the covered sidewalk. They were drinking coffee and looking like the world’s most effective ad for flannel shirts and jeans. “Good morning,” she replied, and to answer Mad’s question, added, “I’m heading over to the store to do a little souvenir shopping. I’ll be at the airfield later. Will I see you guys there?”

“You’ll see us,” Wing confirmed, swiveling a thumb between Mad Dog and himself. “This”—he gestured at the third man—“is Ford Langley. He owns The Tipsy Goose.” Wing pointed one door front over, to the bar and grill. “You can pretty much always find him there. Ford, this is—”

“Skinny burger,” the other man supplied, flashing straight white teeth at Izzy. “Hold the bun, the cheese, the ketchup, mayo, pickles. Dijon mustard on the side.”

“Um, yes. That’s me.” She held out her hand. “Isabelle Marcano. Izzy, for short.”

He shook her hand. “Hope you enjoyed the burger.”

“It was perfect.”

“Terrific.” His smile broadened. “I’ll add it to the menu. Come on in and get yourself a Skinny Izzy any time the mood strikes.”

Her own menu item at the local bar and grill? The guilt raced back, but she smiled and nodded. “Thanks. I will. See you all later.” With a wave, she turned and made her way down the sidewalk in the direction of the general store. Once beyond the covered portion of the sidewalk, she found herself dodging standing water and mud.

At the first intersection, she discovered an open nature space her map identified as Seward Square. Probably a lovely spot for a stroll or a picnic in warmer weather. Bare-branched trees and split-log benches surrounded a pond. At the moment, the bank closest to her consisted of melting snow and mud, and hosted a group of sleepy, long-necked birds about the size of swans, but far more homely. Geese, she decided as she passed, taking in their oversized football bodies, black tails and necks. Some had white stripes on their black faces. Had she ever seen a real, live goose before? She didn’t think so. If they were still there on her way back, and she had time, she’d break out her phone and get a picture or two. Text one to Danny and show him how well this city girl could commune with nature.

Liking the idea, she strode into the perky, periwinkle blue shingled building bearing a large blue and white carved sign over the double-hung doors that read Watkins General Store. A little bell sounded when she entered, but it took only seconds to see she had the generously sized and generously stocked store to herself. Thankfully the layout was fairly instinctive, and ceiling signs above the aisles highlighted the contents. At the back of the store, next to a small clothing and shoe section, she found a display of T-shirts, hats, mugs and other Captivity-branded items.

Paydirt.

She perused the shirts and considered one that read, It doesn’t get any wilder than Captivity, when a pleasant female voice asked, “Is there something I can help you find?”

Turning, she found a pretty, forty-something woman with curling red hair and an abundance of freckles. “Oh, I’m just looking. I’m trying to find a funny gift for a friend.”

The woman held out her hand. “You must be Isabelle. I’m Annie Watkins.”

She shook the woman’s hand. “Nice to meet you. How did you know?”

Annie laughed. “We don’t get many new faces around here during the off-season, but even if I hadn’t been sure, the boots gave you away.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her newest wardrobe addition. “Right. Thanks for picking these out.”

“No problem. I’m glad they’re working for you. Not a day too soon either.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty wet out there.”

The redhead nodded. “And muddy. We’re all grateful for warmer days, but the downside of spring in Captivity is mud.” As if realizing that observation wouldn’t exactly sell anyone on the town, she quickly went on, “Of course, summer is gorgeous. And fall. Fall is my favorite season. The trees turn colors so striking it can make a New Englander jealous. The air is so cool and crisp. The distillery hosts evening bonfires on the weekends. Even winter is lovely. Captivity is like a Christmas postcard.”

“I’m sure,” Izzy hastened to say. “The town is charming.”

Annie laughed again, knowing she’d swung too far toward the hard-sell side. “And muddy, at the moment.”

“But that’s okay.” Izzy raised one foot. “I have the boots for it.”

“That you do. Thankfully, you didn’t come here for the spring thaw. You had a higher calling.”

Did she? “Did I?”

Annie gave her an odd look. “Love, of course. You came for love. We adore Trace—the entire Shanahan clan—and hope you’ll let us know if there’s anything we can do to help make your visit perfect.”

Oh, the guilt again. “There’s nothing. I mean, it is perfect,” she elaborated when Annie’s face fell. “Really. All I need is a funny gift for my friend.”

“Well, you’re in the right place. I’ll let you look around. Give a shout if you need assistance.”

“Will do,” Izzy promised, and turned to the shelves decked with shot glasses, snow globes, coffee mugs, and… “Oh my God.” Her eyes widened at the small box emblazoned with a winking cartoon grizzly bear. Bearly There…ultra-thin lubricated condoms. Tagline? When you want to get wild! Everything about it was perfect. Condoms. The bear. The subtle innuendo that “bearly there” could also apply to the goods being sheathed.

Thinking Danny had a surprise of just this sort coming to him, she grabbed the box, and, just to one-up him, a second box, and headed to the checkout counter. Annie laughed as she rang them up, and told her the condoms, while not exactly souvenirs, were one of their bestselling items.

Izzy left with the funny feeling Annie assumed at least one of the boxes was actually for her and Trace’s personal use, but there was nothing she could do about that.

On the way back to the inn, she again passed the pond. The geese were more awake now, standing around the bank in a group…er…gaggle, honking occasionally. The sun was high, the water sparkling, and the geese sort of sweet and funny, waddling around and looking confused. She took off her gloves, stuffed them into her vest pocket and slipped her phone out. After tapping the camera app, she raised her sunglasses to the top of her head so she could see the screen and centered a shot. Then hesitated. It would be really funny if she could get close, kind of lean in, and take a picture with those birds.

She looked to her right, her left, and then at the sidewalk behind her. It would have to be a selfie since there was nobody around to take the shot for her. Deciding to go for it, she turned so her back was to the geese, raised her phone higher than her head to get herself in a long-angled shot, and then took a step back, and another, and…yes, there they were, standing still, their little bowling-pin heads raised to watch her approach. Almost perfect. Another step closer and…

One of the geese spread its wings like a bat, opened its beak, and let out a loud, aggressive honk. She froze and watched the group of them on her phone screen. Another one opened its beak. Wide. Did geese have sharp bills? Teeth? A little current of fear swirled through her. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe she should—

They charged. As a group. No, not a group, a mob. A loud, angry mob. For one stunned second, she stood there, watching the wall of angry, spread-winged, killer geese close in. The one at the point of the attack chevron they’d formed stretched its long neck and opened its mouth as if preparing to take a big bite out of…her.

“Ohmigod!”

She ran. They followed. Panicked, she took a fast circuit around the pond, but didn’t lose them. Why would she? The pond was their home. She was playing right into their hands—wings—whatever. Winded now, but determined to move the chase off their turf, she rounded the pond and ran down the sidewalk. Buildings passed by in a blur. Mud and water splashed everywhere with every step. From somewhere beyond the honking, she heard a long, high-pitched scream. She tried to scream back, then realized it was her screaming in the first place.

“Helllp!”