Page 4 of Say When
"Hot almost-date." I grab a muffin and tear off a piece. "Met someone at the bonfire. Her name is Grace, and she’s renting on Oceanview."
Liv's eyebrows shoot up. "The pretty brunette in the green dress? Everyone was talking about how you two were glued together during the fireworks."
"Small town," I mutter.
"Very." She leans against the counter, crossing her arms. "She's older, right? Like, significantly."
I meet her eyes steadily. "Doesn't matter."
Liv studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay, just be careful, little brother. She looks like she's carrying some history."
"I can handle history."
She snorts. "Famous last words."
I spend the morning restocking boards and rinsing wetsuits, but my mind is elsewhere. Every time the bell over the door rings, I look up, hoping it's her.
Around eleven-thirty, I can't take it anymore. I grab my keys, tell Liv I'm running to the café for lunch, and head down the boardwalk.
Grace sits at a corner table under the striped awning, laptop open, sunglasses perched on her head, a half-finished iced latte sweating beside her. She's wearing a white tank top today, thin straps over sun-kissed shoulders, and her hair is twisted up in a messy knot secured with a pencil. She bites her lower lip while she types, completely focused, and something in my chest squeezes hard.
I order two iced lattes, walk over, and set one in front of her without a word.
She startles, looking up, and her whole face softens when she sees me. "Jake."
"Hi, Grace." I slide into the chair across from her. "You looked like you could use a refill and maybe some company."
She closes the laptop slowly, one eyebrow arched in that way that makes my blood heat. "And you volunteered for both?"
"Guilty." I lean forward, forearms on the small table, close enough to catch the faint scent of coconut. "Couldn't stop thinking about you last night. Kept seeing your face in the firework light. Kept wondering what your mouth would feel like under mine."
Her breath catches audibly. A flush creeps up her throat, slow and pink, and I want to follow it with my tongue.
"You're not subtle," she murmurs.
"Don't want to be." I let my gaze drop to her lips, then drag it back up to her eyes. "Tell me to leave, and I'll go, but I don't think that's what you want."
She studies me, fingers tightening around the fresh coffee cup. "I'm not looking for anything, Jake. I told you that."
"I remember." I keep my voice low, steady. "I'm not asking for anything. I just want to spend time with you."
She laughs, the sound soft, husky, and it lands low in my gut. "You're impossible."
"Persistent," I correct. "Big difference."
Silence stretches between us, thick with possibility. Her eyes trace my shoulders, my jaw, the way my T-shirt pulls tight across my chest from leaning forward. I let her look. I want her to picture it. My hands on her again, this time without anything between us.
"Fine," she says at last. "One lesson. But I'm warning you, I'm terrible at anything athletic."
"I don’t believe you’re terrible at anything you put your mind to." The words come out rougher than I intend, loaded. Her pupils flare, dark and hungry.
We finish our coffees in charged quiet, every glance feeling like foreplay. Then we walk the short distance to the shop side by side. Our arms brush with every step, electricity snapping along my skin.
Inside, I grab a beginner shortboard and lead her out to the private stretch of beach we use for lessons.
The water is calm today, with gentle rollers instead of crashing waves. Perfect for a first-timer.
I wade in with her, board under my arm, watching the way her cover-up clings to the wind that catches it. She peels it off, revealing a simple black bikini that ties at the hips and neck, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from groaning out loud.
