Chapter One
MacKintyre Sullivan, world-famous crime novelist and former Navy SEAL, had the dark good looks of a movie star, with deep blue eyes, an awesome body, and a sexy smile. The first time I ever saw him, he made a big impression on me. And that was just from staring at his photo on the back cover of his latest Jake Slater thriller. In person, Mac looked even better.
Much like his daredevil fictional protagonist Jake, Mac Sullivan was also kind, courageous, and loyal, with a generous nature and a strong dose of cynical humor. Not to mention, he was brave and strong and—okay, I might be getting carried away.
I met Mac two years ago when my bicycle brakes malfunctioned while I was riding downhill on the highway. Rapidly picking up speed, I frantically struggled to keep the bike straight and avoid crashing into the guardrail. After surviving another hairpin turn, I strategically aimed for a safe-looking meadow. Unfortunately it was riddled with dirt clods, rocks, and slippery slimy mud under the grassy surface.
The bike made it only so far before ejecting me. I flew over the handlebars and skidded across the uneven surface, ending up sprawled facedown in a large puddle of thick mud and brush. Mac happened to be driving along the highway, saw it happen, and rushed to my rescue.
It might’ve been what you’d call a “meet cute,” except for the fact that my face was smeared with mud and weeds and I was pretty sure I had a concussion. I had scrapes and bruises everywhere on my body, along with a twisted ankle. Not such a cute moment for me.
Later, Mac deduced that someone had deliberately tampered with my brakes. As it turned out, that “someone” was a crazed murderer. So, good times.
My name is Shannon Hammer and I’m a building contractor specializing in Victorian home restoration in Lighthouse Cove, a small coastal town in Northern California. Somewhere during those first few months, MacKintyre Sullivan and I became good friends and eventually more than friends, a fact that continued to surprise me and even caused me to pinch myself occasionally.
Like now, for instance. I was in my kitchen making dinner, checking on the baked potatoes, and as I closed the oven door, I glanced across the room—and there he was. The hunky megastar author was standing at the counter slicing cucumbers for our salad. He looked so cheerful and contented. Chopping up veggies, for goodness’ sake.
Mac had been out of town for the past few weeks, visiting his agent and his editor and all the people who worked so hard to publish his bestselling thrillers. He and his agent were also working on the next Jake Slater movie deal. He had stopped off in Los Angeles for a few days to visit his adorable niece Callie and had only returned home yesterday. And first thing this morning, he was back at work on his current manuscript.
While he was on the road, Mac and I talked on the phone every night. We exchanged stories and laughed and told each other every little thing that had been going on in our lives. There was just one topic that never came up. We never talked about “us.” We were friends, lovers, and always had a great time together. I knew how Mac felt about me and I felt the same way about him, so why would I want to rock the boat? It might get awkward. It might change everything. Why push it? Why take a chance that the conversation could twist the easygoing, warm, and cozy dynamic we had developed?
On the other hand, I was curious. I had no idea where Mac saw himself in five years. I was pretty sure he was planning to stay in Lighthouse Cove, but did he see me as a part of his future?
It was tempting to just let the topic die a quiet death because the simple truth was, Mac made me happy. As far as I was concerned, we belonged together. And he obviously agreed because, well, there he was, standing in my kitchen, now chopping up a carrot. It almost made me laugh because seriously, the guy was kind of a superstar. Three—and soon to be four—of his ten Jake Slater books had been turned into major motion pictures starring the biggest names in show biz. He would occasionally fly off to exotic locales to watch the filming and he always attended the film premieres in New York, London, and Hollywood. And then there were his yearly book tours around the country.
And me? I was a small-town girl, living and working in the place where I was born. I loved it here, had lots of good friends, owned my own construction company, and wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
So whether we belonged together forever or not, we were doing just fine right now.
At that moment, my adorable Westie, Robbie—short for Rob Roy—came scurrying down the hall, ready to play.
“Hello, you,” I murmured. He barked joyously in response and I reached down to pick him up. I gave him some scratches behind his ears and he licked my neck, making me laugh.
Mac set down the knife, put the salad bowl in the refrigerator, and checked his watch. “I’d better go turn on the grill. It’ll take about ten minutes to heat up.” He gave me a quick look, then frowned. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said lightly. “I was just . . . looking.”
“At me?”
I smiled and set Robbie down on the floor. “Yes.”
“Everything okay?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms. “Can I tell you how much I wanted to be here with you tonight?”
“Yes, you may.”
“It’s true. I had to finish one more chapter first, but I kept getting distracted, kept procrastinating. I’d stand up, stretch, walk the floor, try to find things to do around the house. Anything but sit down and write.” He shook his head. “I managed to find some mindless tasks, like rearranging the bookshelves and fixing the light switch in the kitchen.”
“That’s not like you.”
“No. I tend to attack a book with single-minded determination.”
“I know.” I smiled. “You forget to eat.”
“True.” He smirked. “You would know.”
I always made it a point to show up with a basket of ready-to-eat food—potato chips, veggies, string cheese, granola bars—whenever Mac was in the middle of a manuscript. He would answer the door, grab the basket, and basically shut the door in my face.
Now he ran his hands up and down my arms. “But today I just wanted to get out of there and be with you.”
“But you still finished the chapter.”
“Yeah. I had to promise myself a big reward if I buckled down and finished it.”
“So what did you reward yourself with?”
He pressed his forehead to mine. “You.”
I closed my eyes and savored the moment, then looked up at him, frowning. “What’s wrong with the light switch? Do we need to rewire something?”
He laughed out loud. “Always the contractor.”