He's not broke. She's not fooled. Let the games begin.

Maisie Pickett's life is going great—if you count potential sabotage, a struggling bike business, and a not-so-charming stranger who's definitely too good to be true.

When Griff—just Griff—arrives on Michigan's Mackinac Island, where cars are a no-go and horses have the right of way, Maisie knows three things: (1) He's ridiculously hot. (2) He's clearly rich. (3) He's definitely trouble.

Fast-forward one day, and the rich jerkwad shows up at her struggling bike shop, offering to work for nearly nothing. He can't mean it. He surely won't last. But she's desperate, and he's...available. Or so he says. Hey, it's only for a month. What's the worst that could happen?

Between nosy locals, colorful customers, and an ex-boyfriend who can't take a hint, Maisie's hands are full—and Griff is becoming a bigger distraction by the day.

He says he's broke. He says he's harmless. He says a lot of things. Maisie knows better than to believe him – a good thing, considering he's not exactly telling the truth.

Sparks fly, secrets unravel, and small-town mayhem reigns in this steamy romantic comedy set on an island where wheels are welcome, engines are not, and love always finds a way.

Sneak Peek

Chapter 1

Tall, Dark, and Difficult

Maisie

A gruff male voice cut through the crowd. "I'm telling you, it's mine!"

From the edge of the bustling ferry dock, I turned to look. Around me, tourists surged past, fumbling with their phones, random luggage, and more than a few bicycles.

I squinted through the crowd and finally spotted the source of the commotion – two men gripping the long, strappy handle of a single black duffle bag.

The shorter guy was definitely a tourist. His bright blue polo shirt stretched tightly across his rounded stomach while his khaki shorts sagged long and loose, stopping just above his knobby knees. His neon sneakers – also blue – practically glowed in the morning sun as he glared up at the other guy.

I followed his angry gaze and felt myself swallow. The second guy was no tourist. Or even if he was, he sure didn't look like one. He was tall – at least six-two – with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic build. He wore a white tailored dress shirt and dark fitted slacks. The shirt looked slightly rumpled, as if he'd fallen asleep fully dressed.

Rumpled or not, the guy reeked of money – the kind made on Wall Street, not Main Street. A wistful sigh escaped my lips. He didn't shop at Walmart, that's for sure.

Before I could obsess over the sorry state of my own finances, the same gruff voice rang out again, louder this time. It was the tourist. "So fork it over!" he hollered, giving the bag's strap a hard yank, the kind that would have sent most men sprawling.

But Mister Wall Street? He didn't even budge. His jaw visibly clenched as he replied with a single word. "No."
The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned, muscular forearms, one of which sported an intricate tattoo – something dark and winding that disappeared beneath the white fabric of his pricy shirt.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" the tourist demanded, giving the strap another yank.

Once again, the taller guy didn't budge. His voice, low and ominous, cut through the crisp, springtime air. "Forget it. The bag's mine."

The tourist gave another tug. "Listen, buddy. I don't got time for this."

With a scoff, Mister Wall Street asked, "And I do?"

"Well, you must," the tourist said, "because you're not letting go."

The muscles of Wall Street's forearms visibly twitched as if preparing to mangle something – or more likely, a certain someone in a bright blue shirt. He gave the shorter man the stare of death as he gritted out, "Because it's my bag."

The tourist looked beyond insulted. "But I already told you, it's not."

"Then you told me wrong."

The tourist snorted. "You wanna say that to my wife?"

Wife? I glanced around. What wife?

Behind me, the island's main strip – literally called Main Street – was already humming with the usual chaos of tourist season. Visitors crowded the sidewalks, ducking in and out of local shops, while a steady stream of vacationers on bicycles coasted down the narrow street, sharing the road with horse-drawn carriages and delivery carts.

There were no cars, of course. No traffic lights either. This was, after all, Mackinac Island, where motor vehicles were strictly prohibited – well, except for the rare ambulance or fire truck.

Regardless, here on the dock, the crowd from the ferry had already disbursed, leaving the area nearly empty except for a few workers, the two men, and me.

I saw nobody's wife.

As for the workers, they were pointedly ignoring the argument, as if they knew better than to get involved.

If I were smart, I'd do the same. I was no fan of drama, especially the kind that ended with two strangers duking it out on the dock. I had already turned to leave when Wall Street asked, "Is that her?"

Against my better judgement, I turned back to look. Big mistake. They were staring at a woman, alright. And not just any woman. Me.

And I – like a total dumbass – was stupidly staring back.

The tourist gave another snort. "You mean her?" He said "her" like no man in his right mind would ever meet me at the altar. But then he muttered, "I wish."

I blinked. Well, that was unexpected.

And yeah, just a little disturbing.

As I stood there, trying to decide if I should feel insulted or flattered, Mister Wall Street turned back to the tourist and asked, "So why'd you mention her?"

The tourist's brow knitted in confusion. "Who?"

"Your wife."

"Oh. Her." The tourist cleared his throat. "Because she's the one who told me."

With obvious annoyance, Wall Street asked, "Told you what?"

Caught by curiosity, I stuck around. Was it worth the wait?

Not hardly.

The tourist replied, "That my bag was at the dock."

Oh. Well, that made sense. I should have predicted it.

After all, I had lived on Mackinac Island for most of my life – yes, even during the frigid Michigan winters when tourists were long-gone and the island's population shrank to just a few hundred brave souls who called the island home.

But during these warmer months, the population swelled, bringing with it the tourism dollars that kept the island afloat – well, financially, anyway.

Now that the men's attention had returned to each other, I should have taken the chance to scurry away. And I was just about to – honest – when the tourist turned and called out in my direction. "You! C'mere."

I froze. "Me?"

"Yeah. You work here, right?"

Oh, crap. "No. I was just walking past." This was no lie. I'd been walking to the bike rental shop when the commotion had made me stop and gawk like I wasn't running late for work.

Normally, I'd be riding my bike. Not today. Today, my lovely new roommate had borrowed the bike without asking, forcing me to walk instead.

And now I was here, getting pulled into a commotion that had nothing to do with me.

The tourist gave me a dubious look. "You weren't walking when I saw you." His eyes narrowed. "You were just standing around. You're saying you don't work here?"

I drew back. "Not for the ferry company, if that's what you think."

His gaze dropped rudely to my chest. "No kidding."

I bristled. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying, I can read, you know." And then, as if to prove it, the tourist announced, "Pickett's Pedals."

"Oh." I looked down. Right. As usual, I was wearing my work shirt, which had nothing to do with the ferry company.

They had boats. We had bikes.

Big difference.

I was still looking down when the tourist continued. "But I'm just saying, you're a local, right?"

Well, at least he hadn't called me a townie. I looked up and gave a reluctant nod.

With his free hand, he motioned me over. "So help a guy out, will ya?"

"Uh…you mean you?" I couldn't help but wince. "Because honestly…I don't want to take sides."

My gaze drifted to Mister Wall Street who eyed me like the most "helpful" thing I could do was throw myself off the dock.

The tourist said, "No one's askin' you to. We just want a second opinion, that's all."

My mouth twitched. Call me silly, but I had to say it. "Don't you mean a third?"

His eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

I smiled. "I mean, there's two of you already, so I'd be number three."

Under his breath, Wall Street muttered, "Oh, for fuck's sake."

I dropped the smile and gave the guy a sharp look. His jawline was strong and angular, accented by a light layer of stubble – just enough to add an edge without looking unkempt. Even so, his dark brown hair looked slightly tousled, probably from the wind during the ferry ride.

No surprise there.

What did surprise me were his hazel-green eyes. They looked far too shrewd for my own good, and I had the sudden sense that he knew exactly what I was thinking.

If so, that made one of us, because under his silent scrutiny, I could hardly think at all – especially when his frown deepened into something that might be called a scowl.

Suddenly, I was rooting for the tourist, who just then, startled me with a loud guffaw. With his free hand, he slapped his thigh and chortled, "Good one."

I shook my head. "Sorry, what?"

"Your joke," he said with a toothy grin. "I'm just saying, it was really good. A third opinion – heh. Clever, too. I can tell you're a smart one."

Wall Street turned his scowl on the tourist. "You're just sucking up."

Looking slightly shifty, the tourist asked, "Why would I do that?"

"So she'll take your side. Obviously."

At this, the tourist actually blushed. He reached back and rubbed the back of his neck as he mumbled, "Says you."

I felt heat rise to my own cheeks, because let's face it, the joke had been pretty corny.

But then I perked up. I had just realized something. I didn't have to take sides. I just had to be logical. With sudden inspiration, I strode forward, eager to help.

On the downside, I couldn't even feel smug. My idea was so basic, it was surprising that neither of the guys had thought of it themselves.

I almost smiled. This would take all of two minutes, maybe less. And I would still make it to work on time. Easy, peasy, right?

Wrong.

No easy.

No peasy.

Just a whole lot of grief.

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