"Annie, are you still there?" Kate asked.
"Sorry, you got me thinking."
"In a good way?"
"Maybe."
"Then my work here is done. I should get going."
"Hold on. How are things going with you and Devin?"
"Will you hate me if I say perfect?"
She smiled at the happy tone in her sister's voice. "I'll be jealous, but I won't hate you. Any wedding plans?"
"Not yet. We've talked about it, but we're not in a rush. We're very happy as we are. Devin loves running his own investigation firm, and I love being an agent. We don't want to jinx it with wedding plans and me turning into a bridezilla."
"That would never happen. You don't care enough about dresses and flowers to be a bridezilla."
Kate laughed. "That's true. And Mom is thankfully distracted by Dylan and Ian deciding to have a double wedding in February that she's not bugging me at all."
"The way things are going, I'll be the last single Callaway standing."
"With Hunter still single, I don't think that will happen," Kate said dryly.
"True."
"I'll call you when I'm back in the States. Stay away from sharks."
"Don't worry. I am not going anywhere near the water. Talk to you soon." As her sister hung up, she set her phone on the table and then grabbed the sketch pad that had been sitting empty for the past month.
What she hadn't told Kate was that after her last job fell apart, she'd had a severe case of artist's block and a terrifying fear that all her creativity had somehow vanished.
Now she picked up her pen, the surfer's image dancing through her head. He had had strong features, a full, sexy mouth, and startling blue eyes, that had been both bright and shadowed at the same time. It was as if he'd seen too much of something…sun, life, heartbreak…
Her fingers flew across the page as she brought his features to life. For the first time in a long time, she felt inspired…
Two
Saturday morning, Annie woke up early, a new mission in mind. After spending half the night trying to capture her surfer hero's face on her sketch pad, she'd decided she needed to see him again. She told herself she wanted to thank him for saving her life, but in reality, she just felt a compelling need to connect with him again. Maybe it was because they'd shared a life-changing moment together, or perhaps it was because he had the most interesting blue eyes she'd ever seen. Whatever the reason, she was up and out of her apartment before eight, heading down the cliff steps to the beach below and following a path to the pier.
With yesterday's shark sightings, new signs had been put up on the beach, warning people to stay out of the water, and at the moment the surfers seemed to be obeying that directive. There were, however, a lot of people on the beach path, a mix of runners and leisurely strollers enjoying the still perfect weather and getting in a little exercise.
As she neared the pier, she could see lines of people waiting outside the restaurants, probably hoping to get an ocean view table from which to enjoy their pancakes or eggs. But she wasn't looking for food this morning; she was in search of information.
She took a left just past the pier and made her way to Sonny's Surf Shop. Stepping past the rack of surfboards in front of the small blue building, she found more surfboards and boogie boards inside the shop, as well as wetsuits and snorkel gear.
There were a crowd of shaggy-haired, skinny, sunburned guys gathered at the counter, most of whom appeared to be in their teens or early twenties, and she felt very much out of her element, but she pushed forward anyway.
The group moved to the side, telling the clerk they'd be back later. Then the bald, fifty-something man behind the counter wearing a Sonny's Surf Shop T-shirt gave her a smile. "Good morning," he said. "Are you looking for a board? I'm Sonny; I'm the owner."
"It's nice to meet you, Sonny. I'm not looking for a board, but I am looking for a surfer."
The man stiffened, his dark eyes slanting with suspicion. "You a cop?"
"No, of course not." She found it difficult to believe anyone would mistake her for a police officer.
"Then what's your business with this surfer?"
"I want to thank him. I was in the water yesterday when some sharks came near the shore. He saved my life."
The man's expression suddenly changed. "I just read about that online. You're the girl in the photo."
"What photo?" she asked in surprise.
He picked up his phone from the counter, tapped several keys, and then turned the screen to face her. She was shocked to see herself sitting on the sand with her rescuer right in front of her, his hand on her shoulder, his gaze on her face.
With the lifeguard kneeling next to the surfer, it was clear that the photo had been taken by someone right after she was pulled from the water. She looked like a bedraggled mess, her long hair tangled and dripping all over her face, her eyes wild and unfocused.
"That must have been a terrifying experience," Sonny said.
"Beyond belief," she murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from the face of the man she hadn't been able to forget. He was just as attractive as she remembered with his thick, wavy, dark-brown hair, sculpted face, and blue eyes. He had on a black short-sleeve wetsuit that clung to his broad shoulders and long, lean legs. A knot grew in her throat and an unexpected shiver ran down her spine.
Pulling her gaze away from the picture, she turned to Sonny. "That is the guy I'm looking for. Do you know him?"
Sonny took his phone back. "Sure, that's Griffin Hale."
"Do you know where I might be able to find him?"
"He owns the Depot on 4th Street. He'll probably be there tonight. He's there most weekend nights."
"The Depot?" she queried.
"It's a bar at the old train station. I should warn you—Griffin is not the friendliest guy," Sonny added. "He keeps to himself, likes his privacy, and doesn't hang with any of the other surfers, but from what I've seen of his skills, you're damn lucky he was the one out there yesterday."
"I know. I was very fortunate."
"Do you surf?"
"No, and I don't plan on going back into the ocean any time soon," she said with a firm shake of her head.
"I guess I can understand that you'd be a little spooked now, but if you change your mind, I can hook you up with a nice board."
"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for your help."
She walked out of Sonny's and paused to put on her sunglasses. Sonny had said that Griffin worked most nights. She'd check out the bar this evening. Hopefully, she'd have a chance to say thank-you to the man who had saved her life.
* * *
Griffin wiped down the bar at the Depot, not quite sure he was ready for Saturday night—their busiest night of the week. He'd opened the Depot two years earlier with his partner Vinnie Price, and it had done much better than they had ever imagined. They'd even started opening up for lunch a few weeks ago, and while the crowd was smaller during the day, they did a steady business between twelve and two, and then again around happy hour and into the evening.
It was a little before five o'clock now, and there were a dozen or so people in the bar. With two bands coming in later, one to play from nine to ten and the other from ten to midnight, the bar would be packed all night and he would need all hands on deck.
As he looked around the room, he felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. With the help of a local designer, he had transformed the train station into a modern bar, while keeping the exposed wood ceilings and old ticket windows with inset iron bars for atmosphere. He'd added vintage train photographs on the walls and stacks of old suitcases strategically placed throughout the bar to make one feel as if they were about to go somewhere fun, even if they never left the building.
He'd also traded the linoleum-covered floors for hardwood, added a stage at the far end of the room for live music and karaoke, a couple of TVs for the big sporting events and brought in a dozen or so round tables that were scattered i
n the middle of the room with several high-tops for four, adding additional seating.
He set his towel down on the counter as Vinnie came out of the kitchen with two burger plates and headed for a nearby table. Vinnie was not only his partner but also the chef. He didn't usually wait on tables, but apparently the wait staff had yet to arrive.
He smiled to himself as Vinnie, a big, burly, former Marine, former football linebacker, with short brown hair and tattoo sleeves on both arms, delivered two perfectly grilled burgers to two middle-aged guys who'd been arguing over which basketball team—the Warriors or the Lakers—was better. Since the bar was close to Laker land, a staunch defense was being delivered for the home team.
On his way back to the kitchen, Vinnie paused by the bar, giving him a concerned look. "Shari is late again. Second time this week. Said she's having car trouble. Not sure I'm buying it."
"I'll talk to her when she gets in."
"You should do that. I've been getting a bad feeling in my gut the last week."
"About Shari?"
"Not sure yet. Something."
He wanted to dismiss Vinnie's bad gut as being due to the fact that Vinnie was forty-five years old and still ate bacon cheeseburgers like a teenager, but he couldn't quite get there.
While Shari's tardiness didn't particularly bother him, he'd had an itchy feeling down his spine the past week, too. He'd found himself looking over his shoulder one too many times. That was a feeling he'd thought he'd gotten rid of since he'd moved to San Clemente a few years ago, but it seemed to be back. Since he'd never been a paranoid person, he had to take it seriously.
"Probably nothing," Vinnie added, meeting his gaze.
"Probably not. But we'll keep an eye out."
"Always do," Vinnie said, as he headed into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Griffin was relieved to see Shari Carlan, a woman in her late twenties, enter the bar. Shari had shoulder-length black hair streaked with blue and dark eyes that held a lot of shadows, some of which he knew something about. He knew she had her secrets, but he didn't care. She was a good waitress, and he was happy to see her show up tonight.
"Vinnie was just looking for you," he said.
"I'm like three minutes late," she retorted, irritation in her face.
"Everything okay?"
"Aside from the fact that my fourteen-year-old car is a lemon—yeah, it's great." She pushed through the door leading into the kitchen.
"She's in her usual good mood," Justin Pike said, coming around the bar.
A twenty-three-year-old surfer/student with golden blond hair, a boyish face, and an easygoing smile, Justin was the complete opposite to Shari and brought a fresh, young energy to the bar, which usually resulted in a horde of single women hanging around when Justin was serving up drinks.
"Hopefully, she keeps the mood away from the customers," he said.
"I wouldn't count on it, but I'll keep the drinks coming, so it will all be good," Justin added with a laugh.
Griffin was eleven years older than Justin, and at thirty-four, he sometimes felt like an old man next to Justin. He certainly didn’t remember ever being as carefree or as chill. He'd been born with intensity, and the need to take care of himself from a very young age had only heightened that intensity.
"What's going on around here?" Justin asked.
"Not much. Anything new with you?"
"Met a cool girl today."
"That doesn't sound like news," he said dryly.
"She's studying to be a nurse, probably way too smart for me," Justin added with a laugh. "But, man, she was hot. She might come in tonight."
"Great. But remember if she's drinking for free, that's on your tab, not mine."
"Got it," Justin said, not taking offense. "She's worth it."
"You might want to rethink that strategy when you take a look at your next paycheck. You've been buying the ladies a lot of drinks."
"Having fun," Justin said with a shrug. "You should try it sometime."
As Justin finished speaking, the front door to the bar opened, and a man walked in. He wore dark-gray slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a striped navy-blue tie. His brown hair was cut very short, his face cleanly shaven. And he was the last person Griffin wanted to see. But whatever Paul Daniels had to say needed to be said with a bit more privacy.
He tipped his head toward a table in the corner, then poured two shots of bourbon and walked around the bar, sitting down across from a man who inspired both loyalty and frustration whenever they met up. "Could you look more like a fed?" he asked.
"I didn't have time to change," Paul Daniels replied. He took the shot with a swallow of satisfaction. "Smooth."
"You must be off the clock."
"Almost."
That answer didn't make him happy. "I told you we need to take a break."
"And we did. It's been two months," Paul replied. "Megan is a twenty-four-year-old woman. She's jittery, fragile, and isn't doing well in isolation. She needs people around her that she doesn't have to lie to. It won't be for long—a week, maybe ten days."
"You always say that."
"And I'm mostly telling the truth."
He drank his shot, breaking his own rule about not drinking while working, then said, "Where is she?"
"In the car."
"Alone?"
"Rob is with her." Paul paused, resting his forearms on the table, as his brown-eyed gaze settled on Griffin's face. "She's not any happier about this than you are, but I think this would be a good place for her."
"Where is she from?"
"A long way from here. I'm not worried about danger finding her; I'm worried about her cracking or running. Some people can live a lie with no problems. Others can't."
He knew that better than anyone.
The door opened again, and for a split second he thought it might be the person Paul had brought to the bar, but the woman with reddish-blonde hair and sparkling green eyes was much more familiar and even more disturbing. She'd been very attractive in the orange bikini she'd had on yesterday, but it had been hard to get past the enormous fear in her eyes. Today, wearing white jeans and a clingy blue top, she looked beautiful and back on her game.
But why was she here? He couldn't believe it was a coincidence.
"Damn," he muttered.
"Ex-girlfriend?" Paul asked, raising an eyebrow as he followed his gaze.
"No, but not someone I wanted to see."
"You never want to see anyone. I'm still surprised someone as unfriendly as you decided to open a bar."
Sometimes—like today—he asked himself the same question. But while there were a lot of people in the bar, he didn't have to interact with very many of them.
As the redhead's gaze lit on him, a smile spread across her face. He felt like he'd just been struck by a hot, bright ray of sun. It warmed up places in his body that had gone cold a long time ago.
"I'm going to get Megan and bring her in," Paul said, getting to his feet. "I'll let you deal with whatever this is."
"What?" he asked, a little distracted by the woman making her way across the bar.
"I'll be right back."
He had a lot more he wanted to say to Paul, but his friend was already gone, and the woman he'd pulled out of the ocean yesterday was almost at his table. He stood up, his nerves tightening. He could sense danger from a mile away. He didn't know why this woman was trouble; he just knew that she was.
"I found you," she said, a proud note in her voice.
"I wasn't lost," he said shortly.
"I know. But I was looking for you," she stumbled, obviously put off by his abrupt response.
Good. He didn't want her to feel welcome. He wanted to get rid of her as soon as possible. She was too pretty, too curious, too…everything.
"I'm Annie Callaway. I wanted to say thank-you," she continued. "You saved my life yesterday."
"Maybe—maybe not," he replied with a careless shrug. "The sharks might not have bothered yo
u."
"They could have killed me."
"Well, they didn't, so it's all good."
"Because of you."
"I just did what anyone would do."
"No one else did," she pointed out.
"I was the only one there."
She frowned. "I'm not here to ask for anything. I just wanted to tell you how grateful I was for your help. I didn't get a chance yesterday. You disappeared really fast."
"I had to get to work. How did you find me?" he asked, suddenly wondering how she'd gotten from the beach to the bar.
"I went to Sonny's Surf Shop this morning. I figured he probably knew most of the surfers. He gave me your name and said you owned this place."
"So much for privacy," he muttered.
Irritated fire sparked in her green eyes. "I don't think he thought he was giving out state secrets."
"Right. Look, I appreciate the thanks. I'm glad you're all right. I need to get back to work."
"It's nice here. Maybe I'll get a drink."
The last thing he wanted her to do was linger, but he could hardly kick her out. "Sure. What do you want?"
"A vodka tonic."
"Got it." He walked over to the bar and made her drink while Justin tended to a group of customers, who barely looked twenty-one, but they seemed to know Justin.
Hopefully, he was checking their IDs in between looking at whatever someone was showing him on their phone.
Annie Callaway slipped onto a barstool in front of him. "I see you surfing a lot," she said. "I live in an apartment on the bluff. You like to go out late in the afternoon."
"It's quieter then." He was annoyed that he'd gotten so predictable. He hadn't thought anyone was paying attention to him, but obviously he was wrong. He put the drink in front of her. "Here you go."
"Thanks."
"Hey, Ms. Callaway—I can't believe you're here after what happened to you," Justin said, coming down the bar with surprise in his eyes.
"You two know each other?" he asked with a frown.
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