Thief (A Bad Boy Romance)(2)

Holy shit. I’m going to Ireland. I’m leaving Shelter Harbor.

“What about-” I look at the front door of the hospital. She’s still crying inside, rocking in her older sister Stella’s arms.

“You stick ‘round, you’re going to jail for a very long time my friend.”

“I didn’t shoot that guard,” I say quietly, still staring straight ahead through the rain at the one good thing in this world that I’ve ever known.

“Don’t matter. Leave town, go to Dublin, and we’ll put those talents of yours to good use until this dies down.”

“When.”

“Tonight.”

My head jerks around, my jaw dropping.

“There’s a ship of mine leaving from the Dorchester docks down in Boston in about five hours.” He cracks the window an inch and flicks his cigarette out.

“You gotta go now. I’ll get one of my guys to drive you.”

I turn back, my heart shattering in my chest as I lock eyes on her - the only thing that’s ever mattered.

The thing I’m about to walk away from.

“But what about-”

“Forget her, forget that family.”

Declan turns the truck on.

“Believe me kid, they’re already forgetting you.”





Chapter One





Ivy




The boat rocks with the motion of the waves, heaving slightly in the current as we motor around the breakers at the mouth of the harbor.

I smile as I breathe in the sea air - the smell of salt brine and the cool edge of the Atlantic breezing across the bow of the ferry where I stand. You don’t get this kind air in New York City, which is fine in a way, because there’s a reason I left all this years ago.

There’s a reason I left Shelter Harbor.

I take another big lungful of New England air as I crack open the little nip of vodka I picked up at Logan International. I dump it into the tiny plastic cup of ice I got from the booze-free snack bar below deck and bring it to my lips, regardless of the late-morning hour.

Sometimes going home requires a little fortification.

I turn at movement, seeing the grizzled ferry captain grinning at me from the wheelhouse next to me. He adjusts the Red Sox cap on his head, scratching his silvered hair as he raises an eyebrow at the little bottle in my hand.

“I’m on vacation,” I lie, smiling.

“No judgment here, sweethawt,” he says, the thick, familiar Boston accent of home washing over me as he chuckles. “If I weren’t on the clock, I’d join ya.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” I mutter as he turns back to the wheel, taking another quick sip. We’re almost there.

“Are we there yet?”

Ainsley looks green as she comes up from below deck, her mouth a thin white line as she grips the railing tightly.

I raise the second little nip out of my shoulder bag at my assistant, which brings on a whole new color of chartreuse to her face as she quickly shakes her head.

“God, no.” She swallows queasily. “Remind me why we couldn’t take the train, or drive in like normal people?”

“Because this is way more fun.”

The boat crests another small wave, and Ainsley almost loses it.

“Thanks for coming, by the way.”

“I mean, its my job, Ivy.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, yeah, but coming back here is always….” I wave my hand distractedly.

I’m home for a week this visit, which is about three times longer than I’m ever home. And it’s not that I don’t like coming back here - I do, and I love my family - it’s just that I left the small town and all the baggage that came with it years ago. College in New York City, the fashion blog I’d started sophomore year took off, and then the age of Instagram launched me into the face of lifestyle and “fitspiration” that I am today.

“What’s our shoot schedule look like, by the way?”

It’s the other reason I’m home, aside from my dad’s dedication ceremony. All those Instagram stars with half a million followers who are always telling you about their favorite new cotton t-shirt, or sunscreen, or brand of sneaker?

Yeah, we get paid for that. And when Lori, my management liaison heard I was coming back to Shelter Harbor, she opted to turn my three-day visit into a week long “product exposure and brand expansion” business trip.

This really is what I do for work.

Ainsley pales. “There is no way I can look at my phone right now,” she croaks out.

I wink at her. “Yeah, but I’m sure you’ve got it all in your head. That’s why you’re the best assistant ever.”

She grins wryly. “Nike and Under Armour want ‘active’ shoots by the beach, so we could do those whenever. Bliss wants the new skin line on display somewhere ‘shady but quaint’, as they put it.” She frowns. “I guess like, a picnic table by the water or something would work.”