I toured universities in Colorado and Oklahoma, wanting to land a spot at the best meteorology program in the country, but I’m happy here in Oak Valley, the town where I grew up.
We’re close enough to the theme parks and Orlando to feel like we’re in a big city but far enough away to be considered quaint and cute. There’s the hint of small-town magic in the storefronts that decorate for the holidays and the old brick roads. Familiarity in the neighbors I’ve known for years and the walking path I use when hurricane season ends and my days aren’t filled to the brim with work.
My heart is tethered to the Sunshine State. It always has been, and even though my parents moved north after I graduated high school, I stayed put, clinging to the months when I find streaks of blonde in my hair after spending too many hours out in the sun.
There’s a secret in the air down here you might not be able to find if you’re not raised on daily thunderstorms and temperatures that hover in the seventies when Christmas trees go up. It’s special. A reminder I’m alive. A living, breathing entity who’s doing her best in this mess called life, and what a gift that is.
The drive to the store is quick, passing in an assortment of Pearl Jam and The Wallflowers songs. I take my time moving up and down the aisles to grab all the items on Harlow’s list. A can of beans gets tossed in the cart along with spices and a jar of garlic. I head for the produce section at the back of the building, throwing onions, tomatoes, and a green pepper in with the rest of the supplies for World’s Most Mediocre Chili, then beeline it for the butcher section.
Before I can make it to the glass case of ground beef offerings, my cart crashes to a stop. A cell phone goes flying. A display of toilet paper wobbles, and I throw my hand out to stop it from falling and crushing me in a Charmin-induced avalanche.
I haven’t survived extreme weather phenomena only to be leveled on my ass and suffocated by two-ply.
Crisis averted, I pull my cart back. I blink and find the last person I ever want to see.
There’s a broad chest. A frayed pair of Levi’s and sun-kissed skin. The start of a beard on his sharp jawline. A thin silver chain clasped around his neck. Messy dark hair and midnight-blue eyes. The scent of sunscreen and coffee in the air, and I’m thrown back to being seventeen. Countless arguments and cocky grins.
Sebastian Dunn is smirking like he won a goddamn prize, and I want the ground to swallow me whole.
“There she is,” he says. It’s deep, low. Infused with a twinge of Southern drawl wrapping around the edge of his words. “I’ve been waiting for this moment. It’s good to see you, Monroe.”
I blink again, hoping I’m hallucinating, but he’s still there, and that’s a problem for me.
I’m never prepared for seeing Sebastian in person.
He has an overpowering, irresistible presence about him in the simple white T-shirt stretching over a torso I know to be toned from doing crew in high school and college. Mia mentioned he still rows recreationally with a club in New York, and it shows in his sculpted shoulders and biceps. The confidence in how he holds himself.
Goddamn him.
I drag my attention to the corded forearms that have no business belonging to a man who talks about cold fronts and water vapor for a living. The hint of a tattoo peeks out from under his sleeve, and I hate that I know what it is: a storm cloud holding a microphone.Singing in the rainhe told me offhandedly one night when we closed down The Hideout with our friends, both a little tipsy. Both a little less guarded, and in the moment, it made me laugh.
I must’ve had a lobotomy that night—or a drink too many—because today I despise the thing.
When I finally bring my eyes back to Sebastian’s face, I’m unsettled to find he’s been staring at my cutoff denim shorts. I adjust my position, wedging the shopping cart between us like a fortified wall while a deep breath rattles my lungs.
“This isn’t New York,” I say, breaking the silence. “Are you lost?”
“It’s not?” He makes a show of looking around. Adjusting the hat sitting backward on his head—the absolute asshole—and groaning. “Damn. I could’ve sworn I was in Brooklyn.”
“Did Satan send you up from the Underworld?”
“He did. Thought I deserved a reward for being such a goodright-hand man, so he’s letting me get some fresh air. Plus, I have a habit of earning us five stars on Yelp. People love our accommodations. It’s warm year-round, and I hear my smile makes people weak in the knees. What do you think, Monroe?” He gifts me with the flash of his teeth, the pop of a dimple, and I’m a proud member of the I-hate-cheek-indentations club. “Is it true?”
It’s not the reporter voice with practiced inflection he slips into when he’s on camera.
It’s real. It stands out. Grabs your attention and pulls you in like a vortex more than his Herculean stature of being tall (very, at six foot four), fit (very, seeing as his forearms have veins, for god’s sake), and beautiful (very,goddamn him again).
“I’d rather get a root canal than see you smile,” I say. “What are you doing here? Have I been summoned to hell?”
“Nah. We use trumpets when we do the summoning. It’s a whole production, you know? This isn’t nearly as exciting.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. I’m having the time of my life.”
“Your fake enthusiasm is much appreciated, Pres, and will be noted,” he says, and my eye twitches at the nickname he’s called me since high school.
“Are you ever going to tell me what that name means?”
“Nope. Keeping it a secret is way more fun.” He grins, dimple and all. “I’m glad I ran into you. There’s less of a chance for you to hit me with your car in here.”
