Chapter 4
FOUR
PRESENT DAY
Garrett
I follow the path over the dunes and away from the crowd that’s gathered on the beach.
I usually surf late in the afternoon, after most of the vacationing families on the island have gone back to their rental houses for showers and dinner.
Those kids shouldn’t have been allowed in the water at this time of day, after the lifeguards have packed up.
But I’m not in the mood to stick around and lecture their parents. I’m sure they learned their lesson.
I crest the dune and head down the other side to where my Jeep is parked on the road by the path leading to the beach.
I’m dripping wet, and a puddle is forming at my bare feet, so in a swift motion, I tug down the zipper of my wetsuit and peel it off my upper body.
As I step out of it and stand in my swim trunks, a woman walks by on the road.
She’s probably in her early twenties, blond, with tan skin that glows in the evening sunshine against her bright blue bikini top and cut-off shorts.
She looks me up and down, flashing an appreciative smile.
Normally, I might smile back, say hello, and see if our conversation might lead to grabbing a drink later.
Most visitors on the island come for a week, Saturday to Saturday, and then head back to their lives in Pennsylvania, New York, or central Jersey until the next year.
My schedule doesn’t lend itself to long-term relationships, especially during the busy construction season, so dating tourists is the perfect way to make sure nobody gets too attached.
But I’m not in the mood for that right now, either.
My heart is still pounding from my sprint into the water and the sight of those kids’ heads dipping beneath the surface.
They looked to be around Ellery’s age, and the thought of Chloe’s daughter flailing beyond the breakers has my stomach churning like the ocean swells.
Not that my friend would ever let Ellery swim after the lifeguards are gone for the day.
I hop in my Jeep and head home for a quick shower.
As I pull up to my house, my chest swells with a familiar sense of pride.
It’s probably a stretch to call it a house.
My home is more of a beach cottage. There’s nothing fancy about this 1,000-square-foot structure that I built with my own hands.
But it’s solid, elevated on concrete blocks to withstand hurricane flooding, and wrapped in cedar shingles that I stain every fall to protect them from the salt and wind.
I bypass the small front porch with two bright red Adirondack chairs and pull up around the back of the house.
I was lucky to find this lot at a deal right after Hurricane Wendy blew through the island.
In addition to the cottage, I have a deck off the kitchen which doubles my living space in the summer months, a small shed to store my bike and surfboards, and a garage that I’ve converted into my shop.
It’s out there that I do most of my carpentry work, constructing the framing, cabinets, and moldings for the houses I build with my friend Ian’s development company.
I have half a dozen projects in the works right now, including the final touches on the cottage next door.
It’s a mirror image of my own place, and it should be ready for guests to rent by the Fourth of July.
When I see Ian at the bar tonight, I can give him an update.
The thought of laughing over drinks with my two best friends calms the last of my rattling nerves from my rescue earlier. I prop my surfboard next to the shed, hang my wetsuit on the line to dry, and head for the shower.
An hour later, I tug open the door to Hudson’s Bar and breathe in the familiar scent of stale beer mingled with fry oil and the salt air blowing in from the open windows facing the bay.
I give a nod to a group of local firefighters who look tired and dirty—probably here for a few drinks after a long day of training—and then to a couple of fishermen who dock their boats nearby.
Next to them is a table full of older women with novels and glasses of chardonnay who are meeting for the library’s weekly romance book club.
They call me over to chat, and I flirt with them a little before heading to the bar.
Despite its prime location by the water, Hudson’s is solidly a locals-only establishment.
The tourists tend to frequent the brand-new seafood restaurants with views of the water and five-star reviews listed on the local travel websites.
My friend Chloe owns the bar now, but Hudson’s has been around for so long that nobody even remembers who Hudson is anymore.
The sign out front has faded from so many years of battering by the ocean wind that the name is illegible.
I know just about everyone in here, and that’s exactly how I like it.
I slide onto a barstool, and Chloe places a pint of my favorite beer in front of me almost before I have time to look up.
“Thanks,” I say, reaching for my wallet, but she waves me off.
“On the house for the local hero.”
I look up. Word must have gotten around. “What are you talking about?” I pick up my beer and take a long, casual swallow.
But Chloe narrows her eyes at me, her dark brows knitting together. “Oh, come on, I know it was you who saved those kids.”
I take another drink, savoring the cold, hoppy carbonation on my tongue. “What kids?”
Chloe props her hands on her hips. “Everyone is talking about a surfer who rescued some kids near the 76 th Street lifeguard stand.” She takes a rag from under the sink and begins wiping a spot on the bar. “I know that’s where you surf.”
I casually lift a shoulder and take another swallow of beer. “Lots of people surf at 76 th . It’s the best spot on the island.”
“But not all of them are tall, fit, dark-haired guys.”
I give her a smirk. “You think I’m fit?” I stretch my arms into an exaggerated muscle flex. “Chloe, all this time, I’ve been hoping you’d finally notice.”
“Please.” Her eyes nearly roll back in her head, and she tosses the rag at me.
With a grin, I snag it out of the air right before it lands, cold and wet, on my face.
Aside from Ian, Chloe is my closest friend on the island, but we’ve never been anything more than that.
Objectively, I can see she’s attractive, but I’ve never thought of her that way.
She’s a single mom to an eight-year-old daughter, Ellery, who thinks of me like an uncle, and I take that relationship pretty seriously.
I take all my relationships here on the island pretty seriously.
This eclectic group of people is my family.
“I’m just repeating what people are saying. Rumor has it that a”—she waves her hands in my direction—“surfer matching your description ran into the water, saved some kids, and took off before anyone could thank him. Pretty superhero-y.”
“How do you know it wasn’t Ian?” My best friend is also a surfer, and equally tall, dark-haired, and fit. Though I’d never say that last part to his face or his ego would inflate like a balloon.
“Because,” Chloe says, “Ian would have stuck around to shake hands, pose for photos, and give a quote for the local paper.”
I concede to that perfect description of my friend with a grin. “Okay, fair point.”
A couple of firefighters approach the bar, and Chloe saunters over to wait on them.
I take another long drink of my beer. Ocean rescues aren’t that uncommon around here, it’s just that it’s usually the lifeguards pulling people out of the water.
In contrast to Ian, though, I’ve never been someone who thrives on attention and accolades.
I’d rather the whole story died as quickly as possible.