Page 145 of Summer Love

After a while, he murmurs in my ear:

“You hungry?”

“Yes, chef.”

He gets up and opens the mini-fridge. The selection is limited: tortillas, some leftover chicken, a mushy avocado, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce.

“Fair warning,” he says, setting it all on the counter, “I’m not Luke. I can’t cook. I’m only good at one thing: surfing. And even that, not as well as I used to.”

I sit cross-legged on the bed, the Walker Surf School T-shirt pulled down over my thighs, and watch him cut the avocado with a knife that doesn’t look like it cuts much anymore. He presses too hard spreading the sauce, and the tortilla tears.

“It’s perfect,” I say.

“Wait till you see how it turns out…”

“I don’t care how it turns out.”

He doesn’t answer, but his shoulders ease. He finishes the burritos—a little overstuffed, sauce dripping—and grabs two beers from the fridge.

“Beach?” he offers.

We sit on the sand. Flip curls up against Jace. The sun drops. The sky turns orange, then pink, then a shade between mauve and gray.

The burrito isn’t good. The tortilla’s soggy, the sauce too strong, the chicken too dry. It’s the best meal I’ve had since I got to Coral Bay.

We eat in silence, sipping our beers. When I’m done, I rest my head on Jace’s shoulder. His cheek brushes my hair. The waves slide softly over the sand.

The sun touches the horizon before it disappears, and soon the first stars break through. The town lights come up in the distance, yellow pinpoints between the trees.

When the cold starts to bite at my arms, I sit up. Jace stands, brushes the sand off his shorts, and holds out his hand.

“Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Fingers laced, we walk toward the lodge. Flip trots ahead of us, tail high. I’ve got goosebumps on my bare thighs and arms.

We’re passing Noah’s cabin when a cry rings out—high, not remotely discreet.

“Noah!”

Then a thud, another, and an unmistakable moan.

I trade a look with Jace. We crack up.

“I think his dry spell is over,” he teases.

“Sure looks like it.”

We pick up the pace. Behind us, the cabin creaks.

“They’re really not messing around…” Jace says under his breath.

I elbow him; he laughs again.

I used to love his laugh. I love his laugh. I don’t know anymore.

We reach my bungalow.

Jace stops, lets go of my hand, and takes a step back.