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“I just thought, because Yvonne said…”
“It was Yvonne’s idea. My mum got to her.”
Nate stares out at the water. There’s this distance about him that comes and goes. A tidal force that ebbs only a moment before rushing back in.
“You don’t get along?” I ask.
He picks up a smooth bluish-black pebble and rubs it between his fingers. He’s got great hands. Big, masculine. Musician’s fingers. They’re sexy as hell.
“Mum and I are fine,” he finally says. “Most of the time.”
“Things not great with your dad then?”
“No, not great.” Letting out a long breath, he flicks the pebble away, then pops a fry into his mouth. He chews slowly before saying, “I’m not going to be good company if we stay on the topic.”
“Right, sorry. My name’s Abbey and I have trouble with boundaries,” I say with an apologetic laugh.
That earns me a crooked grin. “Never apologize for being curious.”
“Hmm. Okay. Then tell me about yourself. You were nice enough to bring me all the way out here, and I barely know you. Hell, I don’t even know your last name.”
“Mitchell.” A fleeting smile appears before his brow furrows. “As for the rest, there isn’t much to tell.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He dodges, dipping a piece of fish into some tartar sauce before sliding it into his mouth.
“Where I come from,” I say when he doesn’t respond, “girls aren’t supposed to accept rides from strange men on motorcycles. So you’ve gotta help me out here.”
He capitulates. “All right then, Abbey. What would you like to know?”
“Hmm. Okay. You’re a musician. Is that your dream?”
Nate smiles. “No, not at all. It was something I picked up as a kid out of boredom. Got good at it by accident.”
That comes as a relief for some reason. I suddenly hear Celeste’s voice in my head, teasing me about daddy complexes and bad-boy musicians.
“Okay, then what do you want to be when you grow up?”
He chuckles at the question. “I want to travel. And I think I’m a decent writer. If I could do both, travel and write about my experiences—that’d be all right.”
“Well, that’s unexpected. I didn’t peg you for the Jack Kerouac type.”
“Minus the drug abuse and alcoholism,” he says dryly.
My gaze sweeps over his jaw, the beard growth shadowing it. His gaze is on the water again, dark eyes taking on a faraway glint.
“You’re a romantic.”
He glances over at me. “Are you having a laugh?”
“Not at all. I’m impressed, actually.”
Nate has a depth and sincerity about him I hadn’t expected. Far more than a bad boy on a motorcycle. I mean, I don’t hate the motif. It suits him. But it’s nice to know there’s some meat on the bone.
“Any more questions?” There’s a note of humor in his voice.
“Nah, I’ve grilled you enough.”
