the target of her insult unmistakable as she stares right at me.
Lip caught between my teeth, I bite back the urge to scream, and screw my eyes shut to the visual of her choking on that goddamn ice cream cone.
“Fuel meet fire.” Lucian climbs out, and every muscle in my body pulls tight as I watch him round the vehicle toward the women.
With the window still rolled down, I can hear snippets of their whispers, as Lucian approaches.
“Sorry to interrupt your ice cream, but my lady friend over there seems to think your comments are directed at her.” There’s an eerie calm to Lucian’s voice as he stands towering over them, while both women squint to look up at him. “If that’s the case, I’ll ask that you apologize to her for being so rude.”
“Do you even know who you’re talking to, asshole?” Joan asks, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the glaring sun that must be directly in her face, maybe why she doesn’t seem to recognize him and those infamous scars.
“Any chance you might know who you’re talking to?”
Hand covering my mouth, I swallow back a laugh, watching these clueless women rile the Devil of Bonesalt.
Brady’s mom scoffs and takes another lick of her ice cream. “Tell me, so I can report your ass for harassment.”
“Lucian Blackthorne.” He bends forward, holding out a hand toward her. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Both women gasp in unison.
Brady’s mom slowly lowers the ice cream from her mouth, the top scoop plopping onto her lap with her trembling. She glances toward Joan, who hasn’t moved in nearly a minute now, as if he’s already turned her to stone. Neither woman returns his shake.
“Perhaps the gossip hasn’t truly done me justice,” he says, and slips his hand back into his pocket. “Feel free to report my ass, if you’d like. I’ll give my lawyer a heads-up. And in the meantime, I strongly suggest you watch your words when you speak, or refer, to Isadora Quinn.”
Not a word is spoken between the two women, and I’m beginning to wonder if he cast some kind of dark spell over them, because I’ve never seen Brady’s mom so silent after a confrontation.
As Lucian makes his way back toward the car, I exhale a shaky breath, trying to figure out whether to laugh, or cry, at the fact that he just verbally Hulk-smashed the bane of my existence.
The moment he falls into the seat beside me, a burst of laughter escapes me, and I double over, my muscles still trembling with the adrenaline rush. Catching a glimpse of Brady’s mom cleaning up the mess from her lap, I laugh harder. “You are so on her shit-list now.”
“Whoever did her hair this morning should be, as well,” he says, throwing the car in reverse. “Where to next? The Shoal?”
“Yes. What took you so long in there? Thought I was going to have to send in a rescue squad.”
He shrugs, looking calm and collected, the way he leans back in his seat with one hand on the wheel. “Caught up in conversation. Who were those women back there?”
“Tempest Cove clowns.”
“I’m serious.”
Huffing, I stare out the window at the sidewalks bustling with tourists. Strangers who know nothing about me. Have no idea about my reputation. “Brady’s mom and her friend, Joan.”
“Why do they have a problem with you?”
Pangs of remorse still needle my gut for not having stood up for myself. If not for my desperation to get out of this town, I’d have chanced another harassment claim, just to shut her up myself. “This whole town has a problem with me.”
“I can see why.” At his remark, I snap my attention back to him, scowling and mouth gaping for something to say. “Young. Beautiful. Intelligent. I’d be pissed, too, if I looked as unoriginal as the two of them.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “I never know whether to slap you, or kiss you, Lucian. It’s the most confusing feeling in the world.”
Eyes on the road, he sets his hand on my thigh in a possessive way. “Nobody fucks with you when you’re with me. Ever.”
The Devil of Bonesalt. The Mad Son. The monster of Tempest Cove.
Not even.
About a mile and a half up the street, he pulls into the parking lot of The Shoal, where I notice Aunt Midge’s old junker parked off in one of the designated employee spots toward the back of the lot. A nervous thrum of anxiety pulses beneath my skin as we