Chapter 6
“A bouquetof flowers doesn’t make it okay that you haven’t visited me in the past three years.” Grandma Deedee hands me a glass of lemonade before she takes the seat across from me.
“But it helps a little, doesn’t it?” I smile, hoping to charm her out of her annoyance.
She scolds me with her eyes as she sips her lemonade. I must’ve lost my touch.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay inside where the air conditioning is nice and cool?” We’re shaded from the noon-day sun, but the humidity makes my shirt cling to my back.
“I’m plenty cool out here.”
“Really?” I glance over her black short-sleeve sweater with a mock turtleneck. “You feel cool enough?”
“Walker, please tell me you didn’t come here to talk about the temperature outside.”
I don’t really know why I came. It just felt like the right thing to do, and the retirement home is next door to the mechanic shop where I need to pick up Stan’s boat. It would be cruel to be that close to my grandma and not say hi. Plus, Jane told me to visit Deedee, so I did.
“We can talk about whatever you want.” I shrug. “I’m just here to catch up.”
She places her wrinkly hands in her lap. “Well, then, what happened to that Lucy girl?” Her brows drop as she thinks. “Laura? Lacy? Lori?”
“Lydia,” I remind her.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“We broke up a month ago.” Apparently, me breaking my driver on national television was the last straw for her. Or maybe it was my pitiful performance at the tournament.
“Good. I didn’t like her much.”
“You didn’t even know her.”
“And whose fault is that?” Her lips purse as she gives me a stern look.
“There was never a reason for you two to meet. We weren’t that serious.”
“She thought you were serious—the way she was bouncing up and down at your golf tournaments the past two years, boobs flying everywhere. People should’ve yelled, ‘Fore!’ to warn the bystanders next to her so they didn’t get whacked in the face.” She clucks, shaking her head. “Oh, but the TV cameras loved zooming in on her whenever you hit the ball. Was I watching golf or a Hooters commercial?”
I stifle my laugh. “Lydia is a very nice woman. We just wanted different things.”
“Yeah, she wanted your fame and money,” she mutters loud enough for me to hear. “That’s what your mother said after meeting her.” She zips her lips like she’s not saying anything more.
I wasn’t naive to the fact that Lydia wanted the version of me she’d first met—the man who won the Masters, was ranked in the top fifty in the world, and was a contender in every tournament. But the further away I got from that, the more things unraveled between us. She was tired of dating a loser—her words, not mine.
It’s not like I saw forever in her eyes. Lydia was just something to do, a person to have on the sidelines cheering, a distraction to keep me from thinking about how unhappy I was. But it still stung a little when she broke up with me. Everything stings lately.
“Forget about her,” I say, perking my smile. “How are you feeling?”
“No, how are you feeling? How’s your back?”
It’s proving impossible to get Grandma Deedee to talk about herself.
“My back feels better than it has in a year. I’m doing great.” My gigantic smile adds further proof of that.
She leans forward, grilling me with her light eyes. “You snapped a golf club in half on national television.”
“I didn’t snap it in half. The driver head just broke off.”
“Is that tantrum why you’re here in Sunset Harbor and not on a course somewhere getting ready for the U.S. Open next week? Were you suspended?”
“No!” I gripe. “I got a slap on the wrist.” In the form of a five-thousand-dollar fine.
“So you are playing in the U.S. Open?”
I lift my baseball cap, combing my fingers through my hair before fitting it over my head again. “No, I’m going to sit this one out.”
“Why? Because you lost your cool and made a fool of yourself?”
“No, I’m just not ready. I need to figure out a few things with my swing. I’m having Pete take a look while I’m in town.”
“You can still play in the U.S. Open while you’re working on your swing.”
“With how I’ve been playing, I wouldn’t even make the cut. It would be a wasted week when I could be improving my game.”
She points at me. “I think you’re scared of failing.”
Not making the cut at a tournament is the surest sign of failure.
“It’s like you believe if you fail at golf, you’ll have nothing left in life.”
My stomach coils, but I cloak it perfectly with another stunning smile. “Aw, that’s not true. I’ll always have you.”
My joke falls on deaf ears.
“Do you really want the sum of your life to come down to how well you played a game?”
No, but that’s how things are shaking out.
I glance across the lawn, avoiding her gaze. I’m not saying anything that incriminates me. I never do.
This is how my relationship with Grandma Deedee goes. She prods and presses, always trying to get me to open up, but I avoid it. It’s easier to mask how I feel than to face it head-on. Instead, I channel everything into being the best golfer I can be. My talent is all I have.
She huffs at my silence. “Walker, face what’s left of your golf career or build your happiness on something else, but don’t hide. Your mother raised you better than that.”
I finally glance in her direction, covering my mouth with another smile. “And you wonder why I don’t come visit you more.”
“Yes, let’s discuss why you don’t visit me.” The seriousness in her eyes melts to something softer, easing the tightness squeezing my core. “Am I not good enough company?”
My grin widens as I tease. “You’re alright.”
“I’m more than alright. I’m a goldmine for gossip. Try me.”
“There’s nothing about Seaside Oasis I want to know.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She waves my disinterest away. “Let’s start with the juiciest piece of information. Marge Wentworth was seen coming out of Les Erikson’s room the other night at 10:24 p.m.” She wags her brows up and down.
“Maybe they were just talking.”
“That late at night?” she scoffs. “Don’t kid yourself.” A knock at the door inside makes her jump to her feet. “Oh, I forgot about my physical therapy.”
“Physical therapy? Are you okay?”
“My heart has never felt better.” She slides the patio screen open.
“I’ll let you go so you can focus on your therapy.” I begin to stand.
“Stay put!” She waves me back down. “It’s just five or so minutes. I’ll be right back.”
I run my hands down my thighs as I take my seat again. I’m glad we’re over the part of the conversation where she grills me. Maybe now I can relax.
My eyes drift around, taking in the green grass, the blue water, the boat marina where Stan’s boat waits in a slip for me to pick it up, and…Jane? I lean forward, suddenly interested in everything happening at Dax Miller’s shop thirty yards away.
Dax sits on the back of a boat, his head leaning over the open sundeck. He’s working on something with the engine, but it’s Jane I’m fascinated by. She hides around the corner of his shop, staring at a pink paper as if memorizing it. She folds it and puts it in her cross-shoulder purse, bringing out a tube of lipstick and smearing it over her lips. Even from here, the vibrant red stands out—a different look than the pale pink she wore last night.
She flips her long, brown hair over to one side—like way over—and pulls her shoulders back as she emerges from her hiding spot. Even her walk toward Dax has a different feel from her behavior last night.
My lips spread into a smile. “What are you up to, Jane?”
She struts her stuff until she’s beside the boat where Dax works. Her face lights up as she works to get his attention. Dax glances at her with furrowed brows, then buries his head back in the engine. The way she sticks her hip out and twirls the end of her hair gives me the impression this conversation has nothing to do with work. She says a few more things as she points at him, then lifts her sleeve, pointing at her own arm.
Man, I’d give anything to hear what she’s saying. I have the feeling it’s something good.
Dax barely answers. He’s knee-deep in engine repairs, and nothing Jane does seems like it will change that.
Finally, he looks up and says something. Jane bends down, digging through his toolbox on the dock. She pulls out a tool and holds it in the air. Is she flexing her muscles like the We Can Do It lady? I think she is. But Dax shakes his head, and Jane drops the tool, digging through the box once again, holding up another tool.
My smile grows as I watch her until I find myself standing. I open the screen door and pop my head inside my grandma’s room. “Hey, Grandma, I’m going to go get Stan’s boat from Dax. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“I’ll just be here,” she calls from the other room.
I adjust my hat and make my way to the dock.
It’s time to see what Jane is up to.
I don’t know what the problem is. I nailed today’s outfit. I had to go home first and change, but I thought it would be worth it.
Frayed shorts, an oversized Metallica T-shirt, black Converse high tops, and red lipstick. I even threw in one of those dangly chains hanging off my belt loop to complete the look. Short of a leather miniskirt—which I don’t own—I’m a bad boy”s dream come true.
But not even my killer outfit can get Dax Miller’s attention. He treats me more like a helper than an attractive woman he wants to date.
“Is this the tool you need?” This is my third attempt to fetch what he asked for.
I’m not an idiot. I know what a socket wrench is, but I’m pretending not to—testing out the whole playing-dumb-to-get-the-guy-to-show-you-how-smart-he-is micro-trope. I hate how stupid this makes me look, so at this point, if a socket wrench was actually in this toolbox, I’d pull it out and hand it to him. But there isn’t one. I’ve checked.
“No, that’s not it.” Dax straightens as if he plans to find the tool himself. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find it.”
I’m sensing he’s annoyed with me, but it’s not my fault the tool is missing.
I drop the one I’m holding back into the box and watch as he climbs out of the boat.
“So about that tattoo.” My eyes drift over Dax’s arm muscle where his own tattoo is perfectly displayed for all to enjoy—thank you, tight wife-beater, for not having sleeves. Since Dax doesn’t say anything, I keep going. “Does it hurt? You know, getting one on your arm?”
I already showed him my own arm, where I’m pretending to be interested in getting a tattoo.
“It wasn’t that bad.” Dax shrugs before crouching down beside the toolbox.
“I thought I could get a heart on my bicep.”
A heart?
Why did I say that? No bad boy wants a girl with a heart tattoo.
“Actually, maybe a knife or a skull head would be better.”
Skull heads. Yes, that’s very bad boy. And sexy!
“Whatever you think,” Dax mutters as he keeps banging tools around.
What else do bad boys like besides skulls and tattoos?
“I’m thinking about getting a Harley,” I say, lifting my chin, “to go with my tattoo. I just love to feel the wind in my hair and let loose a little, you know?”
No response.
Maybe the problem is my name. Bad boys don’t fall for plain Jane’s. They like women named Roxy or Vanessa.
“Do you ride?” I ask.
His gaze flips up to me. “Not too often.”
I’m equal parts scared of and motivated by his stare. “Well, I can teach you how to ride if you don’t know how.”
Teaching your love interest something is a total romance micro-trope. I had imagined something along the lines of a man teaching me how to swing a baseball bat with his strong arms around me, but I can do this trope in reverse. Dax can sit behind me on a Harley and wrap his arms around my waist. It’s all the same.
I just need to buy a motorcycle first and learn to ride it. Minor details.
His annoyed glare deepens. I didn’t even know that was possible. There’s no relief until he looks at the toolbox again. “Where’s my socket wrench?” he mumbles distractedly.
I bend down, digging through the box too. “See, it wasn’t my fault I couldn’t find it.”
Dax flips his eyes to me, wearing a pained expression. “Jane, can I just look for it myself?”
“Yeah, of course.” I hold my palms up. “These are your tools, and I don’t even know what a sock wrench is.” I inwardly cringe at my pretend stupidity—I don’t like this micro-trope.
He glances at me, blinking a few times. I have the feeling he knows I’m just acting dumb, but he doesn’t correct me, as if he doesn’t care enough to keep the charade going. Instead, he looks back down, sifting through the tools.
I think it’s time to abort. It’s clear Dax isn’t interested in this whole bad-girl thing. And truthfully, it’s not really me. I told myself last night I wasn’t going to do anything else ridiculous, and here I am, asking about tattoos and pretending not to know what a socket wrench is.
I’m Jane.
I wear bright floral-print skirts and eat snow cones. I like smiling and riding bikes with baskets. I’m not Dax Miller’s dream girl.
I move to stand, but the chain hanging off my belt loop catches something, and one side of the toolbox lifts with me as I try to straighten. Dax falls onto his butt as tools begin to spill out. I’m hunched over, a slave to the heavy steel box dragging my shorts down. It’s surprising it didn’t break my belt loop—seriously, it could be a marketing slogan for this brand of shorts: Toughest belt loops ever sewn. Even a fifty-pound toolbox can’t break these stitches!
“I’m stuck!” I wiggle my body, scooting the corner of the box back and forth as more tools dump all over. My brain can’t figure out how to solve the situation besides just shaking my hips Shakira style.
“Jane, stop moving!” Dax puts his palm up in front of me. “Let me help you.”
He kneels in front of me, trying to unhook the chain.
“I can’t get it. You need to bend down more to release some of the tension in the chain.”
I bend forward like my hips are hinges. The action puts us close together. My head hovers next to Dax’s as I try to give him enough slack in the chain to free me.
“Well, what do we have here?”
I freeze, knowing that voice all too well and how it makes my heart jump, skip, and leap like a preschooler.
My gaze drifts to the side, and just like I knew he would be, Walker stands a few feet away. A plain t-shirt and shorts never looked so good on a man.
“Hi, Jane.” His lips curl into a smile as he glances over me and Dax. There’s too much humor in his expression for him not to be teasing me. “What are you guys doing?” He tilts his head as he tries to figure out what’s going on.
The lifted corner of the toolbox drops to the ground with a loud bang.
“Jane is just…” The words fall dead on Dax’s lips as he stands and backs away from me.
“I was stuck.” Seeing the amusement in Walker’s eyes grow, I decide to add more context. “I mean, I was helping Dax with his tools, and then I got stuck.”
“Helping is a generous term,” Dax says under his breath but loud enough for us all to hear.
Walker’s grin widens. “You’re the last person I’d expect to see at Dax Miller’s shop.”
My eyes narrow. “I could say the same about you. Why are you here?”
“Obviously, I was visiting my grandma.” He says it like visiting Deedee was his idea. “And I came over here because I need to pick up Stan’s boat from Dax.”
Dax gives the first smile I’ve seen from him in the twenty minutes I’ve been here. He extends his arm to Walker as if they’ve been pals for the last decade, which seems unlikely. “It’s good to see you, man. It’s been a long time.”
They shake hands, completely ignoring me.
“Yeah, it has.” Walker nods to the shop behind us. “My mom says you own this place now.”
“It pays the bills.”
“I think it’s awesome. You were always great with engines and fixing things.”
“Speaking of fixing things, I feel bad you’re here for Stan’s boat. I left a message with him this morning that one of the parts I was expecting didn’t come in this weekend. It’ll be a few more days until it gets here, and then I can fix his propeller.”
“Stan just landed in Europe. He probably hasn’t even seen your message yet.”
“Sorry for the wasted trip down here.”
“I was close by, so it wasn’t a wasted trip. Besides”—he puts his hands on his hips, facing me—“I got to see you and Jane. Are you guys just hanging out?”
I quickly say yes at the same time Dax says no. Our conflicting answers add to Walker’s amusement.
“Actually, I need to get back to work.” Dax shoots me a pointed look. “So, Jane, maybe you should get going.”
There’s a sniff of laughter beside me. I know it’s laughter, because the last time I checked, Walker didn’t have a runny nose.
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” I take a step back, playing off my embarrassment. “I have to get back to work too. Lunch break is over.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Walker offers.
What is with him always wanting to walk with me? It’s times like these I wish the island allowed cars. Maybe I could hail a taxi and get away from him and his beautiful face.
“Dax, why don’t you just text me when the boat is ready?”
“Same number from high school?”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds good.”
I turn my back as Dax says his last goodbyes. “See you, Walker.”
Where’s my, ‘See you, Jane’?
“You too.”
I march down the dock, unsure if I’m more irritated at Dax for blowing me off or Walker for always interrupting my moments—not that things were going well, but still.
“Wow, Jane, you really get around. Last night, it was Beau Palmer, and first thing Monday morning, it’s Dax Miller.”
“Last night was not Beau Palmer. We’re just friends. And it’s not first thing Monday morning. It’s lunchtime. Dax was just giving me some advice.”
“Giving you advice?” Walker’s head kicks back. “On what?”
I’m not a fan of the humored undertone to his words, as if Dax Miller and I have absolutely nothing in common—which we don’t, but I hate that Walker knows it.
I turn to him with a lifted chin. “On tattoos. I’m thinking of getting one.”
“You mean a washable one, right? Because the Jane I know would never get a tattoo.”
I roll my eyes and pick up my pace, whipping around the corner of Dax’s shop. “You haven’t seen me in a decade. Stop pretending like you know me.”
“I don’t like the angry tone you’re using.” His tone is decidedly not angry, which makes everything worse.
Usually, I’m the poster child for friendliness in Sunset Harbor, but with Walker, I keep things clipped and sarcastic. I never take him seriously, dish back whatever he throws at me, and always change the subject. That’s how I kept my promise to Capri all through junior high and high school. I didn’t have the luxury of being enamored with Walker like the other girls—at least not in public. My true feelings were only reserved for my diary. I don’t have feelings for him anymore, but just to be safe, I’m sticking with the same rules.
“How was Grandma Deedee?” I pair my change of subject with a friendly smile, turning around to face him so I get a little credit for my friendliness. “I’m sure she was really happy to see you.”
“The real question is”—he leans his shoulder against the side of the shop, crossing his ankles in a way that’s far too sexy for a man as good-looking as Walker—“why are you prickly toward me? You seemed just fine when you were talking with Dax. Some might even say flirting with Dax.”
My mouth drops, and the scoff of all scoffs spits out. “I wasn’t flirting with Dax.” I was attempting to flirt with Dax, and since he was unresponsive, it doesn’t count. “And I’m not prickly. I just know how you are.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, adding to the appeal of his shoulder-lean stance. “How am I?”
“You’re wasting your time. I’m immune to all of this.” I wave my finger in front of his manliness.
“Your sights are set elsewhere. I can see why you were with Beau Palmer. He’s a nice guy. But Dax? He’s nice too, just not really your type.”
I take a step forward, lining my eyes up with his. Sarcasm drips like oil off each word I say. “I appreciate the feedback. However, I don’t need a dating endorsement from you.”
“But you want one.” His lips spread into a cocky smile that does stupid things to my heart.
Heart problems are a great reason to leave.
“Lunch break is over,” I say again. “I need to get to work.”
“Hey, Jane?” Walker catches my wrist as I turn to go, tugging me back to him. His hold on my skin feels like the best physical-touch moment of my life, and it’s just a wrist. “I can’t let you leave like this.”
I’m proud of the indifferent expression on my face. “Why? Is this the last time I’ll see you for the rest of my life?”
That cute smile of his just gets better. “I hope not.”
His free hand lifts, and before I know what’s happening, his thumb gently grazes the spot to the side of my mouth.
I take it back. His hand on my wrist is the second-best physical-touch moment of my life.
Whatever this is, is the first.
His thumb rubs again, and all I can do is stare at his smirk as his eyes focus on that part of my face.
“You have grease on your cheek.” Laughing eyes flip to me as he continues to brush my skin with his finger. “Probably from that toolbox attached to your chain.” His smirk grows to a beaming smile.
Now would be a great time for a rebuttal, but his touch has stolen every rational thought in my brain.
“There.” He drops his hand. “I think I got it. You’re good to go to work.”
I stare at him for two seconds—the amount of time it takes me to snap out of his magnetism.
“I could’ve wiped my own face.” I spin, speed-walking myself right out of his reach. “You’re giving off creepy vibes again.”
“I was being nice,” he calls after me.
No, you were being charming.
What’s even happening?
First, Walker pulls something out of my hair, and then he wipes something off my cheek.
This is trope Hell.
And I definitely feel the heat.
There’s a twinkle in Grandma Deedee’s eyes as I make my way across the grass back to her patio.
“It looks like you”ve finished your physical therapy.” I sit down in the same chair as before.
“I saw you talking to Jane Hayes.” For a second, I think she’s going to wink at me, but she doesn’t.
“Yeah, she was at Dax’s shop.”
“Jane’s a nice girl.”
I give her a suspicious look. “Yes, she is.”
“Maybe you two could hang out a little while you’re on the island.”
“Grandma, are trying to set the two of us up?”
“You’re single. She’s single.”
When did my grandma turn into such a matchmaker?
She leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s letting me in on a secret. “And I happen to know she’s on the prowl.”
On the prowl?I guess that could explain Jane’s behavior with Dax and Beau, but it’s still a weird thing for my grandma to say.
“I hate to break it to you, but it would never work between us.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” I sniff out a humorless laugh. “We just don’t have that kind of relationship.”
I’m not sure what kind of relationship we have. I haven’t thought about Jane Hayes in ten years. Before that, flirting with her was always a game—something I never seemed to win. But even now, it’s all just for fun, a distraction from real-life problems.
“Do you find her attractive?”
“What?”
Grandma’s eyes pin me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hooked me up to a lie detector test. That’s how serious she’s taking this right now. “Do you find Jane attractive?”
“I don’t know. I mean…” I scratch the back of my neck, thinking. My mind drifts to the little black dress she had on last night and the short shorts from today. No man on the planet would deny that she has a great body, but it’s her smile that really draws people in—the warmth and the way happiness shoots out of her eyes like lightning bolts every time she smiles. It’s not a front. Jane is genuinely a happy person, and that’s what makes her attractive.
“Walker, answering my question shouldn’t be this hard.”
“Yes.” I throw my arms out in exasperation. “I’m attracted to Jane. Most guys probably are.”
“Then you better hurry and make your move before someone gets there first. I told you, she’s on the prowl.”
“There’s no move. I’m not trying to date Jane.”
“Why?” Her brows drop like she’s offended.
“Because she’s Capri’s friend. And I don’t even live here. I’m only staying a couple of weeks.”
“Fine.” She huffs, sitting back in her chair with crossed arms.
“Are you seriously mad about this?”
“No, it’s fine.” Her glance away and lifted chin says it’s not fine. “You’re just throwing away every good opportunity in life. First golf. Now Jane.”
I rub my forehead, unsure how the conversation got here. “I’m not throwing away golf. I’m here to clear my head and practice with Pete so I can come back stronger.”
Her sulking eyes glance over at me. “And what about Jane?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “What? You want me to try and date Jane while I’m here?”
“It wouldn’t kill you to try, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t kill me.” Trying to flirt with Jane is something I’m already a fan of.
A satisfied look flashes through her eyes. “That’s my boy.” She stands abruptly. “Well, thanks for coming, but I have a pinochle game I have to get to in five minutes.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
She bends down and kisses my cheek. “You can come back tomorrow.”
At least it will give me something to do.