“You are the angel of death. You know that, don’t you? I have never had so many terrible things happen to me in such a short space of time. Are you sure your last name isn’t Mengele?”

BJ folded her arms against her chest and leaned against the red Jaguar. She glared down at Hobie, who was kneeling on the ground.

“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s only a tire, and it wasn’t my fault,” Hobie snapped. She was hot, and having to justify her driving skills to BJ Warren was more than she could take. “It was a nail. I’m sorry, but these are just normal glasses. I forgot to wear my amazing vision glasses so I could see a roofing nail in the middle of the road.”

It dumbfounded Hobie that she had gone thirty-eight years without wishing grievous harm to anyone, but one hour with BJ Warren and Hobie wanted to throttle the woman. “I can’t believe you don’t know how to change a tire.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t know how. I simply said that I don’t change tires.”

Hobie paused long enough to glare at BJ. She didn’t understand what happened next. She certainly didn’t know why. Everything seemed to catch up to her at once. She tried to tell herself that she was hot and grumpy from changing the tire and that she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. She reasoned that the past twenty-four hours and running into BJ again—literally—had been a chaotic mixture of delight and irritation. No matter how Hobie tried to rationalize her next action, the simple fact was that she threw the tire iron to the ground and began to cry.

Almost instantaneously, BJ looked as though she’d been thrown into a tank full of sharks. An expression like panic settled on her face. “Wha—what are you doing?”

“I’m crying, okay? Is that all right with you?”

“No, it’s not all right...stop it,” BJ said softly. “Please. Come on, stop,” she pleaded.

“Why the hell do you care if I cry?”

“Because I don’t like it when women cry.” BJ inched forward, leaning on the car for support, then reached out and barely touched Hobie’s shoulder. “I especially don’t like it when I’m the one that’s responsible. Look, I know I can be...difficult.”

That declaration seemed to make all the difference to Hobie. A few tender words and her tears instantly quieted. She thought twice about what she had heard, thinking that maybe her ears had been playing tricks on her. The BJ Warren Hobie knew was not the kind of woman to apologize—to anyone. Hobie wiped her cheek with the back of one hand and looked up. She had never seen a more contrite expression.

“Okay,” BJ said. “I can be more than difficult. I can be a bitch some of the time. I know that. I really didn’t mean to make you cry, though.”

For Hobie, in that instant, BJ Warren became human. She could be bitchy, annoying, and selfish, but she had displayed her own human frailty. There was also her awareness of her own actions. For the first time since she’d met BJ, Hobie wondered if BJ’s behavior wasn’t masking her own insecurities. “Thanks. That helps more than you know.”

“So you’re done now? I mean, you’re okay?” BJ asked, although she couldn’t make herself look at Hobie.

“Yeah.” Hobie wiped her eyes with a tissue from her pocket. “I’m done.” She picked up the tire iron once more and tightened the last nut. She stood and replaced the tools in the car’s trunk. “Don’t worry. It’s probably just PMS. I’m about two days from my period.”

“Okay, TMI, TMI.” “Huh?”

“Too much information. I mean, I’m sorry and all, but I don’t want to know any more than that.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know you had such a weak constitution.”

Hobie smiled weakly and BJ breathed a sigh of relief. “Are we ready then?”

Hobie nodded. She was a little more than embarrassed at her sudden and unexpected tears, but she was also stunned at BJ’s reaction. BJ had gone from arrogant to groveling in a matter of seconds. So tears are your kryptonite, eh? You are so lucky I’m not manipulative. She smiled to herself as she realized that someday, someone would come along and capitalize on BJ’s secret weakness.

“I wish you would have let me call the auto club to change that,” BJ said as they got into the car.

“Are you kidding? And have Bubba from the mainland go back and tell all his buddies that he had to change a tire for some helpless woman on Ana Lia? Come on, when you’re healthy, you do this kind of stuff, right?”

“What kind of stuff?”

“This—change a tire, the oil, an occasional headlight.” “Are you insane?”

“Thank you.”

“Sorry,” BJ mumbled. “I just meant that, well, I live in the city, born and raised. Most of the time, I don’t even drive my car. I take a cab or the train unless I’m leaving the city.”

“Seriously?” The admission surprised Hobie.

“Hey, I’m still pissed that they did away with full-service gas stations. I barely know how to unlock the cap to get gas in the thing. I do hope this will remain confidential, however.”

“The fact that you’re a total cherry when it comes to cars will go with me to the grave.”

Hobie’s wide grin was the only sign BJ needed to see that Hobie felt better. “Very funny. Just drive, Doc.”

They agreed that food should be their next priority. Three minutes later, Hobie pulled the Jag into the parking lot beside the diner.

“I didn’t realize it was so close,” BJ said as she carefully extracted her long limbs from the vehicle.

“Yeah, once you get your sea legs under you, so to speak, you could probably walk into town.”

“Gee, I’m counting the days.”

Hobie decided she would ignore BJ’s digs. Her philosophy was that perhaps, like a schoolyard bully, BJ Warren would eventually tire of tossing her underhanded comments if they no longer received the desired response.

BJ took in the sight of the wooden building with its white-trimmed balcony. She had expected cheap neon with a few sections of the light burned out. Instead, a brightly painted wooden sign on a pole by the street declared the structure to be “Rebecca’s Cove, the Golden Key of the Gulf.” She’d seen those types of slogans on restaurants in tourist areas around Florida but never thought twice about them since they usually only meant anything to the owners or the founders of the establishments. She wondered about this one. Perfectly manicured sago palms and yucca plants surrounded what looked to have once been a two-story home. Two massive palm trees shaded the sidewalk to the door.

Just as they were about to enter the restaurant, an older man stepped in front of BJ.

“Hey, can we say ‘personal space,’ bud?” she asked.

“Did you see the game last night?” he asked. He looked to be in his late seventies. His hair was white under his blue-and-gold baseball cap. He wore slacks and a windbreaker, which BJ thought odd considering the heat.

“What the hell—” she said in surprise. “Didn’t ya see the game?” he repeated.

“Yes, Coach Cassidy, we were there,” Hobie stepped in to say.

“Ah, good...good.” The old man looked BJ up and down. “Injured it during the game, eh?” He indicated her leg.

BJ looked to Hobie for help. “Yes, Coach,” Hobie said. “It was last night’s game.” She gave a pleading look to BJ, hoping her expression conveyed the idea that BJ should go along with their charade.

“What position?” he asked BJ. “Huh?”

“Position! Football! What are ya, deaf? What position do ya play?”

“Um...middle linebacker?” BJ said weakly.

“Ha! Ya certainly got the build for it.” The old man slapped BJ’s arm and BJ arched an indignant eyebrow. Hobie had to cover her mouth with one hand to hide her smile.

“Hobie Lynn, right?” The old man turned his attention to the redhead.

“Right, Coach.” “You a cheerleader?”

“No, sir, marching band.”

“Ah. Good, good. Well, carry on.” “Thank you, Coach.”

“What the hell was that all about?” BJ asked as they watched the man walk away.

“That was Walter Cassidy. He went a little off the deep end a number of years back after his wife died. He was the football coach when I was in high school. His family has always been a big deal on Ana Lia.”

“A big deal as in the places we passed on the way here, like Cassidy High, Cassidy Football Field, Cassidy Library?”

“Exactly.”

“The guy’s a nut. Why don’t they have him locked up somewhere?”

“Because when you’re rich, you’re not a nut, you’re eccentric. Actually, he’s harmless enough, just a little detached from reality is all.”

“Alittle detached? I can’t believe you people just let him walk the streets like he’s...normal.”

Hobie paused and looked at BJ with a guarded smile. “I don’t know. I’m beginning to believe that ‘normal’is a subjective term.”

Before BJ could respond, Hobie held the door open to allow BJ to enter first. “After you,” she said. “One of those tables in the back should be the easiest for you to sit at.”

BJ felt like a goldfish in a glass bowl. It was as if all action in the diner had come to a standstill when they entered. BJ couldn’t help herself. She stopped walking about halfway to their table and stared back at the patrons.

“What are you doing?” Hobie asked.

“Letting them get a good, long look,” BJ said loudly enough for those seated around them to hear.

Dozens of embarrassed faces snapped back to their own plates, and conversation once again filled the diner.

“You enjoy doing that, don’t you?” Hobie asked. “Doing what?”

“Calling attention to yourself,” Hobie said as they sat down. “It’s the only way to stay ahead of the crowd. Besides, I don’t like people looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.”