by Max Monroe
Son of a bitch. She’s struggling.
In my prime as a Navy SEAL, I was able to hold my breath for more than three minutes at a time, but as I’ve aged, my ability has sloped off. Still, I make it a habit to train every morning—to maintain both my lung capacity and real-world training so that I can still stay underwater longer than any average person.
I jump into action, swimming in the direction I last saw her and waiting for the eddy from the wave to recede. I go under quickly, opening my eyes to search for her. She’s at the bottom, rolling around and trying to make sense of her body. Her clothing is baggy and soaked, and it’s making it even harder for her to find the surface.
Did she dive in with her damn clothes on?
I swoop down swiftly, and with practiced ease, slide an arm under her armpit, across the wall of her chest, and secure my hand under the other armpit. And then I swim for the shore.
I know she’s likely close to the end of her air supply, but we’ll make it to shallow water much faster if we swim below the waves. The surf is rolling today, and it’s probably why she got into trouble in the first place.
Waist-deep water comes quickly, and I switch my grip on her upper body, shifting her into my arms to carry her behind the head and the knees. I run to dry ground, settling her body softly into the sand as she sputters for air while her throat works to rid itself of ocean water.
I push wet strands of her dark hair away from her face and look her over, but all in all, she seems pretty lucky. No signs of severe oxygen loss, and her pupils are reactive.
“Are you okay?” I ask when she stops coughing. The sound of my voice forces her to focus on me for the first time as I search her crystal-like eyes. They’re the color of jade.
“You’re alive!” she responds strangely.
My eyebrows come together as I assess her further. She’s in a black business suit. It hangs on her body, but I can’t tell if it’s a tomboyish structure to the suit or the weight of the water that’s the cause. What it isn’t, though, is a swimsuit or wet suit or appropriate apparel of any kind for the ocean.
“Why are you wearing clothes?” I question.
“You’re alive!” she shouts again, and this time, I can’t ignore it.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “And so are you. But you’re extremely lucky to be. You almost drowned out there.”
“I almost drowned because you were drowning.”
“No.” I shake my head and almost laugh at the ridiculousness of her response. “You didn’t drown because I know how to swim, and I certainly don’t go out into the ocean in business clothes.”
“I went into the ocean in business clothes because you were drowning!”
“No,” I say again. “I wasn’t.”
“Yes. You. Were,” she retorts, her voice stubborn. “I watched you go under and never come up, and I went into the ocean to save you.” I open my mouth to refute her again, but she points an accusing index finger in my face and rushes to speak again. “I saw it with my own eyes, so don’t you go saying no again!”
“I was holding my breath. Not drowning,” I explain.
“What kind of person goes underwater and holds their breath for that long! There’s no way—”
“A former Navy SEAL,” I cut her off. I don’t mean to be impolite, but so far, this conversation isn’t going anywhere. The only thing that’s going to help it along is clarity.
That closes her mouth—in fact, it goes so far as to make her suck her lips in over her teeth.
For the first time, it’s silent, and both of us look down to realize I’m lying half on top of her, my hand at the bare, exposed skin of her waist.
Goose bumps form under my fingertips just before I pull them away and push back to my knees in the sand. I put my ass to my heels and roll up to my feet.
She watches the movement avidly but doesn’t venture to make any of her own.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask again from my position above her. The sun is bright in my eyes, but I can’t seem to turn away from her.
She nods, biting into the flesh of her bottom lip and laughing a little. Mascara runs down her cheeks and settles into her dimples, and her sandy, wet hair clings to the sides of her face.
She looks like a wet rat. Somehow, though, I can still tell she’s extraordinarily pretty.
I reach down and offer a hand. She accepts it readily, and I pull her up to standing.
“Thanks for trying to save me,” I say, a teasing smile playing at the corner of my lips.
She laughs outright at herself and sinks her head into her hands. “Oh yeah. This’ll be a story for the grandkids, for sure. Assuming I ever have any, that is.”
Her comments are self-deprecating but laced heavily with humor. I can’t help but laugh and stick out a hand. “I’m Jake, by the way.”
“Hold on…” She stares down at my hand like it might catch on fire. “What did you say your name was?”
“Jake,” I repeat.
Her face freezes briefly, and then she breaks out into full-blown cackles.
Okaaay. This is one of the weirdest mornings of my life.
Holley
The guy who was drowning—more like, the guy you thought was drowning, even tried to save from drowning, but who, in all actuality, saved you from drowning—is him, Jake flipping Brent.
The exact man I came here to find.
“Of course you are,” I blurt out through another round of laughter.
Of all the people on the planet—of all the people on this beach this morning!—and I had to make a fool of myself with the actual guy I’m supposed to meet. There’s no running. There’s no hiding. There’s no Don’t worry about it, Holley, you’ll never see this guy again. This is Grade A, prime choice embarrassment, and it’s going to give me horrible indigestion for the next several weeks.
Oh my God! I cannot believe myself.
“What? Is Jake a bad name?” he asks through a raspy chuckle, completely behind the curve of our fate. “I can go by something else if that’ll make you feel better.”
Oh, so he’s incredibly handsome and charming? Sounds about right at this point.
My eyes don’t miss—can’t miss—the way his fingers move the zipper of his wet suit down, down, down, from his neck to just slightly below his belly button. With the kind of ease I do not possess, he slips his arms out of the sleeves and lets the material hang loose at his waist. His nearly full sleeve of tattoos on one arm is unbelievably vibrant against his tanned skin. And the rest of him?
Biceps and pecs and a six-pack, oh my!
This guy is forty? Good grief, his body looks twenty-five, tops…
Get it together, you little floozy! Stop staring at your assignment like he’s lunch!
I shake myself out of my beefy-muscles-induced trance and clear my throat. “No, no,” I backtrack, trying to figure out how to save face when I’m pretty sure it melted off in the ocean. Or, at the very least, when his fingers played tug-of-war with his freaking wet suit. “Jake is a fine name. It’s just…well… I’m Holley,” I reveal. “Holley Fields.”
I giggle to try to soften the awkward news, but he doesn’t react at all how I expect. Instead, his eyebrows draw together. A smile still highlights his perfect cheekbones and insanely blue eyes, and my God, why does he have to be so attractive?
“Holley,” he says then, acknowledging that he did, in fact, hear me say my name correctly, but taking it no further.
“Right,” I confirm. “Holley Fields.”
He shrugs and settles his hands on his hips, calling my attention to the line of muscle that scoops down on both sides and points to the glorious world under his bathing suit.
“I work for the SoCal Tribune,” I say, elucidating even further.
He nods as if it’s all the same to him. “And I have a construction company.”
I start to open my mouth when it finally fucking dawns on me. He has no freaking clue about me. He doesn’t know that he’s meeting me her
e or that he’s been selected for Bachelor Anonymous or anything. He probably never paid attention to my name on the submissions, and his daughter obviously didn’t relay the message. She wrote it down on some notepad and moved on with her life. I know how teenage girls work—I was one once.
Oh, hell’s bells, he must think I’m insane.
“Uh, I’m just now realizing that maybe we’re miscommunicating a little bit. I spoke with your daughter last night—Chloe. About your Bachelor Anonymous submission. You were selected, and she assured me she’d let you know and that I should meet you here this morning, but I’m guessing you didn’t get the message…?”
“What?” he says, his tone unmistakable. It’s the tone every dad in the natural world invokes when they’ve just found out their kids have done something like taken their autographed sports memorabilia and flushed it down the toilet. I suddenly feel very protective of the unknown Chloe. I don’t want to be the reason she gets in trouble.
“Honestly, we probably got our wires crossed. Or maybe she didn’t get a chance to get the message to you. It’s no big deal—”
“Sorry, Holley, but it is a big deal,” he insists. “For you and me. Because I don’t have a single clue what Bachelor Anonymous is, and I can assure you, if I did, I’d never sign myself up for it.”
“Oh shit.”
He nods. “Oh shit, indeed.”
I follow closely behind him as he turns on his heel and heads for a pile of stuff about twenty feet away. I have to assume it’s his. Either that, or the news of his involvement in the contest has inspired a robbery of some kind.
Still, I prefer to bank on the latter.
Sand sticks to my feet and nags on the back half of my body as I trudge behind him. He’s focused, though, and doesn’t seem to notice me—the sand yeti—at all.
He digs in the front pocket of his bag and comes out with a phone. His fingers move over the screen.
“What are you doing?” I ask, a boldness I’m not entitled to somehow taking me over.
“I’m calling my daughter,” he answers matter-of-factly. “She has some explaining to do.”
“Maybe she didn’t have anything to do with this? Maybe someone else submitted a personal ad for you?” I offer, and he targets an incredulous yet stern look directly at me.
“Holley, with all due respect, I know my daughter pretty fucking well,” he responds, and his jaw clenches a little. “And I’m one-hundred-percent certain she’s the culprit.”
Uh oh.
I wince, feeling seriously sorry for the unknown teen now. “Maybe you should…calm down,” I suggest.
Unimpressed with my brazenness—which, quite frankly, I can’t blame him for…I don’t know where it’s coming from!—he spears me with a glare, and I try like hell to speak in coherent sentences as I attempt to explain myself.
“I just…maybe you should read the ad first. Get acquainted with the whole situation before you…” I pause as I backpedal away from saying the words rip her a new asshole. “I have it in my bag.”
Without speaking, he holds out a waiting hand, and I don’t hesitate.
Quickly, so quickly I’m huffing, I run through the thirty feet of sand back over to the spot I left my purse, grab it, and jog back over to him. I open the top flap, dig around, and finally pull out the edition of the paper in which the ads ran for the contest.
Through all of this, he never puts down his hand.
I slide the paper between his fingers, which clamp down immediately, and he begins flipping through the pages furiously.
“It’s on page six,” I say, trying to be helpful.
Clearly, I just can’t help but butt in today.
Once he gets to the right page, the ad is easy enough to find. I have it circled in bright-red pen.
I glance at the paper, and my eyes widen. Okay, so that’s not a circle. How in the fucking bejeezus did I not remember that I put a heart around it?
Embarrassment heats the back of my neck, and if it weren’t for the smeared makeup and sand, he’d probably be able to see some pink in the apples of my cheeks. As it is, I’m pretty sure nothing could make me look out of the ordinary.
“Single Dad Seeks Juliet,” he reads aloud with a slight edge of derision. I suck my lips into my mouth and stay silent. I’m just thankful he hasn’t mentioned my sixth-grade-style doodle that looks like it came straight off Lisa Frank’s production line.
“I can’t believe this,” he mutters to himself as he continues to read, and it’s all I can do not to sneak around and take a peek over his shoulder.
I mean, I’ve read the ad. Several times. But it’s kind of like watching a movie you’ve seen and love for the first time with someone else. It’s all about knowing what parts they’re specifically reacting to.
“I thought it was a really tasteful ad,” I say softly, hoping to shed some kind of positive light on Chloe’s situation.
“Oh, really? Well, I’d like to remind you that Romeo and Juliet fucking killed themselves,” he replies.
Yowzer. I clamp my mouth shut again.
“This just isn’t like her,” he says, more to himself than to me. “To do something like this behind my back. What in the hell was she thinking?”
Now, I know—I know—the question was meant to be rhetorical. But for some reason, I just can’t help myself. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe she’s trying to help, you know?”
“By entering me into a fucking ridiculous dating contest?” he questions, and instantly, for the briefest of moments, he actually finds a way to come out of his anger long enough to think about me. “No offense, of course.”
It’s surprising—startling, even. I’ve never seen anything like it before. All the men I’ve ever known didn’t know how to pause long enough to consider anyone but themselves.
“Oh,” I say with a wave of my hand and a squish of my lips. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s just not something I would do,” he explains further. “She knows that. We’re very close. I’m sure this is great for some people.” He’s being so nice now, I’m actually starting to get uncomfortable.
“Hey, it’s okay.” I shrug one shoulder. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I’m getting paid to be a part of it.”
I shut my mouth immediately after that one. I swore up and down to myself that I wouldn’t go there—that I wouldn’t allow myself to even consider that I’d rather be doing something other than these articles. All that negativity will only make the work ten times as painful.
He takes a deep breath, but eventually types out a message on his phone that I can’t actually read without seeming far too creepy. I’m curious, but it looks like I’m just going to have to stay that way.
He looks up when he’s done typing, narrowing his eyes as he considers me for a moment. “You really want to know what I said, don’t you?”
I shake my head vigorously. “What? Me? No way! I would never dream of invading your privacy like that!”
He snorts. “I just told her to meet me at home because we have to talk.”
I suck my lips into my mouth and nod. Man, it feels so good to know what he said. Even more than that, I’m glad I agree with it.
Not that I need to at all. Obviously. It’s not my business.
Yet you just can’t seem to stop making it your business.
“I think that’s a good move,” I comment. “In person is better.”
He surveys me closely, looking over my sand- and water-soaked, haggard body before landing on my eyes. His are earnest and friendly—and only a small percent amused by my appearance.
I look ridiculous. I know it, and he knows it too. But he’s chosen to be nice.
“Are you going to be okay? You know, to drive and everything? Because—”
“Who me?” I say, far too casually. “Are you kidding? I’m great. Terrific. Totally A-OK.”
I look like a wet rat and I’m going to find a new Bachelor Anonymous for the contes
t in a crazy short amount of time, but that’s just minor details…right?
“Are you sure?” he checks, and despite the internal battle that’s beginning inside me, I nod.
“I’ll be fine.”
He jerks his chin upward, just once. It’s smooth and casual, and… Wow. I’ve never seen a man pull off that move without looking utterly ridiculous before. But he’s done it.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
I shake my head. “I’m good, promise. You have important things to get home to.”
He nods and then chuckles a little. “She is my kid. She’s probably going to join an animal shelter and pick up forty-five hours of volunteer work in the next two days, just to have a good excuse to avoid coming home.”
“I’d be practicing my crying if I were her.” I giggle. “Heck, that’s what I was doing when I was her.”
Jake smiles, and it feels like a reward. I keep going.
“I was a teenage girl once. I know the feeling of impending punishment. I have many years of training for an Oscar. Can’t believe I didn’t use it to make buckets and buckets of money.”
Mouth still curved toward his eyes, he holds up the paper between us and asks, “Mind if I keep this?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. I have another copy.”
“But do they all have a heart drawn on them?” he teases, and I almost faint.
“My dog did that,” I blurt, despite the fact that it’s both preposterous for an animal to be drawing and I don’t have a dog.
He chuckles, and I’m almost tempted to think of some more dumb things to say.
God, he’s cute. The women in the Bachelor Anonymous contest would have eaten him up. And I’m still considering all the ways I can make a fool of myself for the benefit of his laughter when he bids me goodbye.
“It was nice to meet you, Holley.”
“You too, Jake.”
With one more chin jerk and a smile, he scoops up his bag and his towel and heads for the sidewalk at the top of the beach. I watch as he goes for a moment, but I finally snap myself out of it.