She should have, anyway.
It was fine, though. She could take care of herself, and she definitely wouldn’t be making that mistake again. Her dad, however, didn’t need to know about said mistake. The last time she’d fled the firehouse with her heart in tatters, he’d ended up in a screaming match with Chief Murray right there in the middle of Seashell Drive. They’d both been so red-faced that Violet had worried one of them might have some sort of cardiac episode. Griff Martin had nearly been forced to turn a fire hose on the two men.
What this situation needed was delicacy, so that the police chief and the fire chief didn’t accidentally end up brawling in the street again. Delicacy, plus frozen coffee with a heaping dash of chocolate and caramel should do it. The Milky Way frozen latte from Turtle Books, the island bookshop that doubled as a coffee bar down on the boardwalk, was her dad’s favorite thing in the entire world—as evidenced by the wide smile that creased his face when she plopped it down in front of him on the long table on the beach house’s second- floor porch.
The March family gathered on the deck every morning for coffee and most evenings for dinner. The house sat on the southernmost tip of the island, known as the crest to locals, separate from Turtle Beach’s neat rows of beach cottages. Violet’s great-grandfather had built the rambling house by hand back in 1952, when the Marches had been among the first families to move onto the secluded island, seeking their own little slice of Southern paradise.
All these years later, Turtle Beach still felt that way to Violet—serene, idyllic—despite the recent Dalmatian migration and the accompanying arrival of Sam Nash. Out here on the crest, where the water from the bay spilled into the salty depths of the Atlantic and dolphins frolicked just offshore, it was easy to forget about Sam, his annoyingly sweet dog, and his major league–worthy bod.
Then why can’t you?
“What’s this?” Violet’s dad picked up his frozen coffee drink and took a big sip from its oversized, colorful straw. “Is today a special occasion?”
She shrugged. “I just felt like taking a little bike ride this morning, and while I was over at the north end, I stopped by the boardwalk.”
It wasn’t a total lie. Sprinkles needed her morning exercise, and Violet wasn’t quite ready to show her face or her Dalmatian at the dog beach again. Not without police backup. Or possibly a bag to wear over her head.
“Don’t worry, I got one for each of my favorite police officers.” She plucked two more frozen coffees from the cardboard carrier and offered them to Josh and Joe.
“Thanks, sis,” Josh said, gulping half of his down in one big swallow, an ice cream headache waiting to happen.
Joe, the more patient brother, narrowed his gaze as he took his cup from Violet. “I’m with Dad. What’s going on? You never go for a bike ride this early.”
“Can’t I do something nice for my family without being interrogated?” Honestly, sometimes it wasn’t easy being the only member of the household who wasn’t actively involved in law enforcement.
“Don’t question it.” Josh shook his head. “At least she’s not down at the dog beach trying to arrest people.”
Joe arched a brow. “Or bringing random mutts home and bathing them for free.”
Violet glared at her brother. “That only happened once.”
It had happened a handful of times, actually. But they’d all stemmed from a single misguided, altruistic episode in which Violet thought she was rescuing a stray chocolate Lab mix she’d seen trotting up and down the shore all alone. Violet had a certain fondness for Dalmatians—a Dalmatian infatuation, some might say—but she was also a proper, equal-opportunity dog lover. She wasn’t a Dalmatian snob, for goodness’ sake. So she’d taken the lost dog home to bathe and blow-dry him. She might have also spritzed him with her favorite lavender-and-marshmallow-scented body spray from Bath & Body Works, only to find out that he belonged to the reclusive fisherman who lived right next door.
In true Turtle Beach form, word of Violet’s dog-saving efforts had spread like wildfire. Other loose pups started popping up on the beach directly in front of the March house. It only took her three more rounds of sudsing and spritzing for Violet to realize that people were “losing” their dogs on purpose to take advantage of her complimentary grooming services.
Really, though. That had nothing to do with the matter at hand. Why did her brothers insist on bringing it up so often?
Violet sat down with a huff. “If you must know, I have some news.”
She was just going to have to rip the Band-Aid off and tell them about Sam before they heard about his baseball prowess from someone else. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She’d tried—oh, how she’d tried. Much to her irritation, Sam Nash had even popped up in her dreams, which could only be attributed to the giant secret she knew about him. Once the police force knew he was a ringer, she could properly forget about him once and for all.
“News?” Her father glanced down at the newspaper spread in front of him, anchored to the table with a conch shell.
“Not so much news as gossip, really.” But once word got out to the general public, Sam’s smug face would probably be staring back at her from the front page of the Turtle Beach Gazette. “Accurate, verifiable gossip.”
“Spit it out, Vi,” Josh said blithely.
What a joy it was to live with three men. Sometimes Violet really missed her mother. It was possible to miss someone you’d never really known, wasn’t it?
“Fine.” She cleared her throat. “You know the new fire marshal?”
“You mean the guy with the dog that looks just like Sprinkles?” Joe said. Sprinkles cocked her head and bounded toward him at the mention of her name.
“The one you wanted us to throw in jail?” Josh added.
“Yes, that one,” Violet said primly. She was never going to live it down, was she?
“I caught a glimpse of that dog myself, yesterday.” Her dad shook his head. “It was an honest mistake, Cupcake. It could have happened to anybody.”
But it hadn’t happened to just anybody. Like most of the embarrassing things around here, it had happened to Violet. Then she’d tried to shower Sam with apology cupcakes, and the situation had gone from bad to worse.
“Thanks, Dad.” She took a deep breath. Her poor father had no idea what was coming. “Anyway, you’re about to wish for a real reason to toss the new fire marshal in jail, especially this Saturday.”
Her father’s smile faded. “Saturday, as in opening game day of Guns and Hoses?”
Both of Violet’s brothers grew still, their faces etched with matching expressions of concern.