Sawyer steps back. “Sorry.”
The ocean surges in the gap between us. I see through rapid blinks that the distance is small, but it feels so enormous. My pulse still pounds.Sorry?We’re both adults. Clearly, the attraction is mutual. A man has never kissed me with that much…wantingbefore.
But none of it matters.
Sawyer turns and wades back toward shore, and I stay rooted in the water, watching him go. Waves break against my shoulders, but I barely feel them. Maybe I’ll just paddle around until night falls… Or forever… The sting burning behind my eyes is easier to hide beneath the saltwater.
By the time I make my way back, he’s sitting on the towel, beer in his hand.
Nibbling on my bottom lip, I slowly lower onto the towel beside him. “Sawyer, about what happened—”
“Forget about it.”
“But—”
“Have you eaten somethin’ yet? I brought some food along. They had about ten fancy cheeses at the grocery store.” His uncertain smile is a desperate plea to move on. “Tell me if I picked one you like.”
When he presents me with the wedge of brie, I only nod, because the lump lodged in my throat won’t let me speak.
Sawyer took the lead this time.
We’re going to pretend as if the kisses never happened.
17
Patchy drizzle until an important conversation
The Sunday morning rainmatches my mood. I’m misery stuck in a camel-colored trench coat and slightly too small knee-high boots.
I can’t go home. When I shut my front door and escaped down the stairs, the apartment walls rattled under the thump of incessant hammering and the goofing around of two teenage boys.
I can’t go to the beach. Not that I want to. Stopping outside the cafe, I peer around the corner. The sky is a swirl of black cotton on steel wool. Today’s bleak weather is nothing like yesterday, when everywhere I looked was sunny and blue, and the world was blissful.
What went wrong?
Sawyer and I were having so much fun. And those kisses… My knees wobble just as my hand lands on the cafe door. I will never forget his soft but demanding lips or the greedy way his hands wanted to be everywhere.
I thought our day at the beach was the start of some incredible journey.
Wrong.
I shake the rain from my umbrella, lean it against the wall, and skulk inside. Tea and cake are the answer to my problems, and apparently, for everyone else in town. People cram inside the cafe like it’s the Turkish Grand Bazaar on a Saturday afternoon. It’s stuffy and claustrophobic, and if I weren’t desperate for any kind of distraction, I’d find a new escape.
I trudge to the waiting line for a table.
A hand taps my arm.
The woman beside me has a cloud of red curls speckled with raindrops. “I absolutely adore your coat,” she says. “It’s vintage, am I right?”
Finally, someone who appreciates old-world style. “Yes. It’s a London Fog.” I unknot the belt to show her the spectacular geometric lining. “It’s from the fifties.”
“It’s gorgeous.” The woman’s smile is wider than the Cheshire Cat’s. “Where did you find it? The thrift shop here in town?”
I shake my head. “There’s this terrific little vintage store in Melbourne—”
“You’re not from around here?”
I study her face—properly this time. There’s something not quite right about the way she’s watching me. She smiles, but her eyes slightly narrow, as if she’s filing and analyzing every detail that pops out of my mouth.
