of boulders led down to the water, where bobbing boats were protected by a long breakwater on the left and two rocky islands on the right. On the other side of the street, shops with colorful awnings and window boxes faced the distant horizon.
She shifted sideways. At the far end of the crescent, where the frontage road dead-ended at the river that emptied into the sea, a gazebo graced a tiny pocket park containing a picnic table and what appeared to be a historic cannon. The latter hadn’t been there on her last visit.
And perched on the edge of that park? Charley’s taco stand. The white truck with his name emblazoned in colorful letters over the serving window hadn’t budged an inch—nor changed one iota.
Neither had the owner—or those perceptive eyes of his.
She set the latte down again, the quiver in her fingers more pronounced.
Despite the passage of years and a disguise that would fool most people, that tiny flare of recognition in Charley’s dark cocoa irises at the coffee shop suggested he’d seen through her disguise. That he’d realized they’d met.
Whether he’d put a name to her face wasn’t clear. If he had, he’d kept her secret. If he hadn’t—who knew what he’d do once he did? Worst case, he’d mention it to someone . . . who’d mention it to someone else . . . and her attempt to remain under the radar would be a bust.
Sighing, she watched a boat on the horizon disappear into the mist—as she’d hoped to disappear in Hope Harbor.
Why, oh why, had she run into the one person she’d befriended during her previous stay? The one person most likely to recognize her?
Her plan to lay low and avoid his stand, despite the fabulous fish tacos he concocted, should have protected her—but how could she have known he’d frequent the new coffee shop in town she’d popped into twice for a handful of minutes?
A shop that had managed to suck her in with its low-key, welcoming atmosphere.
She picked up her latte again and took another sip of the cooling brew, spirits dipping.
Too bad the coffee shop was now off-limits. On her first visit, it had appeared to be a relatively safe haven. The customers, most of whom were no doubt transient summer tourists, had shown more interest in the twentysomething female barista with the triple-pierced ears and spiky, rainbow-hued hair than in her.
No surprise there. While the woman wouldn’t have drawn a second glance in Katherine’s world, she had to be a bit of a novelty here in quiet, sedate Hope Harbor.
But Charley had ruined the shop for her.
Not fair, Katherine. Charley isn’t the only reason you can’t go back.
In the distance, the light from the buoy at the end of the breakwater pierced the gloom, and the sonorous blare of a foghorn dispatched a warning across the expanse of water.
A warning she’d do well to heed.
The truth was, the tall, midthirties guy behind the counter also posed a risk—perhaps a bigger one than another unexpected meeting with Charley.
She took the lid off the remains of her latte, visualizing the fanciful K the man had created on top of her drink.
He’d been there on Monday too, but other customers had kept him occupied.
Today, however, he’d given her his full—and unwanted—attention.
Katherine’s fingers tightened on the disposable cup as the rain beat a staccato rhythm on the roof of her car.
In any other circumstances, the spark of interest in his deep brown eyes would have been flattering. With his dark hair, confident air, and lean, toned physique, he had the looks to rival any Hollywood heartthrob.
But romance wasn’t in her plans for this trip.
The taste of the latte grew bitter on her tongue, and she set the cup back into the holder. No more coffee shop visits for her. She couldn’t risk another run-in with Charley—or another attempt by the guy behind the counter to chat her up.
And unless her instincts were failing her, that’s what would happen if she showed up again at The Perfect Blend. All the signs of male attraction were there.
She twisted the key in the ignition, released the brake, and backed out of the spot she’d claimed on the south end of the wharf.
As she drove north on Dockside Drive, she surveyed Charley’s truck. Despite the dismal weather, a line had formed—and the savory aroma of grilling fish infiltrated her car.
A rumble from her stomach reminded her she’d skipped breakfast.
She ignored the message—and the temptation to stop. Her kitchen was