“I wanted to surprise you,” she said.
“That’s Eden, my sister,” Darek said quietly. “And Owen. I stood in for him that night at the bachelor auction.”
“So he was the one I was supposed to buy,” Ivy said.
Darek glanced at her, but she winked.
He smiled then, his blue eyes twinkling, something sweet and dangerous in them. And although she was full enough to burst, she drank it right up.
So much so that she hurt.
Yes, Darek probably had no idea what he had here. But Ivy did. And she had no intention of letting that go.
JENSEN WATCHED AS Claire stood at the back of the stage like a ghost, a shadow of herself, playing the songs, adding backup, but without life. Pale, almost as if she hadn’t really shown up for tonight’s gig.
For the first time in three years, he wanted to talk to her. He sat at a back table on the open-air deck, nursing a glass of raspberry lemonade and listening to the Blue Monkeys twine out a rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way,” the sound seasoning the flavor of the night. Behind him, tourists and locals fought for space along the rocky beach, unfolding blankets and chairs in anticipation of fireworks.
He should probably leave after this set, before people noticed him enjoying his freedom.
Emma leaned into the mic, her Fender over her shoulder, the sun draping a long shadow behind her. “‘You can go your own way! Go your own way . . .’”
Jensen shook his head at the irony of the words.
No, if the people of Deep Haven had their choice, he wouldn’t go anywhere. In fact, he’d better start bracing himself for a stint in the clink. He imagined that the county prosecutor was already writing the violation complaint. Hopefully he wouldn’t go to Oak Park, a level-five prison. Maybe he’d end up at Stillwater or Faribault. Or maybe they’d simply send him to the local lockup, here in Deep Haven.
They’d probably prefer to put him in stocks in the public square.
He took a sip of lemonade, the bitterness watered down by the melting ice, then motioned to the waitress for a refill.
The song ended and Jensen added his applause. One more song and he’d bug out, head home. Try not to think about Claire’s reaction to him at the hospital.
He couldn’t explain why he still dragged himself down here tonight to listen to her, why he still hung on to the faint hope that she might forgive him, be his friend.
Yes, he was a lonely, pitiful man.
The applause died as Emma stepped up to the mic again. “Thanks for coming out, everyone! We’re going to take a ten-minute break before the fireworks start, and then we’ll come back at you with another set—this time with a little Skynyrd.”
They received more applause as Jensen dug out his wallet. The night air smelled of campfire and celebration and he wanted to stay.
He put a ten on the table, sure that covered his drink and more. He was rising when—
“What are you doing here?”
He looked and saw Claire barreling off the stage toward him. Her voice carried in the air, although probably only he heard it, with the clatter of conversation on the deck and the music piped out over the radio. She wore a blue tank top, shorts, a long crocheted vest, and a pair of black flats and looked like she wanted to finish what she had started at the hospital.
He held up his hand. “I was just leaving.”
But that didn’t seem good enough. She came right up to him, put her hands on her hips. “Jensen, I swear. What’s going on? I see you at every single gig. Sitting in the back like some sort of stalker. Why?”
He hadn’t expected that. She saw him? Every time? Oh, he was a crazy, sorry lot because the tiniest spark lit inside him. He tried to swallow it away, but there it was, all warm despite the way she glowered at him.
“I . . . I like your music.” That sounded right, and he chased his words with a smile.
She narrowed her eyes.
He braced himself.
And then, to his horror, her eyes began to fill, her jaw clenching.
“Claire?”
“Leave me alone.” She stalked toward the steps to a grassy path that led down to the lake.
He knew her better than that, thank you. “Claire!”
She didn’t stop, but he didn’t expect her to. He ran after her, caught up. “What did I do?” Wait, that wasn’t the right question. He added, “This time.”
She brushed her hand across her face, quick, sharp, as if to wipe a tear. “It’s not you, Jensen. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
She shouldn’t have yelled—? “I . . . Well, you can yell at me anytime, Claire, if it helps.”
Oh, that sounded stupid. And martyrish. Maybe he should have left her alone.