Page 3 of Every Summer Since
“That’s it,” she said. “There you go.”
She rubbed the guy’s back, patting between his shoulder blades.
I stood there, dripping, chest heaving, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Thirty seconds, maybe less. That’s how fast one of the scariest moments of my life had just unfolded.
The kid was sitting up now, sputtering, alive, blinking at the world like he wasn’t sure how he ended up on the beach. She was still beside him, steady as a rock as she talked him through it.
Then she looked up at me, water droplets clinging to her lashes, her wet hair plastered to her cheeks, neck, chest, and shoulders.
Holy shit.
The woman was stunning. She was breathing hard from the exertion of dragging a grown man out of the ocean. Someone put another branch on the fire. Flames shot up and lit the area enough for me to see the gorgeous shade of her aquamarine eyes. Sea glass. That’s what they reminded me of. We had a bunch of little figurines in the kitchen window of the beach house. When the sun hit them just right, they looked exactly like her eyes.
I couldn’t look away.
“Thanks.” The kid coughed. “You saved my life.”
He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at my angel. His angel too, I supposed.
“No sweat,” she said.
“Uh.” I cleared my throat. “I’m here too.”
She didn’t look at me again, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
The kid stared up at her with glassy, devoted eyes. The kind of look that said he was thinking about flopping on the sand and holding his breath in the hopes she might give him mouth to mouth.
It wasn’t a terrible idea.
“I think I need CPR,” the punk said.
I rolled my eyes. Ballsy little shit.
She laughed. “Nice try, kid.”
She stood up and reached her hand out to help him up. “You’re fine, but if you start feeling like you can’t catch your breath?—”
“You’ll give me mouth-to-mouth?”
“No, you get your ass to the hospital,” she said.
She pulled him to his feet and slid under his arm.
She told him they’d take it slow and go sit by the fire. “And if you have half a brain cell, you’ll lay off the booze for the rest of the night.”
Proving the kid was perfectly fine, he made a move and put his hand on her hip. “Yes, ma’am.”
She caught his wrist, moved it away from her body, and then stepped back. “Keep your hands to yourself,” she told him. “You have no business going out there or putting your hand on me. You’re an ankle-high tourist at best.”
He blinked and she slid out from under his arm. I didn’t blame her. The near-drowning victim was a punk, and the whole time she walked away, he stared at her ass.
So did I, but at least I hadn’t needed her to rescue me and then tried to make a move on her.
My lips tasted like saltwater. It dripped to the sand from my hair and the tip of my nose. My shirt and shorts clung to me like a second skin, which was mildly uncomfortable, but I remained rooted to the spot, watching her silhouette move down the beach.
I exhaled slowly. “Who was that?”
The kid started back up the beach to the fire and smirked over his shoulder at me. “It doesn’t matter who she is. She’s way out of our league, man.”
