Raven climbed the white porch steps and punched in the code on the smart keypad. The door opened with a snick, and the comforting smell of the house and its memories rushed over her.
Her father had bought the house when she was seven after her mother died. It was a place of refuge for her and her two sisters, Wren and Lark. A summer getaway where their ornithologist father could conduct his research at the bird sanctuary on the barrier island’s southern tip.
After the family stopped spending summers on the island, they kept it as a rental property, and the rent provided enough money to put both Wren and Lark through college. Raven never needed the money. Her full-ride scholarship covered everything when she went to college at fourteen, and a fellowship paid for graduate school.
But for Raven, the beach house was more than just a childhood summer camp and cash cow. Her connection to this place was stronger than that of either of her sisters. She made a point to visit the island at least four times a year, keeping up with the locals and maintaining a close eye on the house and any repairs it needed.
Wren, her older sister, had only recently moved to Heron Harbor to live full-time with her fiancé, Smith Connors. Smith was the famous chef and owner of Harbor’s Edge, the finest restaurant for at least a hundred miles. Before reuniting and falling in love with her childhood best friend, Wren had been so devoted to her law practice that she’d rarely had time to visit Heron Harbor. And Lark, their baby sister, kept her distance from the island for reasons Raven could never get her to explain. So while all three Donovan sisters had inherited the house after their father’s death, Raven couldn’t help but think of it as hers.
After all, it had been her haven during the darkest hours of her life.
Now, faced with another blow, she needed it once again.
Raven shut the front door, stowed her coat, purse, and tote in the closet, then went to the kitchen to dump the groceries.
She unpacked the bags and stepped back to gaze at the haul with a mixture of sadness, guilt, yearning, and disgust. On the counter sat a mountain of sugary sweets: red vine licorice; chocolate bars; marshmallows; peanut butter cups; lemon drops; gummy bears; thin mints; sour taffy; caramel chews; a box of off-brand, frosting-filled yellow cakes; and most bizarre of all, a bag of sweet beef jerky.
Proof positive that her firing had her spinning out of control.
The sheer volume of crap splayed out across the counter would be impressive if it weren’t so horrifying. She had no memory of selecting most of it, just a faint image of walking down the quickie mart aisle, grabbing whatever looked like it might soothe the pain in her soul.
But not one of those sweets would cross her lips. She was in control. Abstention was her penance.
Turning from temptation, Raven decided on a tall glass of water instead. She moved to the cabinet and yanked it open. A bottle of Don Julio 1942 tequila sat beside the large tumblers.
Raven’s head cocked to the side. Hola, señor.
She and her sisters never stocked the beach house with alcohol for their renters. The cleaning service was supposed to clear out anything that was left behind after every guest. Yet here this lonely bottle stood amid mocking, empty glasses.
A bad idea whittled into Raven’s mind. She could crack the seal and have a little. After the day she’d had, she deserved a drink.
Raven snatched the tequila and a rocks glass from the cabinet. Without margarita mix, lemons, or limes, she’d have to do this old school. She broke the seal and poured two fingers worth. The slightly sour yet herbal liquid burned down her esophagus. Bracing herself against the counter, she waited for the shock to wear off, then tucked the bottle beneath her arm, grabbed the glass, and headed for the living room.
Standing before the large picture window that overlooked the Atlantic, Raven peered into the dimness at the ocean. The sun set so early in November, it was hard to see much besides the frothy whitecaps. She poured another drink, then flipped on the outside light, and stepped out onto the deck.
The brisk wind whipped at her hair as she watched the waves thrash against the shore. They were taller and choppier than usual and contained a ferocity she rarely saw. The sea was angry. Just like her.
She raised her glass to the Atlantic, then took a slow sip, allowing the liquid to warm her against the cold night.
Raven wasn’t sure how long she’d stayed outside, but by the time she came back into the house, she was on her third glass of tequila, or maybe it was her fourth, and she didn’t feel the least bit chilly. The liquor was working its magic, numbing not only her hurt and anger but also her senses. Thanks to Don Julio 1942, she was well on her way to tipsy.
And blisteringly hot. The beach house seemed positively sweltering. She tugged off her black suit jacket and tossed it on an armchair, then clumsily fumbled with the pussy bow and top buttons of her blouse. It wasn’t enough. Raven still felt like she was suffocating.
Frustrated, she yanked the ends of her black silk top from her pencil skirt, then unfastened the rest of the buttons, and flung it toward the chair. It missed, fluttering gracefully to the floor. With even less poise, she reached behind her back and unzipped her skirt. It slid down her legs and crumpled on the floor. She stepped out of it, then kicked it toward the corner of the room. A grateful sigh slid past her lips. In her lacy red bra and underwear, she was cool, at last.
Glancing down at her feet, she laughed. Her ruby-red Louboutins were still on her feet. If anyone saw her right now, they’d assume she was in the middle of a very hot date. Unfortunately for her, the only man around was Señor Julio. And while he’d already gotten her drunk, he couldn’t do much else. Reaching down, she plucked off each shoe and tossed them over her shoulder.
Grabbing her tequila, she sank into the corner of the big sectional that faced the ocean. It was a shame she was alone tonight. She’d forgotten how drunk she got off hard liquor. Or how horny it made her. Right about now, she wouldn’t mind having a male companion to share this buzz with or take her frustrations out on.
She’d done this evening backward. Another sign that her firing had thrown her off her game. Whenever her friends or sisters weathered a low blow, her usual advice was to find a fine-ass man and screw him. A great orgasm fixed a lot of ills.
Too bad it couldn’t get her job back.
But Raven hadn’t thought of stopping at Johnny’s Roadhouse, the best casual pick-up place around. She’d spent more than a few nights at Johnny’s, flirting with the regulars and tourists. Sometimes flirting turned to something more, and she’d go home with a handsome man who didn’t want anything more than great sex and a few laughs. Then she’d be on her way, back to her single, happy, successful life.
Because Raven Donovan didn’t do relationships. They required commitment and time, two things she couldn’t devote because of her demanding career. As a corporate fixer, she didn’t stay in any city longer than two-to-three years at the most. Boyfriends and husbands tended to expect their mates to be around. Raven couldn’t guarantee she’d be there. Between her job, sisters, friends, and an awesome car, her life was full enough.
So rather than pine for what she couldn’t have, Raven stuck to one-night stands and casual friends-with-benefits options where no one got hurt, but everyone got what they needed.
Except for tonight. Because she was too drunk to drive to Johnny’s Roadhouse. Feeling sorry for herself, she downed what was left of her tequila, then sank back into the big squishy pillow in the corner of the sectional.