It’s the same question that popped into my head when I made my plan for this afternoon and asked Amanda and Kenny for a hand. That was four hours ago, which means I’ve had plenty of time to figure out my answer.
I did it for her because she reached a breaking pointtoday. She isn’t the drama queen type. She’s a hard-working, driven woman who’d finally been pushed to the edge, and then my dumbass comment shoved her over it. Just like my dumb ass undoubtedly played a role in pushing her to that brink.
All I want to do is fix it. Get her back to being the woman who drives me mad.
Because I fuckinglikethat woman.
It only took me five minutes to reach that conclusion, which means the next three hours and fifty-five minutes were spent thinking about all the reasons Ishouldn’tlike her.
Like my inability to do casual. My propensity to get tangled up and mesmerized, like a fucking lovey-eyed tween. How last year’s royal fuck-up proved just how unreliable my feelings are.
I thought that experience had permanently turned off my dick. Shut down my feelings for the opposite sex. But Eliza’s turned both back on. And when she leaves in six weeks, they’re both going to be sorely disappointed.
It’s inevitable. And I don’t need that clouding over the things that matter, like this farm, this business, and raising Lala.
Thatconclusion should’ve stopped me right in my tracks. Hell, maybe I should’ve left the dock without Eliza again, just to shove a self-preserving wall between us.
But I didn’t.
I decided to do what I’m doing right now, telling myself I’m merely helping a friend. And as she waits for my answer with wide-eyed gratitude, I don’t feel the slightest bit of regret.
Of course, I don’t tell her any of this. “All you’ve gotten is content from the farm,” I go with. “If you want to reallyconvey the atmosphere of this place, you need a different perspective on the area.”
She looks like she wants to ask another question, but just nods in acceptance and wanders back to the bench, watching the cove draw closer.
The tiny half-moon beach greets me the same way it has since I was a kid. Backdropped by leafy trees and brush, speckled with shells and driftwood, it’s completely empty. Once we’re as shallow as we can get, I lift the engine, throw out the anchor, and grab the supplies. Then we wade to the beach.
“What is this place?” Eliza asks, head swiveling as she takes it all in.
“Secret Spot.”
She turns around to face me, brow cocked in question. “It faces the open pond.”
“That it does.” The cooler and bag make a soft thud as I drop them in the sand. “But we’ve always called it the Secret Spot, so that’s its name.”
“And how does a not-at-all-secret spot get called the Secret Spot?”
I plop down on the sand, sore muscles sighing in relief as I rest my arms on my knees. “Goes back to my dad.” The air shifts as she sits beside me, criss-cross like the prim little student I’m sure she once was.
“There are about five beaches within twenty minutes from here, and our own town beach is all built up with nice facilities. But my dad refused to ‘spend hard-earned money to be with a crowd,’ so he and my mom would always take us here.” I can picture his face now, wrinkled and scattered with gray scruff, griping about the public beaches back when paid parking and someone shaking their beach blanket out in your face was our biggest concern.
“Being kids, we wanted to go to the beaches our friends went to. Not this free scrap of sand in the middle of nowhere. So my dad started calling it the Secret Spot to make it feel special.”
“Smart,” she says.
“Yeah, it was.” My next breath is weighted with memory. Like all parents, mine had their faults, but they gave us a damn good childhood.
“I’ve been to the town beach, and it’s nice, but I have to agree with your dad. This place is special.”
She drops her hands onto the sand, leaning back like she’s settling in. Maybe feeling some of the calm and contentment this place brings me. Her gaze finds mine, irises appearing green in the sunlight. “I know it’s been years, but I’m sorry about your parents.”
The years don’t matter. I still miss them. Still feel like we were robbed, still remember the suffocating grief that closed in when Mom got sick, and didn’t end until after Dad met her in the grave. Sometimes, on birthdays or holidays or Lala’s milestones, remnants of that grief try to burst out and drag me under again.
Guess that’s just part of living life and loving people.
“Appreciate that,” I say, meaning it. Because it turns out, after a year or two, most people just assume you’ve moved right on.
I don’t think anyone does.
