The Golden Hour Read online

  The Golden Hour

  L.M. Halloran

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by L.M. Halloran

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1688295018

  Cover photography from Shutterstock.com

  Editing by Lawrence Editing

  Proofreading by Judy’s Proofreading

  lmhalloran.com

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  PERFECT VISION

  Acknowledgments

  ★ Stay Connected ★

  Also by L.M. Halloran

  About the Author

  For all the fierce women raising fierce daughters.

  Soundtrack

  “Gemini Feed”—BANKS

  “Young & Unafraid”—The Moth and the Flame

  “Critical Mistakes”—888

  “lovely”—Billie Eilish

  “I Don’t Give A…”—MISSIO

  “Be Your Love”—Bishop Briggs

  “Love is a Bitch”—Two Feet

  “Beautiful Wreck”—MØ

  and more…

  Listen on Spotify

  Preface

  The first time I saw her was in a crowded courtroom on the last day of her father's trial. She wore a frilly white dress and had a ridiculous pink bow perched on the side of her head. Granted, she was maybe five years old and didn't pick out her own clothes for the occasion.

  She sat next to her stepmother in the first row behind the defense, her face pale and expressionless, her eyes huge and glassy.

  She looked drugged, which I later realized might have been the case. What five-year-old chooses to sit still while a judge lists their father’s crimes and sentences them to life without parole? A doctor probably gave her something. Or her stepmother, who had the same dreamy, detached look as the little girl.

  That’s what she was—little. Tiny. Doll-like with her dark hair, porcelain skin, and huge eyes.

  They sat motionless, the two of them, holding hands as the sentence was read and the courtroom erupted around them.

  I erupted too. With fierce cries that issued straight from my eleven-year-old broken heart. Justice was done. The man who murdered my father—who the media once hailed as untouchable—was going to jail for the rest of his life.

  It was a good day for my family.

  Not a happy one—those were gone—but a good one.

  Three years later, I saw her face again on the news. One of her uncles had just been gunned down outside one of his restaurants, and paparazzi staked out the elite private school she was attending, waiting for her to emerge.

  The clip was short—a few seconds as she was ushered outside by bodyguards and whisked away—and her face was only visible for a moment. Startled, tearful eyes. Pale white hands gripping the strap of her backpack. Somehow regal despite the circumstances.

  The perfect picture of a helpless victim of ongoing violence and tragedy.

  A tarnished princess.

  I turned off the television before I could feel any sympathy for her.

  None of what happened was her fault, obviously. But she was still the daughter of the man who destroyed my family.

  I didn’t see Callisto Avellino again for eighteen years. When I did, I nearly made the biggest mistake of my life.

  1

  “No one moves to the Oregon coast to make something of their life.”

  “Mmm,” I hum noncommittally, not looking up as I continue wiping the bar top with smooth, circular strokes.

  Old Freddy takes a noisy sip of his beer, then wipes his upper lip with his sleeve. I focus on a smudge, well aware that he’s just warming up. It’s the second Wednesday of the month, after all, which means Fred’s social security check came today. He’ll spend the next six hours slowly drinking his weight in beer, eating onion rings and bar nuts, and some well-meaning person will drive him home. Until next month.

  Sure enough, after a muted belch, he continues, “If you’re born here, you leave, and if you come here, you’re either vacationing or running from something. Ain’t that right, Mol?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Molly’s eyes rolling upward and compress my lips to stifle a smile. She was born here fifty-some years ago, never left, and owns the town’s only bar, motel, and restaurant.

  “Sure thing, Fred,” she chirps, barely glancing at him from her stool where she’s reviewing the books.

  “What about you, girlie?” asks Fred, his rheumy eyes squinting at me. “Don’t think you’ve told me what brought you to Solstice Bay.”

  Even though Fred is harmless, the space between my shoulder blades tightens.

  “Mind your business,” Molly chirps, her sharp eyes piercing Fred from above her bifocals.

  I throw her a grateful look, then clear my throat for the standard answer. “I’m here because I love it. There’s no story.”

  His squint grows pronounced, stubby eyelashes almost swallowed by wrinkled lids. “Sure, it’s a pretty place for the rich to spend some money, but a young, single woman such as yourself? Nothin’ for ya here, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Maybe life is about more than climbing some imaginary mountain of success,” I reply, more to hear myself say it than out of a need to convince anyone.

  Isn’t that why I’m here? To find out what life is all about?

  This is the time of day when Fred gets melancholy. Normally it doesn’t bother me, but I’m off-kilter from reading the day’s headlines on my phone before my shift.

  I look questioningly at Molly. At her discreet nod, I grab Fred’s empty glass and draw him another pint, then slide it back over the bar. His grumbled thanks is lost in the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  The raucous group of men veers away from the restaurant and toward us, the bar-side of the building, peeling off jackets and beanies as they walk. Regulars, they bring with them loud chatter and the fresh tang of the sea… and the not-so-fresh tang of fish. I’m still glad to see them, because they’re the heralds of the evening crowd. From here on out, I won’t have time to think about anything bu
t work.

  Sure enough, as soon as I’ve filled their drink orders, the front door opens again. More men enter, this time carrying the scent of the only other industry in town: lumber.

  Pinned between a dense forest and a turbulent Pacific, Solstice Bay is a town of under five hundred people, most of them over forty. For eight months of the year, the weather is just shy of miserable. Cold. Rainy.

  And the location?

  The definition of remote, and the perfect place to hide for the rest of my life.

  An hour before closing, the crowd finally thins. The only group left is the fishermen, celebrating a large haul of coho salmon. I know exactly nothing about different types of salmon, and my experience with fish is limited to ordering sushi. But the men don’t require me to understand, only to act excited for them and keep their pitchers full.

  Back at the bar, I pause to stretch my aching back before starting the closing routine. Come spring and summer, I’ll have help, but the winter months are by necessity run lean and mean. It’s the only way for us to stay open long enough for the tourist season to breathe vitality back into an economy on life-support.

  I’m loading up a bin with used glasses for the morning kitchen staff when the front door opens with a groan of damp wood and a blast of frigid air. The cold hits my bare neck and I shiver as I turn to see who’s come in, praying it’s an earlier customer who forgot something.

  It’s not.

  My initial flare of irritation—I was hoping to shut down a bit early—morphs to curiosity as the newcomer drags down the hood of his coat.

  Men aren’t supposed to have mouths like that.

  Not the most dignified thought, but impossible to avoid. This man doesn’t belong here. He’s too chiseled. Otherworldly. He belongs on the covers of magazines, not in a backwater bar in the middle of nowhere, Oregon.

  He scans the dim barroom, bright blue eyes watchful and slightly haughty. Those remarkable eyes meet mine briefly, flit away, then snap back to my face. Now they reflect surprise.

  I don’t look like I belong here any more than he does. I’ve certainly been told it enough in the year I’ve been here.

  Frozen, I’m stuck in a movie of my life as he walks toward me, eye contact an electric thread between us. Not until he settles on the barstool directly in front of me do I blink and slam back to reality. His scent teases my nose. Something warm and tingly. Like a hug—preferably the naked kind. I glance at his hands. Strong and sinewy. Then his shoulders, broad and muscled beneath a soft flannel.

  “W-what can I get you?”

  Smooth.

  “Whiskey neat,” he says in a rich, melting baritone. A slow smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”

  The casual acknowledgment of our staring contest zings through my body. I haven’t been looked at the way he’s looking at me in a long time—not counting the handful of lecherous old men in town.

  I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be seen.

  “No,” I finally answer. “Do I?”

  His smirk blooms into a smile that makes me dizzy.

  “Nothing but glasses.” His eyes flicker to my mouth and back up. “Can I get that drink?”

  Heat sizzles in my cheeks. “Yes, sorry.”

  It’s a relief to turn my back to him and reach for a bottle on the top shelf—Single Malt Balvenie—because I know he’ll appreciate it. Going by the watch on his wrist, he can easily afford it.

  I pour the drink and slide it to him. Before I can retract my fingers, he covers them with his own.

  My breath hitches. My stomach drops. My fingers linger, frozen in space, after he pulls the glass away. Mortified, I tuck my hands quickly in my half apron.

  He takes a sip. Sighs. Licks his lips. He must know his every movement drips suggestion. Men like this don’t have to work for sex. Willing partners flock to them, hoping for permission to touch and be touched, already shaping their hearts into arrows and lobbing them one after the other, praying one lands.

  The thought is a shock, instantly dousing my newly woken libido.

  “Thanks,” he says, eyelashes fluttering as his gaze returns to me.

  I nod, stiff now, my body cold from the swift fleeing of desire. “You’re welcome. We close in a half hour. Let me know if you’d like another.”

  I turn to make my escape.

  “What’s your name?” he asks behind me.

  “Grace,” I lie effortlessly and keep walking.

  I’m not quite five steps away when he murmurs the name I’ve given him. It lands against my back like a feather, soft and drifting. A touch imploring.

  Then it bounces away.

  2

  I watch the bartender stroll away from me, petite hips in an understated swing, her dark braid swinging against her back. When I walked in here, I was expecting the atmosphere of a dive and all that came with it, including a surly bartender named Mo or some close variation.

  Instead, I found Nerdy Snow White in a surprisingly modern space that could go toe-to-toe with any big-city establishment.

  I’ll admit I was taken aback by the sight of her, slow to recover. When her rosy lips parted on a gasp, and I realized she was equally shocked by me, my head went straight to that plush mouth swallowing my cock. A forceful reminder that it’s been weeks since I’ve sunk into a woman’s heat and felt respite from my demons.

  The little bartender doesn’t know she’s the first woman I’ve found appealing in months. Maybe longer. The first to make me forget, even for a few seconds, what brought me to Solstice Bay.

  The Balvenie glides down my throat, coating it with heat. I roll my shoulders up and back, willing them to let go of the tension they’ve carried for nearly forty-eight hours of travel. It’s no use. My muscles scream for a massage and rest. My entire body is coiled like a spring, my foot tapping incessantly on the rail beneath the bar.

  “Kitchen’s closed, but we have some mixed nuts if you’re hungry.”

  Her voice, a unique cross between melodic and raspy, wraps around my chest like a band. Something like relief sits in my throat—she ran away from me like a startled doe, but she came back. I’m hoping she couldn’t help it. That she feels this chemistry like I do.

  I take my time looking up, framing her in pieces before appreciating the whole. Delicate fingers with short, unpainted nails. Small wrists and arms encased in a long-sleeved black shirt. Narrow shoulders—high and tight like she’ll run again any second—and a slender throat that swallows as my gaze touches it. Her jaw is tight with tension, the line sharp, almost feline. Two spots of color sit on her cheeks, highlighting cheekbones people pay money for. Dark, sloping brows. Straight nose with a slight point.

  I save the best for last. Her eyes. Irises of starless black, or a deep brown only full sun would reveal, and tilted up just slightly at the edges. The thin black frame of her glasses enhances rather than detracts from her allure.

  My fingers clench around the tumbler, bereft without a camera. Another first in a while—the desire to photograph something. Or rather, someone.

  And her skin… I close my eyes, imagining that pale canvas red from my hands. Captured on film. Glowing against crimson silk.

  “Are you… feeling okay?”

  The soft question opens my eyes, taking my focus away from my stiffening cock. I’m being a lecherous asshole. And rude. My mom and sisters would box my ears if they knew what I was thinking, a thought that nearly cripples me—I shove it into a metal box and slam the lid closed.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve been on planes or in airports for two days. Severe jet lag. Ignore me.”

  Don’t ignore me. Let me mark you with my teeth and fuck you so hard you see God.

  I shift on the stool in an attempt to discreetly adjust my erection. This woman is turning me into a teenager. Months of stress and worry have rendered me incapable of self-control.

  Leaning back on the barstool, I rub my face roughly with my hands. When was
the last time I ate?

  “I need to sleep,” I say, only partly for her benefit.

  “Why don’t you?”

  Her voice comes from directly before me. Curious, but also hesitant, like she doesn’t want to talk to me but can’t help herself.

  She might be the answer to my unvoiced prayers.

  “I’m avoiding responsibility,” I tell her, a bit surprised by the truth coming out of my mouth.

  Dark, limitless eyes flicker over my face. “Family?” she guesses.

  With a wry smile, I nod. “What else?”

  “Do they live here?” she asks, then blushes. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

  “A few of them,” I answer, then tilt my head. “Isn’t it in your job description? To chat with customers so they stay longer and spend more money?”

  She looks down with a small, stilted laugh. “Then I’m not a very good bartender. I don’t normally make small talk. I’m not good at it.”

  “You’re doing fine right now,” I tell her, mostly to see if I can make her blush again. Pride swells my chest when her cheeks darken.

  When was the last time I made a woman blush? Or even tried to seduce someone?