Page 20 of Seashells and Daiquiris

There’s a hint of a blush in my cheeks, and this makes me realize how lonely I’ve been that even just a smallest hint of a hot man being nice to me is completely unwinding me.

“Well, my ex really broke my heart about a year ago. I’m basically over him, but I’m stuck in that in between where I’m not the new me. And I’m mostly here so I could maybe focus on my book and meet my deadline.”

Liam slowly removes his hands from his pockets, grabs the top of both of them. “I’ll take these to your car, and we can drive to my place.” His gaze then connects with mine, my heart fluttering a little. “Good to know you’re single.”

My stomach flips in a delicious way.

“Ooooh, yes!”

Liam starts laughing as he rolls the suitcases away. I want to ask if he’s single, but then realize that’s kind of why we’re in this mess. “I am going to bury that shell.”

“I kind of like it’s little commentary,” he says with his back to me. I move quickly to open the door for him, and there’s a tightness in the air between us that tells me there’s definitely some kind of tension present. It’s the way we partially make eye contact then awkwardly look away, or shimmy past the other like we don’t want to get too close because it might send a certain signal. Especially when I can smell that cologne on him again.

I fumble for my keys, unlocking my silver Honda civic. Liam lifts them with ease and places them into the trunk, and it’s now that I’m thanking baby Jesus for the fact that I decided to do a deep car clean before coming here. Otherwise he might have seen a trainwreck of things I stash in my trunk. I turn on the car just before he gets in, the vehicle slightly swaying with his new weight. He leans back and spreads his legs slightly, his hands on his thighs.

“Some 90s alternative?” I ask with a slightly high-pitched voice, immediately turning that on through my phone, making sure it’s loud enough to drown out the silence. Or more specifically, a certain shell that might really make this all worse.

By the fates, I’m not prepared for this.

His place is not what I expected.

I expected a house. Maybe a cottage, like Dove's, or an apartment above the bar. Something normal with walls and a roof and a boring front door.

What I get is a structure that looks like it grew out of the cliff itself.

It's built into the rock face about a quarter mile past The Riptide, tucked into a cove that's partially hidden by a natural rock arch. The front faces the ocean, like the house and the water are having a staring contest. It's made of weathered stone, dark wood, glass, so much glass, wide panels that let in the light, and most of them are open. It’s like the boundary between inside and outside barely exists.

There’s an actual channel of ocean water at the edge of his home, like a lazy river that goes right back to the ocean. "You have an ocean in your living room.”

He rolls my suitcases next to the gray couch, and I notice that he took car of all of that without me having to say a word. “I do actually need to soak in the ocean at least once a day, if I can. Otherwise it’s like a human being out in the dessert without water.”

I set my purse down on a stone counter that's smooth and cool under my fingers. "Can I see it sometime? The tail?"

A laugh spills out of him that he has to control. “Didn’t expect that… maybe one day. Can’t give that shell anymore reason to say the wild shit that it does.”

I grin at him⁠—

“We would very much like to see it.”

My face deadpans. “You’re right, that thing is a serious problem.”

"Is it, though?” He asks, his smile completely flirtatious like he’s showing how much he enjoys this. “Giving me a nice ego boost, even if it’s a little eager.”

My attempt to suppress a laugh just makes me sound ridiculous, so I let a real one roll out. An almost awkward energy takes over, like we’re both aware that maybe we’re actually into what’s happening more than we’re letting on but don’t know how to put words to it.

He shows me around, vaguely waving around as he gives the tour. It’s a mixture of rough, cold surfaces and soft fabrics. There are books everywhere, with quite a few giving off an ethereal charm like there’s magic inside.

The guest room is upstairs, a loft space with a bed that faces a window that frames nothing but ocean and sky. The sheets are dark gray and the duvet is heavy.

"The bathroom is through there," he says, raising his hand to my left. “Towels in the cabinet.” When he turns to look me over, he sighs. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” I say, trying to hide anything I just felt. “Um, no this is great.”

By great, I mean that the lack of any walls separating me from the rest of the house is a little distracting.

He looks around like he’s trying to figure it out with context clues. “Ah, I get it. It’s the loft, isn’t it?”

“Okay, I don’t want to be super picky or anything but it does lack some privacy.” I’m trying so hard to be polite right now.