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He exhales gustily and jerks his chin towards the sandpit, an enclosed area outside the bar that's open to the fresh air above but surrounded on all sides by buildings or a fence that doubles as an emergency exit. The locals love to sit by the fire pits and shoot the breeze before the tourists take over and make getting a spot in the sandpit next to impossible.

"Birthday party in the pit. They should be wrapping up soon, though."

"Anyone I might know?"

"Maybe. The twins—London and Frankie. Used to be Cohen. Not sure now, though."

I do know them. I grew up on the island, and I still remember the day Colonel Cohen moved his family of five girls to live here. It was the talk of the island for quite a while. That and their names since each of the girls were named after the place where the military couple had conceived them.

And London and Frankie? The couple didn't like the name Paris for a girl, so they'd gone with the country instead. Apparently that conception had included some R and R and a tour of both places, thus the names when the couple realized they were having twins. "Maybe a couple of mudslides on us to end the night?"

"Sounds good," Ty says. "I've got some orders to make. Can you handle things?"

"Yup," I say, setting about to make the drinks.

Ty disappears into his office, and I deliver the end-of-the-evening drinks to the birthday ladies, noting just how many people are scattered around the fire pits to celebrate the women who are now two of Carolina Cove's successful business owners.

Goals? I have them, too. Jas and I can do this. Be successful. But I have to hold up my part of things. Be a true partner and not just one on paper. Jas tells me not to worry so much about it and that our expansion will happen when it happens, but that's not good enough for me. Not when I'm the weak link and the one slowing our progress in a demanding market.

That feeling of being watched returns with a vengeance, and I visually sweep the pit, searching for the source. I don't see anyone out of the ordinary and blame my ongoing PTSD once again. Dave's in the kitchen. Jimmy is waiting tables on the far side of the room. And the regulars fill all the normal spaces between a few unknowns dressed like tourists, in that they're a little too dressy for the ultracasual bar.

I take a breath and shake my head at myself. That phone call from the prosecutor’s office definitely derailed the progress I've made, and I have to shut that spiral down before it gets worse. I can't let Thad control my life again. Can't let him get back inside my head.

I return to the main room and note that some of the Blackwater Saints have arrived. They're lining the bar, shoulder to broad shoulder, a few of them wearing leather cuts, mostly worn at public events, over thick sweatshirts to combat the February temps outside.

I grab their orders and get to work. The routine and steady pace eases some of the anxiety filling me when I have too much time to think, so I dive in with open arms to embrace the distractions.

The next hour or so flies by. Ty emerges from his office a time or two to lend a hand, then disappears when the business fades and the place empties some. The guys from the Blackwater Saints linger and shoot the breeze. As I clean tables and serve drinks I hear them discuss everything from the weather to the Tarheels to—closing? And…Sully?

And me.

In the same sentence.

I'm in the pit but on the edge, just around the corner from the table where the guys sit. I stay put and pretend I'm focused on the task of wiping down the dirtiest clean table ever.

"—eye out. Strangers…"

"Sully says MacGyver's checking…"

I suck in a breath because—seriously?

I come around the corner with a glare on the three in discussion, and my abruptness garners their full attention. Eyes widen beneath thick eyebrows, and someone murmurs a curse under their breath.

"What did you just say?" I demand.

It's almost funny the way the three of them lean back in their seats, palms lifting as though I'm the police and they're under arrest.

"Calm down, darlin'," the youngest of the three says.

I cock an eyebrow high, aware of the other two wincing comically.

"In for it now, idiot," one of them says.

"Never tell a woman to calm down," the second mutters before slurping his drink.

I edge closer, not stopping until the younger guy finally seems to realize he's stuck his boot in his mouth.

"I-I just meant⁠—"