by Jewel E. Ann
“You are. You have a PhD. And you said that makes you Doctor Hunt.”
I hiss while sitting up.
Nate eases my leg into a better position, bracing my ankle with his large, calloused hand. “It’s swelling. I fear you may have sprained it.”
“It’s fine. If I can get out of the sand, I can just walk it off.”
His other hand rests on my calf as he grins. “I don’t think walking off a sprain is a good idea. But ice is a great idea. Here. Let’s see if you can put weight on it.”
“Come on, Gabe, we’ll get her other side.” Morgan jumps right in to help me as her dad guides my arm around his neck and his arm around my waist.
“Let’s get you out of the sand.” He bears most of my weight as Morgan and Gabe fail to do much because I don’t want to hurt them with my bloated self.
“Sorry. It’s hard to hop on one foot in the sand.”
“Just carry her, Dad.”
“No! I’m heavy. Just … let me crawl out of the sand.”
“Dad! Carry her.” Morgan’s incessant “helpfulness” makes my cheeks flame ten shades of embarrassment.
“You’ll hurt your back. I’m heavier than I—No! Your back!” I protest when he scoops me up.
“My back is old, but not that old.” He laughs, taking confident strides toward Mr. Hans’s house.
“This could not be more embarrassing,” I mumble, refusing to look at him even with his face so close to mine. Citrus and ocean cling to his skin, a nice combination—not that I’m trying to smell him. He’s just unavoidably close.
And firm.
Firm and bare chested.
Very capable, firm arms.
I suck in my bloated stomach as if this simple act will make me ten pounds lighter.
“Careful.” He eases me to my feet next to Kyle’s Land Rover.
My Land Rover? I don’t know whose life this is at the moment.
“Thank you.” I try to bear weight on my left foot and cringe. “It’s …” I hobble a few steps. “Tender but not awful. I’ll be fine. Thank you. Gabe, will you please grab my shoes?”
Nathaniel crosses his very capable arms over his chest and nods once. “Ice it as soon as you get home.”
“Sure thing, Doctor Hunt.”
“Professor. And therefore just Nathaniel.”
“You should get crutches,” Gabe says, opening the passenger door as I open the driver’s side door.
“Oh! No no no … get one of those fancy little scooters that you kneel on like my dad had. Right, Dad?” Morgan’s enthusiasm blows me away. Gabe could use some of it rubbing off onto him.
Nathaniel’s head bobs side to side. “Maybe. Ice it first and see how it feels in a day or two.”
“Thank you.”
He grins, showing a few white teeth. “You said that, more than once. It was no big deal.”
“You carried me off the beach. It’s a huge you-deserve-all-the-thank-you’s kind of deal. I need to buy you pizza, not the other way around.”
His gaze wanders from mine, often and quickly, like he can’t maintain eye contact with me. It’s … odd. I don’t catch the flirty or bashful vibe. It’s something else. What? I don’t know.
“Are you okay to drive?” he asks again, giving me a two-second glance.
Easing into the seat, I nod. “It’s my left foot. I’m good. Thank—” I catch myself and finish with a silent grin instead.
CHAPTER THREE
Nathaniel
“He’s so cute. And I love the way he talks. It’s like you, Dad.” Morgan rinses her feet off at the spigot on the side of the house while I hold a towel for her.
I quirk a single brow. “Should I feel guilty that my American daughter is so enamored by an American accent? You have it too.”
She sort of does. It’s more of a chameleon accent that changes upon location. I’m partial to her Italian accent.
“He said ‘dude’ a dozen times, every time I tried to grab his phone. Dude …” she says with emphasis, like she’s testing it out. “It’s kind of cool.”
Dear God, please … no.
I’ve protected her from overusing fillers such as like, um, and uh. If our time here in California transforms my daughter into a Valley Girl, I won’t be happy.
She dries off her feet and floats into the house with a dreamy smile I have not seen on her face in … maybe ever. Our last stop didn’t include neighbors. I blinked and she dove into early puberty.
After she changes into leggings, a tee, and clean flip-flops, we hop into our blue rental—a two-door BMW convertible—and spend an eternity shopping for groceries and replenishing toiletries while she talks without taking a breath.
“Dude! That’s a lot of money,” she says when the cashier announces our three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar total.
Dude …
Just great.
“Wow can be used instead of dude in that scenario.”
“Whatevs, Dad.” She rolls her eyes as I push the cart of groceries out to the car.
“Whatever.” My correction gets me back-to-back eye rolls.
As we make our way to the beach house, I glance through the rearview mirror at Morgan grinning, her hair whipping in the wind, hands above her head like riding a roller coaster. I miss my wife every day, even after a decade without her. Knowing I showed our daughter the world, that I did exactly what we had planned on doing, brings a bittersweet smile to my face.
“Do you think you’ll get married again?” Morgan asks.
Ten years.
I made it ten years without her curiosity piquing to the point of contemplating my future apart from hers. It was good while it lasted.
“Nope. You’re my girl. You’re all I need.”
“Dad … you can’t marry me. And if I get married, who will you have?”
It’s not enough that she has her mom’s face and my first love’s name to haunt me on a daily basis. She has to point out all the tiny facts I’ve chosen to ignore—like she’s going to get married and leave me someday.
“I might get a dog.”
“Hey!” She leans forward and pinches the back of my neck. “That’s not fair. I want a dog too.”
I shrug, pulling into the driveway. “Then you’d better just stick with me instead of chasing crazy dreams like getting married.”
This girl.
She’s life.
She pumped my heart when I didn’t think it could keep beating. She filled my lungs when I thought I’d taken my last breath. She crawled up my face and showed me I still had a smile.
I think all these amazing things about her as we fill the fridge and cupboards with food and read books on opposite ends of the sofa. Three more months until we settle into something considered normal—I don’t want to rush one single moment.
*
Over the next few days, we explore San Diego, searching for favorite restaurants, ice cream shops, watching hang gliders at Torrey Pines Gliderport and searching for starfish and sea anemones at the Point Loma tide pools. Then Morgan drags me to Mr. Hans’s house to meet him, so she can ask him a million questions about Gabe and Gracelyn. We purchase bikes, chairs and umbrellas for the beach, and a beanbag chair. While trying to raise a child without the constant entertainment of screens, I’ve had to make sacrifices. She likes to read books in a beanbag chair since having one at a hostel in Israel. And if I say no to the chair, she wants an iPad, like it’s her right to dole out ultimatums.
So … her new beanbag chair is light pink, her favorite color—and more than half her clothes.
“They’re back! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” Morgan barrels down the stairs as I assemble sandwiches for our late Friday afternoon lunch.
“Bugs? Whales? Migratory birds? You need to elaborate.”
“Gabe and Gracelyn!”
“Oh … that’s right. They’re moving in today.” I set her plate onto the small round kitchen table. “Whoa … wait. You need to eat.” I frown as she shoves her feet into
her pink flip-flops.
“Dad! They’re literally moving in right now, and she’s limping. I think her leg is still hurt.”
“What have I told you about literally?”
Her face turns sour. “I know. I know. Most of what I say is and should be literal, so I don’t need to say it. Instead, I should stress if something is more figurative but could be mistaken as literal.”
My chest swells with pride. Will she be too advanced for her age to fit in at a public school? Not just academically, I sometimes question if she’ll be too mature.
“Save my sandwich.”
Opening my mouth, I start to protest again, but the hopeful gleam in her eyes kills my words before they jump from my tongue.
“Only help. If they don’t need help, then you’ll just be in the way.”
“Got it!” She sprints out the door, and I let her go.
Let her go …
Is that what I’m doing? Slowly letting her go? In eight years, she’ll legally be an adult. I might need eight years to rip off the Band-Aid. My paralyzing fear sends waves of nausea through my stomach. What’s going to happen when she leaves me more often to go places with friends? Driving a car on her own? Dating?
Losing her feels like I’m losing control, or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, it’s torturous.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gracelyn
“It’s too heavy. Gabe and I can get it,” I protest as Mr. Hans carries my overstuffed suitcase into the house. The movers dropped off the big stuff: beds, a sofa, and two chairs an hour earlier. I thought we could get the rest on our own. I might have overestimated my physical capabilities since the sprained ankle incident.
Mr. Hans shakes his head. “It’s fine. I had my hernia repaired last year.” He sets it down just before the steps, parking his hands on his hips to catch his breath as Morgan and Gabe squeeze past him, each carrying a small box of Gabe’s belongings.
“I can get it up the stairs.” I hobble toward the suitcase with my ankle wrapped and wedged into my military-style boot. It’s the only way I can walk without assistance. I saw a doctor, just to make sure it wasn’t a break. He told me it’s a bad sprain and I should stay off it. I follow the doctor’s orders … when I can.
“No.” He frowns at my foot. “I see you hobbling, Elvis. Morgan told me you injured your ankle.”
“I just twisted it a bit.”
He shakes off my attempt to grab the suitcase. “Just give me a minute to catch my second wind, and I’ll get it up the stairs.”
“My dad can carry it. I’ll go get him.” Morgan runs down the stairs.
“No. Really. Worst-case scenario, I just unpack it here and carry my clothes upstairs in two or three loads.”
Nathaniel carried me to my car. I’m not letting him carry my suitcase up the stairs.
“He’s so strong. He can still pick me up and toss me into the air until I touch the clouds.” Morgan turns as she opens the screen door. Her lips twist for a few seconds. “I figuratively touch the clouds. It’s a hyperbole.” Her hair zips away in a blond streak as she runs next door.
Mr. Hans’s bushy, dark gray eyebrows slide up his forehead like caterpillars—figuratively. A simile … I think. “Smart little cookie.”
I bite my lips together and nod. “I’m emptying my suitcase here.”
“Patience, Elvis. Help is on the way.”
I hate feeling like a damsel in distress.
Stupid sand. Why did I think it would be fun to rent a beachfront home?
Nathaniel Hunt, strongest man in a two-house radius, arrives sixty seconds later. Thank god he’s wearing a shirt today. “How can I be of assistance?” He flashes a hero’s smile.
“Elvis didn’t want to let me catch my breath before carrying this suitcase upstairs, so Miss Morgan volunteered you.”
“I can just empty it right here.” My voice carries a tiny edge to it. I’m not mad; I’m just frustrated for … so many reasons.
Death.
My new job.
My new responsibility.
My weak ankle.
My period.
Nathaniel’s gaze sticks to my hair, again. What’s his deal? Has he never seen highlights before? Granted, they are a little chunkier than I expected. I run my fingers through my hair, and his blue-eyed focus lowers to my face.
“Elvis?” His head cocks to the side.
I shoot Mr. Hans the hairy eyeball.
He smirks. “Graceland … Elvis.”
“Oh.” Nathaniel nods at Mr. Hans’s two-word explanation for my nickname.
“Mail!” Morgan and Gabe trek through the entry with two more small boxes and a pile of mail on top of Gabe’s box. “The mail lady has a gold tooth. Gabe said he thinks it’s cool, but I told him it means she lost part of a tooth or it decayed. Dad’s molar cracked in Germany, and he got a crown, but it’s not gold.”
Gabe drops his box at the bottom of the stairs and picks up the mail. “Huge Hands?” He squints at it before handing it to Huge Hands.
Morgan giggles, peering over Gabe’s shoulder at the mail. “It’s Hugh Hans. The G is silent. We met a cliff diver named Hugh when we visited Devil’s Tears in Indonesia. He explored the water and jumped off the highest cliffs while holding a camera on a long pole. He had the darkest tan, hair to his shoulders, and lots of whiskers on his face. His muscles were big like my dad’s, but Hugh had tattoos. So did his girlfriend. She put a million braids in my hair so it looked just like her hair. And she said Hugh is the most handsome man in the world and someday I’d find my own Hugh who kissed me until I fainted. Can you imagine fainting from a kiss?”
I just can’t stop thinking it. This. Girl. Is. Ten!
Nathaniel narrows his gaze at her. “When did you have this conversation, young lady?”
She rolls her eyes. “I told you, when Steffi braided my hair while you jumped off the cliff with Hugh. She also said you probably looked a lot like Hugh when you were younger.”
Fantastic.
My new neighbor resembles a hot cliff diver and Jamie Fraser.
Nathaniel shakes his head. “Morgan. Morgan. Morgan.” He clutches the handle of my suitcase, making the thick veins in his arms pop along with every muscle, and carries it up the stairs.
One slow step at a time, I follow him. Up with the good foot, drag the bad one.
“Which room?” He turns, waiting for me.
“The one at the end.” My stiff snail’s pace gets me to my bedroom just as he sets it on the bed. “Thank you so much.”
He turns, again inspecting my hair.
“Can I ask why you stare at my hair so much?” I end my question with a slight laugh so he doesn’t think I’m offended or upset.
He averts his gaze to the side and shakes his head. “It’s … nothing.”
“Is there something in my hair?” I smooth it with both hands.
“No.” He meets my eyes, and a sadness ghosts along his face. “You just … well, your hair reminds me of someone. That’s all. Sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh. I’m not really uncomfortable.”
Totally uncomfortable.
“You remind me of someone too,” I say.
“Oh? Who’s that?”
Jamie Fraser, my Outlander crush.
“Just … this guy. He’s not from around here. He’s actually from Scotland.”
Nathaniel nods. “Do you need help with anything else?”
“Nope. I’ve got it.”
He glances at my foot for a few seconds. “Let me rephrase. Is there anything left in the back of your vehicle?”
“Just a few bags and boxes. Gabe and I can get them. You’ve done enough.”
“Dad! Can you help? There’s a really heavy box,” Morgan yells from the bottom of the stairs.
He smirks. “Unpack your stuff. Rest your ankle. I’ve got this.”
I deflate. “I’m sorry. We should have had the moving company haul everything, but the bu
lk of my things are in storage, and we’re selling the larger items that belonged to my brother and his wife. I just … wasn’t thinking about my ankle.”
“No apologies,” he murmurs as he passes me to head back down the stairs.
Blowing out a long breath, I open my suitcase and start unpacking my clothes, pausing when I see the soft silk.
“You’re not here,” I whisper, closing my eyes and hugging a white lace and silk nightie to my chest.
I will never wear this nightie. It should go in the trash, not traveling everywhere with me, but I can’t let it go. I can’t let him go. Not yet. Running my hands over the delicate material, I mold it to the curves of my breasts, imagining what I would have looked like wearing it. Imagining the look on his face.
The sandpaper of a deep voice causes me to jump, and my eyes fly open. “Where do you want this box?” Nathaniel asks, eyeing the sexy lingerie pressed to my body over my white tank top.
I wad up the nightie and shove it in the pocket of my pants. Yes, my pants. There are dresser drawers and a suitcase where I could hide it, where it wouldn’t seem like a big deal.
Nope. I shove it into my pocket where it doesn’t completely fit, leaving one of the spaghetti straps hanging out in plain sight.
Whoever said you can’t be single, in your forties, and completely awesome at the same time … well, they were right.
Nathaniel drags his gaze from my bulging pocket to my bugged-out eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine. I was just …” I fold my hands in front of me to hide the bulging pocket. “Just, uh … deciding what to keep and what to give away. I’m undecided on this.” I pat my pocket. “So I’ll just keep it…” I rub my lips together to prevent myself from laughing as my cheeks burn “…in my pocket.” The last three words squeak out.
Nathaniel plants his teeth into his lower lip and nods slowly, his gaze flitting between mine and my pocket. “Okay, but I assume you don’t want this box in your other pocket. So where do you want it?”
A tiny chuckle escapes when I tip my chin down and cover my face. “Just … set it anywhere.”