Page 6 of Seashells and Daiquiris

There are a few people up on the boat deck, drinking in the late afternoon light. A set of weathered wooden stairs leads down from the boat's hull, carved into the rock and sand, disappearing underground. There's a heavy door at the bottom—old and iron-banded, like it once belonged on a pirate ship.

"We should go in there," the shell says. "I have a good feeling about this."

I immediately glance around to see if anyone is hearing this. So far, each time has been so loud it carries all through the space around me. And yet, no one seems to notice.

Once the door is opened, the first thing that hits me is the sound—a low, warm hum of conversation and music, the clink of glasses, laughter that bounces off stone walls. The second thing is the smell of salt and old wood and something fried that makes my stomach growl, reminding me I haven't eaten anything since the crackers in my car.

And the third thing is the view.

The underground bar is built into the bones of an old shipwreck. The ceiling is the hull itself, curved and massive, ribs of ancient timber arching overhead. The walls are rough stone on one side and open air on the other, because the whole thing is carved into the cliff face, and the far wall just... isn't. It's an opening, wide and breathtaking, that looks out directly onto the ocean. The coastal beach stretches out below, waves rolling in close enough that you can taste the salt on your lips, the horizon bleeding orange and pink in the pre-sunset light.

It’s moments like this that make me pause, completely removed from everything else.

The place is about half full, and there’s a group of women with fluid moving hair laughing in a corner booth. An older man at the bar has skin that's faintly scaled along his forearms, catching the light like fish leather. Two people slow-dance near an old jukebox.

I spot an empty stool at the bar and make my way toward it, sliding onto the worn leather seat and setting my purse and its pulsing, opinionated occupant on the counter beside me.

Maybe I can test the theory in here on if I’m the only one that can hear it or not.

A chalkboard menu on the wall lists cocktails with names like Siren's Ruin and The Undertow and Full Moon Folly, alongside a whole section dedicated to oysters. And, based on the way every person in here keeps glancing at the bar, one other thing.

Or rather, one other person.

He's behind the bar with his back to me, reaching up to a high shelf for a bottle, and the first thing I notice is his hair. Silver. Not gray—it’s a warm silver, like moonlight woven into strands, and it falls just past his shoulders, currently pulled back in a casual bun. The second thing I notice is the tattoos. They wind down his forearms, which are on full display because his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the tattoos look like something nautical.

He turns around.

Golden-brown eyes, so bright that he’s—well, he probably is supernatural. He’s handsome in the way that’s not conventional, and yet is. A strong nose, slightly pouty lips, eyes a little hooded, and facial features that furrow with an intensity⁠—

"Oh no."

I hold my breath, darting my gaze around to see if anyone heard the shell. No one seems to pay any mind, with most of the women watching the bartender. Okay, thank god. I try not to sass back to the seashell and just sit there and watch as he moves with this fluid, unhurried calm. He sets the bottle down and reaches for a glass and the whole thing is so casually, aggressively attractive that I’m staring intensely when he glances my way.

The way his eyes sharpen, like he’s wondering why I’m glaring so hard at him, makes the blood drain right from my face.

“He noticed us. Oh, goody!”

I glare at my purse, and half try to speak to it. Since when are ‘we’ a thing? Isn’t it echoing me?

Nope, this is manageable. This is fine. I can work with this. Maybe I can even use it for my book, cursed heroine with an enchanted object that says the quiet parts loud. That's actually not bad. I should write that down…

The bartender arrives in front of me with the energy of a man who knows exactly what kind of effect he has. “What can I get you?"

His voice is low. A little rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet, which is a sentence I would absolutely delete if I typed it in a manuscript, but here in person, looking at him, it's the only accurate description.

“A strawberry daiquiri,” I say. “Add an extra shot.”

One eyebrow lifts. Just barely. "It's four o'clock."

"And yet,” I say, motioning to the bar. “Here I am.”

The corner of his mouth does something that isn't quite a smile but acknowledges that a smile was considered. My heart is racing as I sit there, appreciating that at least this bartender is the distraction I need.

When he’s closer to me to grab a mixer, he glances back up momentarily. “So, I don’t see your face much.”

"I'm Freddie," I say. “I mean, I’m staying at my cousin's place for the summer. She’s a witch. I’m not.”

“You been here before?”