Rogue: A Paradise Shores Novel

by Hayle, Olivia

  So I turn my back on him—and the silent question in his eyes—and walk into the living room instead. It’s cozy, with two couches arranged around a flat-screen TV. It’s way too big for one person.

  “This is a great place, Hay.”

  “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I was lucky when I found it.”

  “Renting it with furniture and all?” I run my hand over the back of a couch. It’s a soft linen fabric, very much the vogue at the moment. It’s expertly decorated, if a bit bland with the colors. No personal touches. It looks almost like the sort of decor I do for Harris Properties when we stage houses.

  “Yeah, it came furnished.”

  “This is excellent,” I murmur, looking at a driftwood lamp in the corner. It’s understated but works perfectly with the Paradise Shores aesthetic.

  Hayden returns, coming to stand beside me. The scent of man washes over me again. “You work with this stuff now, right?”

  I nod. “Yes, I do most of the decor and staging for the new properties before they go on market.”

  “With Turner? At Harris Properties, right?”

  “Yeah. I help out a bit with the architectural plans, too. It’s very fun.”

  “Huh.” Hayden runs his hand over the back of the couch. It’s a thoughtful gesture, and combined with the sound, I can practically hear what he’s thinking.

  “Just say it.”

  He sighs. “I would have thought you’d work with art. In a gallery, or painting… It was always your dream. Not getting into the same sort of thing as your father.”

  “I still paint,” I say, although it’s not technically true. I haven’t for months. Whenever I pick up the paintbrush, all I can think about are my shortcomings. It’s not fun anymore. But I miss it. I miss it like a missing limb.

  “Good,” he says. “You’re too talented to stop.”

  “Well, I’m not that talented.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I roll my eyes and take a seat on one of the couches. Hayden follows me, sitting on the opposite one and stretching out his long legs. Friends, I remind myself.

  “Tell me about the galleries you worked at in New York.”

  “You’ve never liked all that artsy stuff.”

  “I’ve always liked yours,” he says, voice entirely sincere.

  I rub the back of my neck. “Thanks. Well… I worked in a place in Soho before switching to two on the Upper West Side. It was a lot of fun, that world. Seeing new artists come in and help curate exhibitions. I loved it. But everything has its time, you know? I missed the ocean, and I missed doing something practical with my hands. It was so conceptual all the time. I wanted to actually create, not just curate.”

  “So you came back here.”

  I nod. “I wanted to come back here and paint. To see the ocean every day, to be closer to my family. It was good to be away for a while, but it was even better to be back.”

  Hayden nods. “I can imagine.”

  “How about you? How does it feel to be back?”

  “Weird.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Good.”

  “How’s Gary doing?”

  “Oh, you know him. He’s doing the same old things he’s always been doing. He’s talking about trimming the lawn mower for your parents’ place, getting it to go faster. I asked why speed was necessary, but he just laughed me off.”

  Hayden’s uncle had always been one for tinkering. “Remember when he made us homemade rockets for New Year’s one year?”

  “Yep. I was pretty sure he was going to get fired for that.”

  “What? My parents would never fire him.”

  His eyebrows rise. “If they found out about those rockets, I’m pretty sure they would’ve.”

  I don’t believe that. “Well, he became my brother’s hero after that.”

  Hayden snorts. “That’s true.”

  “Anything Parker knows about cars today, he’s learned from Gary. He still goes there sometimes, you know, just to ask for advice.”

  “Yeah, he told me something about that,” Hayden says.

  There’s something I want to ask. Something that’s been nagging at me for years, in the back of my mind. About being a fish out of water—dropped into a strange new place.

  “How was it, growing up with us? Truly?”

  His smile flashes again. “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  Hayden shakes his head, still smiling.

  “What’s funny?”

  “You,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “You just are. All right, I’ll try to answer your question.” He looks away, running a hand through his hair, the smile still playing around his lips. He’s arrestingly handsome like that, sitting casually in his own home, freshly showered and shaved.

  “It was great. You four, you were… well, I think it’s something you only see from the outside. But you have each other. And as intensely jealous as I was of that, I also loved being close to it. Seeing what a family was supposed to look like.”

  It’s more than he’s ever told me. I run my hand over the throw on the couch, thinking about all the times we were together, all of us. “Everyone missed you, you know. After you left.”

  “They did?”

  “Yes. Henry tried to hide it, but I could tell he was rattled. He was the one who kept us all updated on your military achievements.”

  Hayden’s eyes are wide. “He did?”

  “Yes. I’m sure it took meticulous research, but you know how he is. He has to have control over everything.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s true.”

  “Rhys wasn’t surprised, though I don’t know why. Parker missed you the most, I think.”

  Hayden nods, but not like he believes me. More like he’s humoring me.

  I frown. “They did, you know. I know things were complicated at times. But they did.”

  He nods and stands, stretching lightly from side to side. His gaze is softer, and I don’t know if it’s because of what I said or because he thinks it’s cute that I tried. I never know what really gets through to him.

  “I’ve been a bad host,” he says. “Do you want something to drink? A piece of the tarte?”

  “I can’t eat my own gift.”

  “Of course you can. I’ll be right back, Lils.”

  I sit in silence on his couch, hearing the rustle and bustle in the kitchen as he prepares plates. It’s oddly domestic in a way we haven’t been for years, perhaps ever. As children, we mostly spent time together with my brothers. Any moments for just him and me had to be stolen, to be carved out and guarded. They were some of my favorite memories.

  My gaze snags on something on the mantlepiece. A large, pinkish cone shell, with a painted landscape on the side. No way.

  He kept it?

  I want to look at it—at the scribbled handwriting I know is on the other side—but Hayden returns. He hands me a glass of white wine and a paper plate with the tarte on it. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t have plates and all that stuff yet.”

  “Just wineglasses?”

  “I found some in the back cupboard.”

  He takes a seat next to me on the couch, his big body so much closer than it was before. His arm drapes on the back of the sofa. My mind instantly wants to race ahead, thinking about the cone shell and what it could mean. I take a sip of my wine and try to ignore it completely.

  Hayden smiles after he takes a bite. “Well, I’ve definitely missed this. Your family pretty much spoiled me for anything but French food.”

  “You know I don’t do this half as well as my mom, not to mention my grandma.”

  A shadow briefly crosses his face. “No,” he says. “Yours is the best.”

  I laugh. “Thanks, but now I know you’re lying.”

  “Not a lie.” He takes another bite of the tarte. He’d cut himself a huge slice, but it’s already halfway gone. It doesn’t surprise me. Together with my brothers, he always had a huge appetite. I guess it had to go somewhere—and n
ow I know where. Straight into broadening his chest and strengthening those muscles.

  I take off my shoes and curl up on his couch, legs crossed, turning to face him. “Let me guess what you didn’t miss about Paradise Shores. The people. The organized parties. The water polo team.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Oh, Lily, don’t mention the water polo team. I’ve missed them the most, I think. Not to mention their shaved chests.”

  “The school uniform?”

  “Every day in the Navy, I just kept thinking, this uniform would look so much better in the colors of Paradise High.”

  My smile is wide now. “Mandatory classes in Latin.”

  “Non sibi sed patriae,” he says, the pronunciation flawless. “You don’t know how often that’s come in handy. I might be the only sailor in the Navy who can actually conjugate our motto.”

  “Hanging on the bleachers.”

  “My great pastime.”

  “Smoking?”

  Hayden narrows his eyes at me. “Smoking?”

  “You used to smoke in high school, remember? I figured you’d stopped.”

  He puts the empty plate on the coffee table, turning to face me. There’s an expression on his face that I can’t quite place. I don’t know if he’s uncomfortable or embarrassed, but then he runs a hand through his hair and I know it’s the former.

  “You knew I smoked, Lils?”

  I grin. “Of course I knew.”

  “I made sure to never smoke when you were around.”

  “Yeah, well, I figured it out.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “A real Sherlock.”

  “That’s me.”

  “You never called me on it?” He shifts closer, moving so that our knees almost touch on the couch. I don’t know if it’s a conscious movement or not, but his body has turned to face me too. It’s hard to stop my pulse from increasing, or the painful tear in my chest. Friends, I remind myself. He wants to be friends.

  But I can’t stop the faint protest. He kept the cone shell.

  “No. I figured it was important to you that I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t want to be a bad influence.”

  “My own brothers wouldn’t even swear in front of me. You were the one who taught me.”

  His smile is crooked. “That’s right.”

  “And how to punch someone.”

  “Have you had to do that?”

  “No,” I answer honestly. “But I still remember. Look.” I raise my hand and make a fist, just like he taught me. Thumb on the outside of the fist, not inside, or it’ll get broken instantly from the impact. Make sure you’re not clenching so tight that your little finger starts collapsing inwards.

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, taking my hand in both of his. He twists it around, looks at the placement of my thumb. “Very good.”

  “I didn’t forget,” I murmur. His eyes are warm this close, the same amber color I remember. His skin is tan, and there are small, faint lines around his eyes now. He’s seen things—done things, things I can’t begin to comprehend. He’s lived a whole life in the decade we’ve been apart. So have I.

  But his hand on mine feels as familiar to me as my own. And while his hair might be shorter, it still curves over his forehead the way I remember.

  “Good.” Hayden lowers my hand slowly, until it’s resting in both of his, in the open space between us. His thumb rubs a slow circle on the inside of my palm. The touch sends shivers up my arm and warmth through my chest. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You told me that your brothers missed me. Were they the only ones?”

  My breath is coming fast. What he’s asking…

  “I’m sure your uncle did too,” I tease softly, and he laughs. The throaty sound makes me lean in closer.

  “Lily,” he complains.

  “I know, I know.” I look down at where my hand rests in his. “I missed you too,” I whisper. “You know I did.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just sits there with my hand in his. They’re warm and bigger than I remember, the skin dry and slightly calloused. I wonder what they’d feel like on my cheek, cupping my chin, sliding down along my neck and further down still.

  My heart feels like it might beat out of my chest. Isn’t he going to respond? My heart aches for his words and my body for his touch.

  His hand drifts to my knee, resting easily there. There’s barely any pressure but my body still curves toward the touch. It’s an automatic reaction where he’s concerned.

  “Lily,” he murmurs, close enough that I can feel his warm breath against my mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  He bends his head and slowly, giving me more than enough time to pull back, presses his lips against mine. They’re warm and soft and strong, kissing me with a powerful restraint. It’s a test, I realize.

  He’s testing the waters.

  His hand on my knee tightens slightly, fingers slipping under the skirt to softly caress my leg. I deepen the kiss—how can I not? His taste and warmth is everything I need. Everything I’ve missed, for years and years. Kissing Hayden was never just kissing. It’s life-giving.

  Warm lips coax my mouth open and I welcome his tongue inside. He’s kissing me sweetly, our bodies barely touching. I can feel my heart opening.

  Hayden…

  For so long, I’ve dreamed of this. Of him, back in my arms. Of his lips against mine and the soft, warm gaze of his eyes that only I get to see. How hands that are hard and calloused can become tender, the feeling of his body when he’s close to release but fighting it. Fighting it like he does everything in life.

  Except he left.

  I break the kiss and put a hand on his chest. “Hayden, we can’t.”

  He leans back. There’s fire in his eyes, and I realize just how tightly leashed he kept himself, to kiss me so gently for so long. “Why not?”

  “I just can’t.” I shake my head and stand up. I struggle to get my shoes on and try to close my heart. It can’t open to him again—I can’t handle the pain. It would kill me this time.

  “Lily, I didn’t mean to push you away.”

  “I know. And we’re friends. We still will be. Thanks for the wine, and for the… for the dessert.”

  “Yes, of course. Anytime.” Hayden’s eyes search mine. I can tell he’s curious as to the sudden change in me, but I can’t explain it. I just know I’m in dangerous territory.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, and I don’t know for what. For kissing me? For leaving? For coming back?

  Who was I kidding, thinking I could handle being just “friends” with him?

  “I’ll see you around,” I say, and practically run for the door.

  15

  Lily

  Lily, 18

  Rhys is sprawled on my bed. His head is in a book, which is nothing new, but his hair is. He’s shaved it short, all the long tresses gone. Something changed in him after he left for university.

  “Can you explain to me again why the cousins from Maine are invited?” I ask him.

  “Why, because it’s Lily Marchand’s eighteenth birthday party, of course!” I know he’s not mocking me—he’s mocking Mom.

  “But I haven’t seen them since I was thirteen.”

  “It’s to humor Aunt Elaine. You know her and Dad don’t see eye-to-eye.”

  “I know. But why use my birthday party for it?”

  He flips a page. “Family politics.”

  “I hate it.” I put the final pearl pin in my hair. It’s in a massive updo, the way I know my grandmothers—both of them—prefer. But I’ve let some soft curls fall down, framing my face and my neck. A small act of rebellion.

  My dress is gorgeous, though. Deep blue, with a low back and a twirling A-line skirt. It took me nearly five months to sew.

  I hear Rhys flip yet another page. His ability to read and simultaneously keep up a conversation has never stopped making me envious. “I haven’t seen Hayden around,”
he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, fiddling with my zipper. “He’s working at the docks this summer, on the fishing boats.”

  “Well, he can’t be at work all the time.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know his schedule.”

  That’s not entirely true. I see him leaving the beach house in the mornings sometimes, and I occasionally catch him returning. It’s the only glimpse I have of him, now.

  It’s been over a month since the graduation party and we still haven’t properly spoken. I felt silly, a girl who threw herself at him at a party, dressed up to the nines, only to be reprimanded and turned away.

  But as much as his rejection hurt, not talking to him might almost be worse. In the beginning, I’d avoided him because of my own hurt pride. I’d put myself out there and he’d turned me down, plain and simple. And when he’d tried to talk to me… Well, I’d turned away. The idea of him explaining it to me again—how we couldn’t be together—hurt too much.

  So I know it’s on me now, to start a conversation—but how do you begin? If there is a roadmap back to our casual friendship, I certainly don’t have it.

  “Is he coming tonight?” Rhys asks.

  I smooth a hand over the silk of my dress. “I think so.”

  In truth, I have no idea at all. He might stay away entirely.

  But I hope he doesn’t.

  * * *

  “A drink?”

  I shoot the well-meaning waiter a small smile. “Can’t. I’m not twenty-one.”

  He looks sheepish. “Sorry, miss.”

  “No worries.” I’d like nothing more than a cool sip of the champagne my dad’s serving tonight, but I know that the approximately sixty guests would crucify me for it.

  The bad thing about being the guest of honor? Everyone has their eyes on you.

  Jamie threads her arm through mine. “Come on, Lils. You don’t have to stand by the front door the whole night. Let someone else welcome the guests.”

  We walk through the house to the backyard, where soft music drifts from the live band my mom hired. They’re good, I have to give it to her. Canapés are served, and I manage to nab one of the small quiches with tomato relish on top.