Promise Me Nothing (Hermosa Beach Book 1)

by Jillian Liota

  I smile. “I like that.”

  “What?”

  “The way you see me.”

  His eyes search mine for a minute before he clears his throat and takes a step away from me.

  It isn’t until then that I realize how close we’d been standing.

  I shake it off and take a seat strapping the board on to my shoes.

  Then I stand and give one last look at Wyatt.

  “Here goes.”

  Tipping the end of the board over the edge, I slice down the hill, curving wide and then cutting back, drawing a big, flowing zigzag down the dune.

  It feels like forever, but in reality I know it passes in seconds, and as I make it down to the bottom, sliding to a stop in front of Lucas and Paige and everyone else, the blood pumping in my ears eases just enough for me to hear everyone cheering.

  For me.

  I hear a round of so fucking dope and holy shit, woman, and even how the hell did you learn to do that.

  The smile on my face is wide, and I turn to look up to the top, where Wyatt is slowly making his way down the side of the hill by foot, a small smile on his face.

  It’s a bittersweet pill when I realize in that moment that the only congratulations I want right now is from him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wyatt

  I feel like a crazy person.

  Like one of those guys you see on TV. There was some show on Netflix recently about a stalker, and the girls I knew in San Francisco were always swooning over it.

  I thought they were crazy.

  Now I’m the crazy one.

  I was in the garage. The one connected to the guesthouse, which faces the path heading down to the beach. I had put on my workout gear. Nothing fancy. A pair of trainers. A cutoff tee. A pair of basketball shorts.

  I’d been planning on strapping a pair of gloves on so I could get a workout on the bag I had installed right after I got here. Gotta keep up my workouts even when I’m not near my home gym.

  But just as I pulled my gloves out, something caught my eye.

  Or I guess, someone.

  It was Hannah, jogging along the bicycle path that sits below the main drag. Heading to the path that would take her down to the beach, probably to run in the opposite direction. Back to Lucas’ house.

  A nice little one-mile loop, if I’d done the math correctly.

  Before I even knew what I was doing, I’d dropped my gloves on a workbench, grabbed my phone, and took off after her.

  I can’t explain why. What compelled me. The force that implored me to keep her in my sights.

  But I did it. I followed her.

  Tried to come up with a way I could ‘bump’ into her on accident. Strike up a conversation. Because she’d been on my mind constantly, and seeing her run by felt like fate.

  Only, at the end of the path, she didn’t make a left to jog along The Strand back to Lucas’. She turned right. Away from Hermosa. Into Manhattan Beach. Along the northern stretch of The Strand where we rode our bikes on Friday.

  And now, I’ve been running behind her for close to three miles, something I did not prepare myself for, and I’ll still have to run back to my house.

  Which is why I feel like a crazy person.

  My feet hurt. My back hurts. My lungs ache. The sweat is burning my eyes.

  But I keep going.

  And I don’t know fucking why.

  Okay, so maybe that’s a lie.

  There was a moment on Friday night. Some kind of something between us that was… unlike anything I’ve felt before. And now that three days have passed and I haven’t seen her, I feel the need to take advantage of the limited time I’ll have with her. Because I know it will come to an end.

  Suddenly, this has become bigger. She’s become more than just Lucas’ long-lost sister. More than just Ivy’s potential donor.

  She’s someone I want to know.

  When we’d been standing at the top of the dune and she couldn’t find the courage to drop down, her biggest fear had been the group at the bottom. Not getting hurt. Not eating shit. Just the people at the bottom that might laugh.

  Makes me wonder what else she’s endured in life that the physical pain isn’t the main threat.

  You hear stories about kids in foster care. What they endure. And when I first found out about Hannah, I just… didn’t know. I was too young to really understand and I didn’t think everything through.

  Now I’m wishing I had.

  Maybe a lot of things could be different.

  But there’s another part of me that will not be ignored. And that’s the one that knows too much.

  There is a very real part of me that sees her as the problem, not the solution.

  So what do I do when my brain feels like a fucking mess? When I can’t seem to make up my mind about what I’m supposed to do?

  Apparently I stalk people.

  That’s a great thing to learn about myself.

  I can see in the distance that we’re nearing the end of The Strand. Beyond Manhattan, a bike trail continues for miles and miles, stretching up into Playa Del Rey before crossing Ballona Creek and continuing into Venice and Santa Monica.

  I’ve ridden that distance a few times in my life. On a bike. The idea of potentially running it is mortifying.

  But I can tell Hannah is slowing as we near 45th Street. Hopefully she’s gearing up to turn around, because I can’t keep going. And if she does continue, I’ll have to admit defeat and hobble home.

  I glance around, wondering where would be a good place for me to step off the trail so she can turn around and just keep…

  But before I can do that, Hannah comes to a complete stop and spins around, putting her hands behind her head and stretching, taking deep breaths.

  Her eyes connect with mine.

  She blinks. I blink.

  And it feels like my only choice is to keep running so I don’t look like the crazy person who just followed her for almost four miles.

  But she grins at me, a soft, sweet thing that splits my chest wide open.

  Not at all what I’m expecting.

  She drops her arms and rests her hands on her hips.

  “Hey,” she says, still panting as I slow down and approach her.

  “Hi.” It’s all I can manage since I can barely catch my own breath.

  “Are you still stalking me?”

  I’m fairly certain that I stop breathing for a few seconds before Hannah starts to laugh. Wheeze really, since she’s still trying to suck oxygen into her lungs.

  And that’s when I remember. We had the stalker joke from the night we met and Mary’s and the yacht club.

  A perfect distraction since I don’t know what else to say.

  “Always,” is what I manage in response.

  It’s a flirty thing to say, and the part of me that sees Hannah as a problem wants to kick myself. But something deeper inside of me likes the way her cheeks pink even more than they already are after her run.

  “I didn’t think you were a runner,” she says. “I mean, I don’t really know anything about you, so it makes sense I wouldn’t know that, I guess. But when you were practically dying the other day at the dunes, I just assumed that you weren’t a cardio person. Though, in complete honesty, I was dying by the time I got to the top, too.”

  I chuckle, though I’m still trying to catch my breath. “It’s a new thing,” I lie. “Trying to get into it.”

  “Well that was a pretty amazing run for someone just starting to get into it,” she praises, and I can’t help it when my feathers fluff up at her attention. “Do you want to run back together?”

  My mind races through all of the things that could go wrong with this run back, but ultimately, I nod.

  Because the part of me that can’t seem to get enough of her? He’s been winning since the moment we met.

  We take off, running at a steady pace, side-by-side. And I want to laugh at the irony of this situation.

  That I’m runnin
g on The Strand with Hannah Morrison. Wanting her attention. Smiling at her jokes. Barely able to catch my breath.

  Well, that’s probably because of the running, but still. It’s true whether I’m running or not.

  “This beach is so gorgeous,” she says, breaking the silence a few minutes later. “I never would have imagined that I’d be here, in a place like this.”

  “You miss Phoenix at all?” I ask.

  “Not really,” she says, her voice surprisingly steady for someone running at least a half dozen miles today.

  “Sounds like a great place to live.”

  My sarcasm isn’t lost on her and she laughs, glances my way. “I hated Phoenix. I lived in this beat up little apartment with a childhood friend and her daughter.”

  Even if I hadn’t already known that, the Hermosa gossip trail has already burned strong with information about Lucas’ secret sister.

  At minimum, the machine has dug up the information on her parents’ deaths, her background in foster care, her brother’s death, her enrollment at the community college in Phoenix, and the fact that she lived with a girl with a deaf daughter.

  I know more information than they do, but no one needs to know that.

  Some secrets are better kept secret.

  “I loved them,” she continues, “but I’ve always felt like my life has been this one giant attempt at trying to climb out of a hole, and I think Melanie felt the same. It’s probably better that we parted ways so we didn’t start dragging each other down.”

  “What was life like there?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from revealing how badly I want to collapse on the ground.

  This running shit is no joke.

  She sighs, and when I look over, I see a look of frustration on her face.

  “Well, I worked as much as I could. Babysitting and waitressing. Tried to get photography gigs. Took classes at the community college. That’s really it.”

  “So, you came here to get away from that?”

  She pants a few times, takes some deep breaths and glances my way. “I guess. My lease was coming to an end. School was out for the summer.” She pauses. “But mostly, I think I’m here trying to figure things out.”

  “Like what?”

  Hannah slows slightly, wrapping her arms around her stomach awkwardly as we jog. And then she laughs. Hard. Almost forcefully, belying her discomfort.

  “God, if only it were that easy, that I could just give you a list. But honestly, I don’t know yet. But I think being here is a part of the process.”

  I don’t like her answer. I don’t like that it sounds vague and indecisive, like she’s a feather in the wind just waiting to be pushed in whatever direction is decided for her.

  She doesn’t seem like that girl to me. That woman. I think she sees herself as weak, but the more I start to reveal the little bits and pieces of Hannah that make up her whole, the more I realize she’s made out of something real and twisted and strong.

  We stay silent for most of the run back into Hermosa. When my body starts to revolt against the long run and lack of conditioning for this much cardio, I find myself focusing on Hannah’s soft breaths panting next to me.

  “You mentioned photography?” I ask, trying to find a way to keep her talking.

  She snorts, an adorable little thing that reflects how she feels about this portion of her life. “I hope to be a photographer one day. But I’m still trying to figure everything out, so… it’s been a work in progress.”

  I smile even through my pain at the thought of Hannah behind a camera’s lens. I’ve been observing her closely since we first met, and she has incredibly watchful eyes. She’s very aware of the people around her, picks up on mood and feeling and can see beauty in so many things.

  It suits her.

  “I hope it works out for you,” is the lame ass thing I manage to come up with to say in response.

  I swear I feel on the verge of weeping when we round a light curve and I can see the path that leads to my house in the distance.

  “This is where I’ll split off,” I say.

  Hannah’s eyes connect with mine. “Can I come by and say hello to Ivy?”

  Something trips over in my chest when she asks that. And I know in the depth of my soul that it’s a bad idea. But I can’t seem to verbalize that. Can’t make the words come off my tongue. Which is a good thing. Because in the same thought, I’m reminded of what I’m supposed to be doing.

  Making sure Hannah feels welcome.

  And time spent with Ivy can only help the cause, right?

  The only thing I can seem to manage to say is, “Sure.”

  So we jog up the path and back towards my house, turning right on Hermosa Ave and down a few properties before I come to an exhausted stop in front of the guesthouse garage door, which I see I forgot to close.

  “Wow,” she says, her chest heaving up and down as I lean up against a wall and try to catch my breath.

  “Yeah. I feel like shit.”

  Hannah laughs, the sound funny and slightly adorable as it leaves her body between her own pants of breath. “I meant your house, not the run.”

  I smile, though I literally feel like I’m dying while she looks like she barely took a light jog around the block.

  “This place is so cute. You live here?” her eyes are taking in the guesthouse, which sits atop a small secondary garage that serves mostly as a workout space if I don’t feel like heading to the gym at my mom’s.

  “This is my mother’s house,” I say, the words coming out slowly and surrounded by hard breathing. “I’m just in town visiting for a bit, so when I stay here, I stay in the guesthouse.”

  She nods.

  I tip my head in the direction of the main house, and Hannah follows me as I lead her through the garage and out a side door that leads to the main courtyard and the entrance to the main house.

  As I’m pushing open the front door, I glance back and see Hannah frozen near the doorway leading out from the garage. Her eyes are wide as she stares at everything. The grass, the trees, the path, the house, over to the guesthouse, then back into the garage she just came out of.

  “You coming?” I call over to her.

  Her eyes clash with mine. “You didn’t tell me you lived in a castle,” she says.

  I chuckle. “Calloway Castle is pretty well-known in the area.” I lean against the doorway and cross my arms.

  “You Hermosa Beach boys and all your money and fancy houses,” she teases, and I can’t help but smile back at her.

  “You gonna stand out here all day or do you want to see Ivy?”

  At that, she lights up, and her feet begin to move her in my direction. Up the few stairs leading into the entry and then inside.

  Hannah Morrison is inside my house.

  I never thought I’d see the day.

  Grabbing my phone out of my pocket I flick off a text.

  Me: I have a present downstairs. Come and get it. Hurry!

  Within thirty seconds, I hear feet thundering around upstairs and then clomping aggressively down towards us. When Ivy rounds the top section of stairs and sees Hannah standing next to me, she has a fat fucking meltdown of happiness.

  “Oh my gosh!” she cries out, her words having that same muted quality that most deaf people have, since she can’t hear what she’s saying.

  I’ve seen a few people stare at her because of the way she sounds when she speaks. They gawk, like she’s from the circus. And it makes me want to throw them up against a wall, grab their neck and squeeze.

  But of course, I don’t do that. Often. Might have once or twice to a few dicks when we were younger. But I’ve tried to be a bit more mature about things now that I’m nearing twenty-five.

  Ivy sprints towards Hannah, the two embracing in a sweet hug once she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

  What are you doing here?

  Your brother was stalking me, so I told him he had to let me hang out with you if he didn’t want me to call the cops.
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  Ivy turns and glares at me, like I did something wrong. She doesn’t get that Hannah’s joking, or that technically Hannah isn’t actually joking.

  I hold my hands up. “What?” I say, knowing she can read my lips with how intensely she’s looking at me.

  Apologize to Hannah.

  I laugh as I watch Ivy continue to light me on fire with her eyes, her arms crossed. Then I give Hannah a smirk and a wink. Sorry, Hannah. Looking to Ivy, I narrow my eyes. Better?

  Ivy huffs, takes Hannah by the hand, and drags her away.

  I watch as the two of them walk past the living room and out to the backyard, out to sit by the pool, ignoring the living room and the over-sized couches that face a TV that almost never gets used and takes up half of a wall.

  I know for a fact that my mom spent over fifty thousand dollars to get that thing and have it set up. It’s top of the line, 4K, with absolutely amazing resolution.

  It’s also going to be outdated in the next few months.

  Normally, I’m not one to think about circumstances outside of my own. It might make be a bit of a dick, but it’s just my life. We donate to charities and we do the best we can. But we also have a lot of money, and we use it on what we want to use it on.

  Things like TVs, private flights, yachts, and living for years without a job.

  Those are normal.

  Not once have I reconsidered those things. Not once have I felt guilty about having them.

  Until the moment Hannah’s eyes widened at the size of my house. That’s the second I started to notice everything, like blinders had suddenly been peeled away from my eyes.

  The huge fucking TV, the wine room that probably has a cool million in aged wine that might never get drunk, the painting on the wall my mom bought at auction for six figures that will be replaced by a new piece next season.

  I think about what I know of Hannah’s life before coming here. The file I have in the office from years ago, detailing as much of her life as could be found at that time. Her report cards and statements from her foster care families.