“Heads up,” Claudia says, moving behind me, stopping me with a hand on my arm. “Abby just walked in.”
I spin toward the main door and sure enough, I see Abby’s familiar blond head. My stomach contracts with wariness.
“She probably needs money,” Claudia surmises in a disgusted tone.
“Claudia—don’t. She’s trying.”
“Right. And I heard that Santa is taking applications for an apprentice.”
I shake my head, still struggling to regulate my breathing. “Claudia, please?”
“I don’t get it. Why do you let her do this to you? You don’t owe her a thing.”
“It’s not that simple.” I argue, too wired to think clearly.
“It is!”
“If I can change, can’t she?”
My sister turns from me with a long sigh. “I’m not having this conversation right now. I’m leaving to have fun with my friends, okay?”
I grunt, my eyes darting toward Gemma. Relief loosens my throat when I see that she’s no longer talking to that guy. She’s sandwiched safely between Julie and Smith and I’m selfishly hoping that she’ll stay there the rest of the night.
“You’re welcome to join us when your shift is over,” Claudia continues, her eyes flicking back to Abby. “Like I said before, Gemma is pretty. And don’t lie to me, Landon—you’ve noticed.”
I say nothing at all.
Because I have noticed.
CHAPTER SIX
Gemma
I wake with a start. A layer of sweat is trapping my hair to the skin of my neck. My head and heart are going like machine gun fire. My tank top is bunched up over my breasts and my arms are tangled in a thin cotton sheet.
A squeaky, rusty sound fills my ears, making my breath come out faster. It takes my fuzzy brain several seconds to piece together where I am.
The futon.
The steady buzz from the refrigerator.
Julie’s apartment.
I rub my eyes, push my wet bangs from my forehead and see that Weebit is getting an early start on his exercise wheel. That explains the high-pitched whine of the metal right by my head and the reason I woke up so suddenly.
The air-conditioning kisses my damp skin as I untangle myself and stretch out my legs. I push myself up to a sitting position and wipe my hair off the back of my neck. Later, I’m sure I’ll crave a nap, but for now, I can tell there’s no way I’ll be able to fall back asleep.
Letting go of a sigh, I use my socked feet to grope around the floor for my glasses and phone.
Bingo.
I settle the glasses on my face and bring my phone to life. Ignoring all of my notifications, I check the time. It’s just before six, which means I have almost a whole hour before the sun comes up. Blech.
Balancing on my toes, I creep down the hall and move quietly past Julie’s bedroom. I use the bathroom and guzzle a little water from the tap before returning to the nook to add some pellet food to Weebit’s ceramic crock.
What to do… what to do… The TV might wake Julie up so that’s out.
A book? Before my life imploded I’d been alternating between important mid-century American authors and corny pirate erotica. What can I say? I like variety.
I look around the floor near the futon but have no clue where to find my Kindle or any of my books in the jumble of half-unpacked things strewn all over the floor.
Maybe I should just go find someplace that serves coffee. Yesterday, Julie told me that she doesn’t do coffee anymore. She does tea. She does soda. It’s not, I told her through my dismay, the same thing.
Figuring that hardly anyone is going to be up this early, I decide to stay in pajamas, simply finding a pair of flats for my feet and a light sweater before grabbing my purse and slipping out the door.
The morning—my second in San Diego—is cool and quiet. The warped pre-dawn light turns the skin on my legs and arms pale blue. As I descend the stairs, shadows follow me, scurrying along the walls, dipping into weedy cracks and fading into spotty patches of moonlight.
Down in the courtyard, the scent of damp concrete is heavy. It slithers along the lining of my throat and settles over my lungs like a film of rimy morning fog. I clutch my purse to my chest with a bent arm and awkwardly stretch the sweater over my head. When it’s in place, I pull my hair out from the scooped neck with a free hand. Then I sit down on the last stair and bring my phone to life. I want to find the closest place to get a cup of coffee. Real coffee. Coffee that’s made from freshly-ground imported beans. Coffee that’s dark and rich and is topped with expertly-foamed milk.
Yesterday, I found a twenty-dollar bill stuffed in the back pocket of a pair of dirty jeans. I figure I can use it to splurge for a small cup of coffee.
As I’m sorting through the search results, deciding between a Starbucks and an independent place that claims to have the best fresh croissants in San Diego County, a dark form looms behind me and something cold and wet smashes into the back of my neck. I squawk loudly and jerk my upper body forward, whacking my elbow into one of the metal railing rungs. My phone falls to the stones of the courtyard. “Gahh!”
The wet thing moves to the side of my face and presses into my cheek and I squeal again this time with a mixture of embarrassment and relief because I’ve just realized that the thing is a dog nose.
And the dog?
He’s ridiculously cute. A mishmash of coarse ivory and grey hair sticks up every which way from his narrow body. One ear flops down while the other stands straight up. He’s sniffing my face, licking me and prodding me with his nose. His tail, I note, is nothing more than a sad little stub of fur quivering at the end of his body.
I place my hand on the dog’s head and run my fingers through his wiry fur. He sits back and pokes his pink tongue out from his snout. His huge liquid brown eyes blink at me.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask, pulling myself up to my knees so I have better leverage. I spin his collar to check the little bone-shaped metal tag hanging against his chest. “Wyatt,” I murmur, reading the name and phone number etched into the dull metal.
“You’re pretty freaking cute, aren’t you, Wyatt?” I scratch him a bit harder, adding my nails to the mix. He grunts in approval when I reach the patch of springy white hairs that grow from beneath his chin. I laugh and turn my hands in a circular motion. “You like that?”
Another grunt.
Above us, I hear a door slam shut and a deeply masculine voice call down to the dark courtyard. “Wyatt! Where are you?”
The dog’s ears twitch and he jerks his head away from my hand. His eyes dart up the stairs.
“Wyatt!” Louder this time.
The dog responds with a high-pitch whimper and bails on our little pow wow.
Gripping the stair rail, I crane my neck back to look around. Landon Young, framed by spears of ghostly pre-dawn light, is coming toward me, tackling the stairs two at a time.
He’s wearing the same grey knit hat he had on at the gas station two days ago. There’s a small bag slung over his shoulder and a surfboard under his arm.
He’s a surfer?
He must sense my presence on the stairs because he draws back, one foot dangling in space above a step. His head moves in my direction and I catch the flicker of surprise that skirts across his eyes. He squints like he’s making sure I’m a real person and not just a clump of shadows and says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I reply in a steady voice that belies how manic I’m feeling—like I want to run and stay in place all at the same time.
I stand and we do that thing where we both go to the same side at the same time. Then we switch and do it all over again on the other side. It’s a dance made all the more awkward by the big surfboard jostling between our bodies and the dog zigzagging between our ankles. Finally, Landon grasps my upper arm and holds me stationary while he squeezes past.
“Sorry,” he murmurs as our hips and thighs brush. I can’t help but remember Friday night and the heady th
rill that moved through me. Yesterday, I’d chalked my reaction up to the alcohol and nerves but the sensation is back this morning. With a vengeance.
“No—it’s me,” I eke out, my mouth gone suddenly dry and my palms starting to sweat.
He backs up but I can still feel the memory of his breath against my cheek and my heart pounds so hard I worry that he’ll be able to hear it.
He adjusts his surfboard and stares.
Behind my glasses, my gaze flits all over the place—up the stairs, over the pool, down to my knees, across the thin silvery threads that split the top of my socks. I’m bouncing and huffing so much that Landon probably thinks I snorted a few lines and washed them down with a couple cans of Red Bull.
His intent eyes narrow at me. “Is everything okay? Why are you out here?”
“Hmm?” I notice that on top of the bouncing, I’m fidgeting with my hands. What is the deal with that?
“Are you locked out of Julie’s?”
“What—? Oh, um—no.” I drop my hands and clear my throat—a move which ends up sounding a lot like a cat hacking up a hairball.
It’s so bad that Landon actually leans over and thumps his palm a couple of times against my back. His eyebrows lift. “You okay there?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer, begging my brain and my body to chill out.
“You’re sure?”
Suddenly, I realize how close we are and I take a peek at his face. He really is handsome. He hasn’t shaved and brown stubble is lining his jaw. It draws my attention to his mouth. There’s no denying it’s a great mouth.
And before I know it, I’m picturing myself wrapping my arms over Landon Young’s wide shoulders and pressing my tongue to that soft line where his lips meet in the middle. I can practically feel myself lifting my hands to his hair and grazing my teeth along his jaw, over rough skin to the slippery oasis. His hands brush down the length of my body and he slips those long fingers under the fluttery edges of my pajama shorts and—
Whoa. A thousand alarms start to go off in my head and a million winged things take flight in my stomach.
What in the actual hell is wrong with me?
Damaged goods, I remind myself with a commanding shake. Landon Young, with his sexy, sun-lightened brown hair, his intimidating eyes and very square jaw, is exactly the kind of guy that a girl could get lost in. And let’s face it, I don’t need that in my life. I’m already lost.
“It’s just that you look a little lost,” he says, his brows lifting a little higher.
My face heats. Have I spoken out loud? Mortification pries my mouth open. Closes it. Opens it again. “No, I was—” I was what? Thinking swoony thoughts about you?
Landon scans the courtyard and his forehead bunches when he sees my dropped phone. “You really should be more careful with that,” he says, stooping over to pick it up. “Those phone screens—”
“Are a bitch to switch out,” I finish, borrowing his words from the gas station.
“That’s right.” His eyes meet mine, sending a rush of blood straight to my head. His mouth curls up and I come this close to leaning into the stair rail. “You didn’t answer my question before. Why are you sitting out here by yourself in the middle of the night? Did you get locked out of Julie’s?”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t really call it the middle of the night.” I twist my fingers in the fabric of my sweater. Here’s to hoping that he hasn’t noticed how short and saturated in tiny hot pink flamingos my pajama shorts are. “I didn’t sleep well and I wanted to find someplace that serves coffee. Julie doesn’t have any in the apartment,” I tell him this information like it’s a criminal offense. Which, let’s face it, it should be.
“Ahhh.” The low sound he makes sends a fresh batch of shivers rolling down my arms.
“H-how about you?” I stammer. “Why are you up this early?”
“I like to surf early in the mornings if the weather cooperates. It’s usually less crowded and the waves are stronger.”
“Do you go every day?”
“I try.”
Having exactly zero knowledge of surfing aside from a short phase of watching Blue Crush on repeat and thinking maybe I should move to Hawaii to become a kick-ass female pro surfer, I stick with a head nod, which could mean sure or cool or whatever.
A few seconds of silence scrape by. We hover. Exhale. Hover some more.
At last, Landon clears his throat and glances at the dog, who has been watching this whole interaction with his tongue lolling out from the side of his mouth. “I see that you met Wyatt.”
“I did.”
“I hope he was polite.”
“A perfect gentleman.” I crouch down and rub my fingers back and forth under the dog’s chin in that spot he liked before. He rewards me by wagging his stubby tail and thumping his back foot against the ground of the courtyard. “Do you always take him with you?”
“I do when I have enough time to make a longer drive. Not all the beaches around here allow dogs so it just depends on which break I’m headed to.”
“Makes sense.” I wipe my hand on the fabric of my sweater and stand.
“Do you want to come with me?”
I have to turn his words over in my head a few times to make sure that I’ve understood him right. I know my eyes are popping from my skull. “To the beach? With you?”
“Yeah. I think that maybe—I don’t know—” His night-dark gaze flies away. He swipes the knit beanie from his head and rubs his hand back and forth through his hair. He exhales through his nose and says, “My sister told me that you got the job.”
At Claudia’s urging, I stayed at Aunt Zola’s late Friday night and met with Tish and Jamie for an impromptu interview. I went in yesterday afternoon to fill out my paperwork. “I did,” I confirm. “I start training with your sister tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” he says, nodding. He’s not looking at me and a ginormous valley has staked claim to the skin in between his eyebrows. “Anyway, I was thinking that since we’re neighbors and going to be working together maybe we should do it over.”
I shake my head to show my confusion. “Do what over?”
“Our intro.”
“Our intro?” I echo, my voice faint.
“Yeah, I thought, with the gas station and then the other night…” He rubs his head again. “I got everything assways, didn’t I?”
“No, you were fine,” I say quickly, trying to cover up my nervousness. “I’m the one who made it weird with the whole credit card debacle. Which I still owe you for.”
Landon’s hazy smile turns corporeal and he extends his hand in a formal gesture so at odds with the messy hair and the surfboard that I almost laugh. Almost. “I’m Landon Young.”
Politeness kicks in and I stick my hand out. “Gemma Sayers.”
The handshake ends up being more of a limp high-five. Our palms kiss and our fingers curl over each other’s wrists. A prickle races along my spine.
So awkward.
“It’s nice to meet you for the very first time.”
“You too. You know, it’s pretty bizarre,” I say wistfully, dropping my hand to my side and squeezing my sweater between two fingers. “But, I’m having a bit of a déjà vu experience. It’s almost like we’ve met before.”
The smile turns to a grin that hits me like a burst of cool air on a hot, sweaty day. “That is bizarre.”
I nod, keeping my expression serious, hoping that he can’t see the thoughts rioting behind my eyes. “It sure is.”
A silence falls over us. My stomach jiggles. My brain whirs. The sizzle is definitely back and I’m not sure what to make of it. I know I should say goodbye. I know I should trudge off through that gate on a quest for coffee. I know I should stop staring at him, but I can’t seem to make myself do any of those things.
Finally, Landon cocks his head. “So, the beach?”
“The beach?”
He gives me an amused look like maybe I’m schizophrenic or partially deaf
. “With me?”
“Right.” I nod. “The thing is, I don’t normally get in cars and go to the beach with strange men that I’ve just met.”
His expression goes lopsided. “We did just meet, didn’t we?”
I squint, wrinkle my nose and chew on my thumbnail “About five seconds ago.”
“Would it help if I assure you that Wyatt here will be on his best behavior?”
I look down at the dog—sitting back on his hind legs, watching me. I look up at the sky—at the faint streaks of lavender slowly working their way to the surface of the clouds. And I look at Landon Young—standing there with his surfboard under his arm and a question on his face.
For the strangest, fiercest moment it’s like the world is melting into place.
“Any chance there will be coffee involved in this expedition?” I ask, casually tapping the toe of my shoe against the concrete.
His eyes widen and his Adam’s Apple moves up and down. “There could be.”
“Could be or will be? When it comes to coffee, I don’t mess around with ambiguity.”
He chuckles. “There will be coffee.”
“Okay then.”
One eyebrow up. “You’re in?”
“I’m in.
“Good.” His gaze drops to my mouth, stays there. He inches toward me and I have this lunatic thought that he’s about to kiss me. My eyes fall shut and I go completely still. I’m not breathing. I don’t even think my blood is flowing. Then I feel the tingle of his fingertips passing over my cheek and curving over the shell of my ear.
“Oh,” I gasp, eyes fluttering, heartbeat restarting with a jolt.
Blink. Blink.
He steps back, reads the confusion on my face, and explains, “You had a hair.”
And that’s the end of it. I had a hair. Of course I did. It was just a friendly, polite gesture. Like telling someone that they have spinach stuck in their teeth.
By the time I’ve worked all this out, Landon has already hoofed it across the courtyard. As he lifts the latch of the gate, he looks back over his shoulder to where I remain motionless, pulling off the world’s greatest impersonation of a tree stump.
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