Letting Go (An Echo Bay Romance Book 2)

  Letting Go

  An Echo Bay Inn Romance

  by

  Rebecca Ryan

  Copyright @ 2020 Rebecca A. Moreán

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact at www.rebeccaryanbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: SteamyDesigns

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  COMING NEXT. . .

  THANK YOU!

  Acknowledgments

  For all those who are a little lost and a little scared

  they don’t deserve love

  Chapter One

  Chloe

  The very first town crossing from Ohio into West Virginia, is Bethlehem. I always took it as a sign. Until I let that go—the whole idea of signs, and I returned to Maine.

  At six-thirty, I'm prepping in the kitchen, up since four getting croissants ready to bake, making sure the goat's milk yogurt set, chopping cilantro and tomatillos for salsa. It's what our mother did when we five were kids. It's what I do now.

  What I should have been doing all along.

  But I didn't.

  I disappeared for nearly a decade.

  "Hey, these look great," says my younger sister, Claire, glancing at the tray of warm, golden croissants.

  "Man, don't mind if I do," says Finn Colton coming up behind her, slipping an arm around her waist. Even in wetsuits they look adorable together. Like they were just meant to be. They swim together every morning, out in the cold, mid-coast Maine Atlantic. Now she's going to dry off and prep for surgery at her vet clinic next door and he's probably going to work out in the gym and then plant himself upstairs in the office. Finn manages the front, sort-of, and I manage the kitchen—and more. When I say sort-of, it's because that office upstairs is for security consulting services, not hospitality.

  "Help yourself," I say and smile. This smile feels stiff, however, even to me. He grins and grabs one, but Claire senses the barrier. When she turns around to leave, without taking a croissant, I just feel empty.

  "Bye," I offer to her back, but I don't think she hears me.

  Finn, her boyfriend, owner of the Echo Bay Inn, is my boss. He's kind of my savior but in a real way, not some religious way. When I returned, he needed someone in the kitchen to help reopen The Inn at Echo Bay, our old home, and I showed up.

  Our mother's recipe book is one of two things I took when I left. Now it sits on the kitchen counter, next to the landline phone by the entryway to the back hall.

  I stare out at the garden flanking the hillside down to the water. As the late summer fog lifts, lobster boats head out with seagulls swirling above, their cries thin and piercing. Dinghies shift slightly along the peer, tethered close. Cranking open the little window above the sink, the heavy dew smells of ripe salt and sea marsh.

  I'd almost forgotten that smell.

  Tears begin to prick and I wipe my eyes quickly. The last thing I want Claire to see, is me dissolving. She's just a year younger, fourteen months to be exact, but she's been the acting older sister for a long, long time.

  I forced her into that position. When I left, she had to take care of the other three and herself. Eight years later, they all just let me return because they're nice. Though they haven’t said it, they all act like they've forgiven me, but there's been no discussion.

  I don't know if I can forgive myself. I wreaked so much damage on a damaged family.

  Suddenly, set against the gray of fog, comes Bryce Tucker and I wipe my eyes again and hold my breath.

  He's walking up from helping one of the older lobstermen, Brighty, untangle gear and bait traps, and he's hiking toward The Inn along the little shore path with sure strides.

  There's a sudden sensation in my groin, deep in my sex just watching Bryce come up the path, cutting a dark, brooding figure, windbreaker hood up, those brown eyes, the color of caramel, flashing underneath.

  The back screen door slams and I hear him shuck his boots and hang up the jacket on the peg rack.

  He swings into the kitchen wearing faded jeans, a slightly holey, light green mock turtleneck sweater, all conspiring to try to hide his body and failing. The guy is tall, well over six feet, and built. His thighs are hard as rocks. I know because I danced with him a month and a half ago, at Claire's birthday party.

  We haven’t really spoken much since.

  When he sees me, he stops and does a kind of double-take, and with a hand on the doorjamb and his face in profile, he asks. "So, where's Finn?"

  I gesture at the tray. "You can have one. Go ahead."

  Frowning, he avoids both my eyes and the croissants. I don’t know which is worse, his or Claire's refusal to eat my baked offerings.

  He just glances at me and I feel like an idiot. He's so quiet, so in control all the time and I feel like I'm always just blathering at him.

  "They came in from their swim a few minutes ago." Cracking eggs into a bowl is very satisfying right now.

  "Okay then," he says, tapping the doorjamb with an index finger and then he turns, disappearing into the library.

  I exhale after he leaves, noting the space where he stood. I don't like how empty that space feels right now. I also don’t like how I feel right now.

  Agitated, alone, hopeless.

  These are all the feelings that took me away from my family.

  I need to be very, very careful around Bryce Tucker.

  Chapter Two

  Bryce

  I haven't read a book in a year. Books are Finn's thing. So why I seek out the library every time that girl talks to me, is a mystery. I stand there, surrounded by books and wide, white framed windows, green potted floor plants, my heart pounding, trying to regain my composure.

  I remember how good she felt at Claire's party, her body long and lithe, moving to the music, her mane of coffee-colored hair streaming behind her. When she was out of breath with a sheen of sweat on her skin, she wadded her hair into a bun to keep it off her neck. I remember how her hand felt on my shoulder. How fragile her smile was. How her blue eyes veiled some devastating pain. How I wanted to kiss her, feel her, hold her.

  How I didn't do any of those things.

  But that was one night. One fun day of a family coming together. Now, she's retreated into some part of herself, where everyone's excluded, and she and I only exchange niceties.

  And yet every single time I see her, I just want to ravage her. She's got to be five-ten and with her stature comes a kind of easy, loose
, grace that's breathtaking. But there's an element to her that's broken, and I have learned to stay away from broken women. In the end, they eat you up. I have to keep telling myself this.

  I hear Finn coming up from the basement. It's where he's built a gym. When there's a sock on the door, we're not allowed in. That’s when he and Claire are "working out" together. I don’t ask.

  "Did you get that text from Nic?" he asks, rounding the corner. I'm two inches taller, at six-four and an ex-Seal, so I intimidate most guys. But not Finn. He throws a towel at me. He's trim, sweating, and a little out of breath. All he's wearing are shorts and shoes. "A business exec needs private security at a convention in Portland. You and Jackson are tag teaming."

  I grin. "So you get Harrison Ford and I get some tech guy?"

  "Hey, I'm just the part-timer," he says.

  Part-time, my ass. He's also the co-owner of Colton Security Systems along with his old college buddy, Nic Silvano.

  I shake my head. "That makes no sense. Full-timers should get the choice work."

  There's movement behind him and my heart skips a beat because it's registering it's Chloe before my brain does. She's on her way to the large dining room with Bunsen burners and heating trays. I catch a glimpse of her as she hurries, trying hard not to be seen.

  But our gaze meets for a second as she flashes by the doorway.

  She is clearly giving me all the signals she is not interested. When a woman wants you, she makes eye contact and holds it. I know.

  None of this escapes Finn, who's ex-intelligence and can read micro-expressions in a second. He watches her for a moment and then shakes his head and levels those gray-green eyes at me.

  He lowers his voice. "Watch it when it comes to her."

  The front door opens, so someone's up and I wonder about the guests upstairs, if they're hearing all this. But it's still before seven in the morning. It's got to be another Russo.

  Devon Russo comes in, still in her firefighter gear minus the helmet, her blue-black straight hair in a tight bun. She's tiny compared to her sisters, petite but wily. I've watched her at a barn razing. Tough. As. Nails. There's a smear of dirt on her chin.

  "Claire texted and said there's—"

  Finn points to the kitchen.

  "Thanks," she says and she, too, disappears in her own quest for a croissant.

  Finn turns back to me in business mode again. "Raymond Clifton is a motivational speaker, and—"

  "Wait, wait. You mean that guy who walks on coals with his suit pants rolled up?" I don’t wait for a response. "Shit. Really? You're killing me."

  "There have been some threats made, and Nic has determined they're serious enough to attach detail." He reaches for the towel and I toss it back.

  "Why? People think painting their basement window with green slime to make them feel better might be a little snake oily? That it doesn’t work."

  Finn's face darkens. "He's made some public enemies. I emailed you his file."

  "I bet he's made enemies."

  Finn waves me over to the staircase and juts his jaw upstairs. "There's something else."

  I follow him up to his home office. It looks just like what it is: a converted master bedroom in a two hundred-year-old captain's house that overlooks the water, with five computers set up along the wall, each flickering. On the righthand side is a double-screen workstation and a ceiling drop screen and, to the left, a beautiful view of Rock Island and four other uninhabited islands just offshore.

  As we settle in the office, he slips on a T-shirt and runs a hand through his curling hair.

  Turning to the computer monitor, he boots up, leans over the desk, and scrolls on the touch screen with an index finger.

  He stops on the picture of a ruggedly handsome, bleach-blond guy with bright blue eyes sporting a two-day stubble. His hair, cropped short and twisted into cowlicks, looked strategically gel-messy.

  "Who's this guy?" I'm not one to hold back. "He looks like a tool."

  Finn closes the door.

  "He's the leader of a religious cult in West Virginia. The Everlast."

  West Virginia. Something stirs in my memory.

  "He calls himself 'The Seer,' and his groupies consider him to be the voice of God—nobody knows who he really is."

  I stare at him. "So it’s a real cult."

  Nodding, he goes on, "His followers are called 'The Seekers.'" He pauses. "Raymond Clifton confirms the threat came from their compound."

  "How does he know for sure?"

  "He had the head of his IT run diagnostics and follow IP addresses. It checks out." Finn shakes his head.

  "Do they fit the proverbial model? No kids, no sex, but this guy gets to live with a houseful of women and girls?"

  Finn nods. "That's about right."

  "What's their connection?"

  "Unclear. The tirade of emails from the compound claim Raymond Clifton is a fake." Finn rubs his face and sighs. "I have my suspicions, but the cult leader or someone in his upper hierarchy thinks Raymond Clifton is a false prophet."

  "All righty." I turn to go and have a second thought. "Raymond Clifton is in the big league. He doesn’t have his own detail?"

  Finn's forehead furrows and he shakes his head. "Yeah. That part doesn’t make sense. When I asked him about his own personal security, he shrugged off the question."

  I sigh. "When is Jackson picking him up?"

  "He'll be in Portland tomorrow morning. You and Jackson will escort him from the airport to the hotel. Jackson'll text you the details."

  "Got it."

  "And one more thing." Reaching behind him he lowers the window sash and then his voice. "Getting back to Chloe. Watch it, okay? She's Claire's sister and things are tense enough without you stirring things up."

  "I don’t stir things up."

  "Oh, you stir. Just be careful."

  "I'm always careful," I say.

  "Listen," Finn says, "I know you think that for some weird, territorial reason I don't want you seeing Chloe. I don’t care. You're a grown-ass man. You do what you want."

  I shake my head. "Man, I don't know where this is coming from, but I'm not going to jeopardize our relationship, my working relationship with you, or your relationship with Claire by trying to see Chloe."

  "That's what I'm saying. You misunderstand. You just need to keep," now he slams down the second sash, "an eye on her."

  This is not where I thought the conversation was going.

  "What's going on?"

  Folding his arms, he leans against his desk. "That’s just it, I don’t know. But stay close." He shakes his head as if grappling with something. "You know? Forget it. Never mind. You've got the Raymond Clifton detail."

  If there's one thing I've learned about Finn, you don't let him second guess himself. The guy is eerily right about gut instincts. His own and others.

  "Finn. What were you going to say?"

  Finn presses his hands down on the oak tabletop, glances at the floor and then looks up at me. His face registers nothing but concern and then he makes a decision. He's going to read me into whatever those gut feelings are telling him.

  "Okay. Something's not right with her. When she first started working for me, she made a hard deal. No paperwork, no taxes, no paper trail. She didn't want to do any of it."

  I start to object. Finn is all business; he knows the law and there's no way in hell he'd agree to pay anyone under the table.

  Holding up a finger he cuts me off: "I know. I know. But I wanted Claire to have some peace with Chloe coming back, so I agreed. She explained she pays her taxes, when she makes enough to pay them." He pauses and folds his arms across his chest. "She was clear. That was the deal. But I've been reading her ever since. She's scared. Terrified of someone or something. And her behavior is erratic."

  "That doesn’t make any sense."

  "I know it's hard, but she's still in hiding. Her behavior is textbook. Someone is after her."

  "Why?"

  "I d
on’t know." He runs a hand through his hair. "Chloe's definitely laying low. You know how it's done. She doesn’t do anything at the same time. She's learned somewhere to vary her routine so there's no routine. Her days off are always different. I think she wants it that way so she's harder to track."

  "Doesn’t prove anything."

  His glance at me is dark. "Noting she does is on a regular schedule. Not errands, not her days off. She never leaves the inn at the same time. Listen to me. Everything she does is so organized, so efficient. It doesn’t fit."

  Finn pauses, sighs, and starts in with more examples.

  "Two days ago, I helped her carry in a load of groceries. I found a little book on her seat. It was open and the detective in me couldn't help but take a look. I didn't talk to Claire about this, but Chloe had her whole schedule carefully mapped out for the next month, about where she was going to be and at what time, and none of her daily routines were the same. She doesn't use credit cards, pays for things only in cash. I'm telling you, she's trying hard not to be tracked."

  A gnawing ache starts deep in my stomach.

  He just keeps talking. "Whenever we go out together she always pays in cash—even little stuff. Like last week, we went for ice cream. The three of us. We wanted to treat her and she was like nope I got it, I got it, but it was cash."

  "The Inn?"

  He raises an eyebrow. "For that, she uses the business card in my name. It's her personal stuff that's all cash. I pay her in cash and I know she doesn’t have a bank account." He pauses again. "Bryce, Chloe is literally off the map. She even has a PO box in Portland, not here, where she could walk to it."

  "She drives to Portland for mail?"

  He shakes his head. "I convinced her to forward it here for a while. But I'm telling you, something's up with her."

  "She's not histrionic or hysterical."

  "No. And she did agree to do an interview with Thomaston High about being a chef." He paused again. "But you know, I had to push Chloe to do it, and then she made the girl promise the interview would only be in print. At the school—no online version."