Page 13 of Sand in My Boots

We’ve been sitting for about half an hour. Started with drinks and an appetizer of Lowcountry crab dip with toasted flatbread and a meal of Carolina pork tenderloin with coriander and mustard seed crust. I’m attempting to explain what I do, but the man can’t seem to grasp it.

“Book covers, graphics, teasers, formatting. I do it all.”

His eyes widen. “I know what those words mean individually, but not when you put them together in a half-sentence.”

“Hold on.” I whip my phone out of my bag and bring up the Kindle app. Scrolling through the hundreds of books, I find one that works as an example. I make sure the cover fills the entire screen. “This. I did this.”

Cameron takes the phone from my hands. Jolts of electricity jump at the hasty touch. He studies the phone for a minute, then looks up at me. “You designed this cover?”

I nod, proud of that particular one. The author struggled to find an image to perfectly capture the picture in her head of who the hero was. We tried a bunch of different stock photos. Even when we found the right one, she wasn’t set on the fonts we had previously used for her other books. Before she got to the point of complete frustration and devastation, I tried one I didn’t love and hardly ever used, but the minute I put it on the screen, it fit. And she loved it.

“You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is sometimes to scroll through hundreds of pictures of men in various stages of undress. But hey, it pays the bills.”

Cameron side-eyes me, calling me on my bluff. “I would imagine it would be almost paralyzing day in and day out.” His deadpan is on point.

“Some days it definitely feels that way.” Which is true. Finding a real-life image of a person someone has concocted in their mind isn’t always easy. But there are worse things in the world to have as a job. I know. I had them when I was younger. Designing graphics for indie authors offers me so many benefits, ones I wouldn’t trade in a heartbeat. I get to put all my creative juices into my designs, but best of all, the work I do feels important to the authors I work with. And, icing on the cake—the job pays the bills and then some. Not that I need it.

“How did you get into it?” Cameron takes a sip of his beer. He made it clear this restaurant doesn’t serve Bushwackers, but if we wanted a nightcap, he’d be sure to bring me to The Drift Bar & Grill. I’m limiting my alcohol intake because I’m excited to try the new drink.

“I had a friend from college—actually, she may be at the wedding this weekend—who decided writing romance novels was something she wanted to do. I read the book and was experimenting with some lines, helping her out to come up with a way to ‘tease’ new readers with snippets. And it kinda stemmed from there. I did her first cover, it was a hit, she introduced me to some friends, and my business took off. It’s been a wild ride the last five years, and it’s only getting bigger the more connections I make. Half of the people I design for I’ve never met in person. Which is a weird phenomenon, but it is what it is.”

“Kinda like I meet people here at the resort once and never see them again. Unless they return for a visit.”

I nod. “Yeah, sorta. I guess.” I’m not sure it’s the same, but I’m also not in a position to argue with Cameron about something this trivial.

“I feel like you don’t totally agree.” But apparently he is.

Contemplating my answer, I don’t speak right away. Is he wrong? No, probably not. It is similar, but it’s also something I don’t want to continue talking about. I’d rather get to know a little more about him.

“What’s it like working at the resort? It’s been open, what? Three years, right?”

His one brow raise alerts me he’s on to me, but I ignore it.

“May was three years.” He leans back against the back of the booth, an expression of eagerness filling his face. “Honestly, it’s the best. Sure, we get some crotchety people from time to time, but it’s rare. Mostly, it’s people who want to be here, people who are on vacation and breaking free from the rut of their lives. Which usually means they enjoy their time away. You’d think it would be a given, being in paradise, an oasis if you will, but it’s not.”

“What’s your favorite part?”

Cameron’s mouth opens but soon shuts again, his mind toiling to best answer the question. Finally, after giving it some thought, he replies, “Can I say all of it?”

“No” leaps out of my mouth. How can his favorite part be all of it? Then I realize I’m not being fair. If he enjoys all aspects of his job, who am I to judge? I’m about to concede and tell him that, but he talks first.

“Anything that has to do with being on the water. If I could only do that, it would be amazing.” It’s not so much how he says it, but his tone definitely adds to the excitement of his statement.

“So not badminton?” I wonder playfully to push him a little.

“Yeah, no. Nor any other boring games and sports the resort offers.”

“Fair. When did you move to South Carolina? You were from up North somewhere, right?”

“Good memory. Connecticut, originally. And I moved down about four years now. Soon after Preston offered me a stake in the resort.”

Ah yes. His stake.

I hope he can’t see the way my cheeks flush with heat, though not sure how he can miss it with his eyes basically penetrating into me.

I guzzle some water to avoid any unwanted thoughts releasing and to help cool me off.

There’s a lull in our conversation until our waiter arrives with the check.