The Emerald Waves (Silver Peaks #2)

Prologue

Do I Wanna Know – Arctic Monkeys

Gunner

Three years ago.

I’d dreamt about her nearly every night, for a whole damn week.

Not that I was losing sleep over Cassidy Turner. And the dreams weren’t anything sentimental. They were the kind of dreams you don’t mention to your brothers. The kind that makes you wake up annoyed with yourself, and hard as hell.

It was stupid, she was just a teacher. An impossible-to-ignore teacher who dressed like summertime, all the time, and looked at me like I was the punchline to some private joke. And yeah, she showed up in my head sometimes. So what?

I leaned against the hood of my truck outside Bertie’s school and told myself I hadn’t volunteered to pick up my niece just so I could see Miss. Turner.

The late afternoon sun was low and sharp, turning the blacktop to liquid and making every kid scream twice as loud, or so it seemed.

Parents clogged up the curb, hollering names, honking, waving and trying to out-do each other in the warmth of their greeting for their kid.

Next semester would be different because the principal was introducing a pick-up line. Fucking A.

Wanting to stay out of the rumpus, I stayed where I was. Still. Quiet. Watching the door.

Then I saw her.

Cassidy crouched near the flagpole, zipping up a kid’s backpack and then adjusting the strap on it, like she had nowhere else to be.

Her hair was up, for a change. Usually it was down, cascading over her shoulders and nearly hitting her ass.

Straight but a little messy like she didn’t take herself too seriously.

She stood, brushed her hands off on her red and white checkered skirt and started to walk back toward the double doors.

She didn’t see me.

She never did.

Some days I convinced myself she did it on purpose. Ignored me. Like she knew exactly how I looked at her when she wasn’t looking. Other days I figured she just didn’t think about me at all.

Maybe one of these days I’d ask her out on a date. Then she’d think about me every damn day. I’d make sure of it.

Bertie exploded out of the building, like she’d been shot from a cannon, arms flailing, backpack jiggling, hair looking like a bald eagle had nested in it.

“You’re late,” I said as she skidded to a stop in front of me.

“Uncle Gunner, can you not complain? This heat is killing me.”

God this kid was too dramatic and funny for seven years of age.

Once she was safely buckled into her seat in the back of my truck, I took one last look at the school as I rounded the hood.

Cassidy was gone.

It didn’t matter, though. No doubt I’d dream about her again and maybe tomorrow I’d ask her out for dinner. It couldn’t hurt. Right?