Chapter Eight
Tabby
I stare at my reflection in the small mirror mounted above the tiny sink in my RV, hands braced on the edge of the counter. My stomach twists in a way I don’t particularly like, and I scowl at myself.
This isn’t a big deal. People eat together all the time.
It feels like a big deal, and that’s the problem. After Indigo left, I swore off men, determined to sort out my life on my own. Leaving with him had been impulsive. Instead of sitting my parents down to explain what I wanted, I jumped at the chance to escape with a practical stranger. I’d mistaken my urge to get away for love. I’m smarter than that—or at least, I should be. So, now, I’m done searching for love for the moment. I’m done with people-pleasing. I’m committed to being true to myself.
But Anson is … something else. Although we’ve only met a handful of times, I just know he could be trouble. He’s the kind of man you look at once and then immediately look away from because you know if you don’t, you’re going to get caught up in something you might not be ready for. He’s tall and broad- shouldered with an easy, confident smile and those eyes that always seem to be full of some kind of mischief.
And he’s charming. Too charming.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be going to dinner with him.
And yet here I am, slipping into my best summer dress—light, airy, something that moves with me when I walk. It’s pale blue, the color of the sky right before dusk, and the thin straps leave my sun-kissed shoulders bare. I let my hair down from the messy bun I always keep it in, shaking out the long waves. The summer heat will probably get to it before the night is over, but for now, it looks good.
I scrub the remnants of paint from my arms and fingertips and keep my makeup minimal. A touch of mascara to darken my already-long lashes, a little lip balm, nothing more. My skin is golden from days spent outside, and a dusting of freckles still lingers across the bridge of my nose, no matter how much sunscreen I use.
I take a deep breath.
It’s just dinner.
A knock at my door makes me jump. I let out a slow exhale, pressing a hand to my stomach, as if that’ll settle the nervous flutter there.
No turning back now.
I step over to the door and pull it open.
And … damn.
Anson stands there, looking … well, beautiful. He’s got on a pair of tan linen pants that sit just right on his hips and a white tee that fits snug across his chest and shoulders. His hair looks like he just ran his fingers through it, and his sexy smile is framed by dark scruff. He looks effortless. Like he just threw something on and somehow managed to come out looking like a man who belongs in a summer catalog.
He removes his sunglasses, and his gaze flicks over me. “Well, now,” he says, tilting his head slightly, “ain’t you something?”
His eyes are a deep, smoldering shade of brown almost black—stormy and intense, unreadable yet undeniably captivating, like the lingering embers of a fire, just waiting to be stoked. They slowly and deliberately sweep down my body, as if he sees more than what’s on the surface. And when he smiles—just the faintest curve of his lips—those dark eyes gleam with the promise of trouble, the kind you might want to get into.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I roll my eyes, even as I fight the urge to smile. “You clean up nice yourself.”
He smirks. “I try.”
I step down from the RV, feeling the warmth of the gravel beneath my sandaled feet. He offers me his hand, and after only a brief moment of hesitation, I take it. His palm is rough and callous, like that of a man who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.
So different from Quenton’s hands. The thought enters my mind, unbidden.
He doesn’t let go right away, just holds my fingers lightly as he leads me toward his truck.
I should be worried about this. I should be keeping my distance.
But instead, I let him open the passenger door for me, enjoying the way his eyes slide over my backside as I climb inside. And I allow myself to think—just for tonight—maybe this isn’t such a bad idea after all.
We pull up to a small building with a walk-up window. There is a large wooden board to the left of the window with a hand-painted menu.
“Welcome to the Salty Hammock. What can we get you?” the teenager asks before looking up to see who is standing before her. “Oh, hey, Anson. You want your usual?”
“Hey, Lucy. Yeah, I’ll take four of the Baja fish tacos, and the lady will have …” He looks at me and waits.
I glance at the menu before answering, “Two bang bang shrimp tacos with extra sour cream.”
He adds two sweet teas and six ice-cream-topped churros to our order, pays, and then leads us to one of the umbrella-covered picnic tables while we wait for our food.
“This is a cool place,” I say as I look around the patio.
“Yeah, they have the best tacos on the island. They have the same owner as The Salty Surfer restaurant, but I prefer it here. You can walk up right off the beach, and shirt and shoes are not required,” he explains.
“Well, I can support the no shoes policy, but … I think they would kick me out if I didn’t wear a shirt,” I say as I unwrap a straw and insert it into the lid of my Styrofoam cup.
His eyes immediately drop to my chest. “Oh, I doubt that,” he murmurs.
I clear my throat before wrapping my lips around the straw and taking a long sip of the cold, sweet drink.
His gaze snaps back to mine, and he smiles innocently. “I just mean you could wear your bikini top, and they’d be fine with it.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, and he grins.
A voice calls out his name, and he jogs over to the window. He stops at a side bar for utensils before returning to the table with our food.
I load my spicy-shrimp-filled tortilla with sour cream, take a huge bite, and moan as the flavor explodes on my tongue.
“Oh my goodness, this is so good,” I say around the mouthful.
Anson reaches over and swipes a dollop of cream from the corner of my mouth.
“I told you,” he says as he sucks it from his thumb.
Damn.
He tops his tacos with pico de gallo and guacamole. “So, what’s your story?” he asks.
“My story?”
“Yeah. What brought you to our little island?”
I consider him for a moment. How much of myself do I want to share?
“I came with a friend. We were supposed to be just passing through on our way to Florida and I woke up one day and he was gone. Guess he changed his mind.”
“What the hell? Seriously?”
I shrug. “It wasn’t a big a deal. We hadn’t known each other that long. We met on a meditation retreat where he was one of the instructors. I don’t know; I guess I was feeling a bit trapped in my life at the time, and he was charismatic and charming. It was stupid and impulsive, but he offered me a sense of freedom, and I went for it,” I admit, shaking my head. “It was infatuation not love.”
“Doesn’t make him any less of a jackass for taking off on you like that,” he scoffs.
“Yeah, that was a douche move for sure,” I agree.
“Are you going to stay here in Sandcastle Cove or are you thinking about heading home?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m not really the type of girl who makes plans,” I say.
He considers my answer for a moment. “You don’t like having a direction? You just wing it when it comes to life?”
“Not always, but lately? Yes. I’ve come to believe that things don’t always have to follow a set plan. Spontaneity is the spice of life. I’m twenty-two years old and I want to live an adventure. So why not now?” I explain.
“A girl after my heart,” he says.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much my philosophy as well. I like to keep things fun and interesting. There’s no need to take life so seriously.”
“How has that worked out for you so far?” I ask.
“Pretty well. You?”
I think about my tiny, temporary home and how happy I’ve been the past few months. “Same. It’s like I’ve been able to breathe for the first time in my life. I don’t even recognize myself.”
“Sounds like you didn’t like your past life very much.”
I shrug. “It made me who I am. I believe that everything you experience leads you to where you’re supposed to be eventually,” I say.
He grins. “Even a no-good boyfriend running off and leaving you in a strange place?”
“Especially that,” I say.
He nods. “So, no plan.”
“Nope. Planning is not something I find appealing anymore. I just have to wait and see if this becomes home.”
“Becomes home?”
“Yeah. I need to settle in and ground myself. Walk around barefoot and see if I connect with it.”
He leans on the table and studies me intently. “You’re something else, Tabby Harmony—you know that?” he asks.
“Have you ever been in love?” I ask, changing the subject.
His brows rise. “Nope. What about you?”
“I’m not sure.”
He chuckles as he pops the last of his taco into his mouth. “Bullshit. If you were in love, you would know it.”
“And how would you know that? You said you’ve never been in love,” I point out.
“Exactly! I know what it feels like not to be in love, so how could I not recognize it when it happens? Besides, I know what it looks like,” he says.
“What does it look like?”
“Well, I grew up watching my mom and dad love each other, and I’ve seen all my friends fall in love. I watched how they went from being perfectly reasonable men to losing their minds and their hearts to the women in their lives. The assholes are dropping like flies.”
“I didn’t have that, except maybe with my grandparents. I think they had a passionate love affair when they were young. I know my parents love each other in their own way, but honestly, their relationship feels more like a business partnership than a romantic one,” I explain.
His lips curl into a rakish grin. “Ah, so that’s why you came looking for me. You want a passionate love affair.”
“Looking for you? Who was stalking whom exactly?”
He leans over the table, so close that I can feel his breath against my lips. “Okay, maybe I was the one doing the looking.”
I tilt my head up slightly, and our mouths are only a centimeter apart. “I think I’m done with love for a while.”
His eyes flick to my lips and back. “So, just a passionate affair, then?”
“You’re incorrigible,” I whisper.
“You have no idea,” he replies with a hint of a smirk.
He tilts his head, and just as he’s about to kiss me, I pull back. His eyes widen in surprise as he slowly sits back.
“You know what I’m really looking for?” I ask him.
“What’s that?” he inquires.
“A friend,” I answer.
He repeats, “A friend,” his voice filled with disappointment.
“Yeah. Pete and Freda are the only people I know here, and they’re great, but they aren’t exactly up to showing me everything the island has to offer.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll be your friend, Tabby. The first item on our friendship agenda is getting you a phone.”
“A phone? Ugh, it’s been nice, not being tied to one of those,” I reply, complaining.
“Yes, a phone! I just upgraded, so you can have my old one. How else will we make plans, take selfies, and text each other to complain about boys, my friend?”
“Fine. I’ll dip into my savings and get a cheap phone plan. But I’m not getting a data package—call and text only.”
“Deal, bestie,” he says, winking at me as he lifts his cup and takes a swig.
He’s going to be a handful. I just know it.