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“Your eyes…”
“What about them?” I could barely breathe with him standing so close.
“There’s a certain glint you get in them when you’re about to give me hell for something.”
I took a step backwards. “And you like it? As I said, you’re weird.” I motioned to the picnic basket. “I thought you were starving.”
“I make you uncomfortable,” he mumbled, grabbing the basket and carrying it through the open rooms toward a sliding glass door. “I asked the contractor to put the deck on as soon as he could, so I could sit out here.”
“It’s huge!” I gasped, ignoring his comment about making me uncomfortable. “And the view is even better than from on top.”
Something about what I’d said flustered him, and rather than respond, he set the basket on a teak table big enough to seat eight. He opened it and took out sandwiches, salads, fruit, a cheese plate, and cookies. The last thing he removed before plates, cups, napkins, and flatware, were bottles of Italian lemonade and water—still and sparkling.
“What, no wine?” I asked, self-conscious now of whether I had a “glint” in my eye.
“I keep several bottles here if you’d like some.”
“I was teasing, given it appears the only possible thing missing.”
He smiled.
“Can I help?”
“I got it. You take in the views.”
While I knew he meant the ocean, I took in the view of him instead. Noah Ridge was the epitome of a manly man. The reference nearly made me laugh, but it was true. He was tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders and an equally lean and muscular physique.
His dark hair had streaks in it from the sun and was longer than I’d noticed previously. It hung just past his shoulders. He kept his beard neatly trimmed. In fact, every time I saw him, it looked exactly the same. It had to require daily maintenance, yet he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would care enough to fuss with it.
Today he wore a long-sleeved white shirt and tattered jeans, but the kind that looked like he’d own them long enough for them to fray, not that he’d bought them that way. He had on a pair of black motorcycle boots that appeared equally worn.
“Do you ride?” I asked.
“All the time. My friend Press owns a place with beach access. Not many places like that left.”
My eyes scrunched. “You ride on the beach?” I knew it was still legal to drive cars on the dunes at Pismo Beach, but I couldn’t remember ever seeing motorcycles. It didn’t seem safe.
“There’s nothing like the feel of the ocean spray on your face, the wind in your hair, and the horses love running in the tide.”
“Horses?”
“What did you think I meant?”
I pointed at his boots. “Motorcycles.”
“Oh. No. Unless the sand is really packed, I wouldn’t think it would be safe.”
I laughed.
“Is that funny?”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Ready?” he asked, pointing to the bench seat facing the ocean. Once I sat down, he slid in beside me. “I thought you might like to look out at it since you were looking at me before rather than the ocean.”
