Chapter 1
ONE
DALTON
My feet dangle off my twin-size bed, blue and red plaid flannel covers pulled to my chin, barely covering my ankles.
As if I haven’t spent the last six years of my life bulking up and training, spending all my free time in the makeshift gyms on deployments, and at the local fitness center when I’m back on base.
I know I’ve slept on worse, being stationed in the middle of nowhere. But this bed that’s been sitting in here since I was eleven comes in at a close fucking second.
Upgrading the bed situation might just be the first thing I slide into my mom’s suggestion box if I plan on sleeping here for the next three weeks, especially with all the work she has planned around the house for me.
I need something out of this little arrangement.
Otherwise, I’m just going to sleep on the floor like I did when I was deployed in the goddamn desert.
Hesitant to open my eyes, I peek one eye open, then slowly the other. My eyes blink, taking in my current view.
Shit. I guess yesterday wasn’t a horrible dream—I really am in my childhood bedroom.
That must mean the drive to the island from the airport, where I stared out the passenger side window of my mom’s old Volvo—actually did happen. The only time I was pulled out of my trance was when Mom’s timeline and discussions of the home renovations came up.
Because suddenly, she’s decided to sell my childhood home.
I can’t even blame her, because I haven’t been back to visit her once since I left for the Marines.
My eyes roam the outdated wallpaper surrounding me, the sailboat and nautical-knot illustrations anchoring me to my childhood—reminding me of my Tybee Island youth.
Pulling myself up, I slid my body back against the headboard, my head landing like a thud against the golden oak.
Rotating my vision, I scan the shelves lining my bedroom wall—framed photos, baseball trophies, and childhood memorabilia adorn it.
Glimpsing a framed photo of my childhood best friends on the second shelf, I blow out a breath—my eyes snagging on the picture of Hudson, Sanders, and me at our last varsity baseball game right before graduation.
The final playoff championship game we won right after I enlisted in the Marines—earning our high school a division title.
Squinting from my bed, I spot the familiar blonde hair, green-eyed girl, squished in the image.
Hudson’s arm squeezes around his little sister’s petite frame as she throws her head back in a laugh, celebrating our win with us—my eyes immediately land on her lips, tracing them from where I’m sitting.
Savanna.
A tightness in my chest grips me as I run a hand through my hair.
Fuck. I haven’t seen a picture of Savanna Davis in years.
I’ve pretty much avoided all images of her after I left for the military, when I found out she was pregnant—relying on my childhood memories of her, and our night under the pier to act as my own visual photo album.
Memories I like to torture myself with by replaying in my head.
Sliding a hand down my face, I slip out of bed and throw my pajama bottoms on in a hurry—itching to get out of memory lane.
Jogging down the stairs, I find my mom cooking breakfast in the kitchen.
I pad toward the scrambled eggs on the stove—the smell of the sweet butter frying in the pan reminiscent of my adolescence.
I kiss her on the cheek and pour myself a glass of orange juice.
“Good morning,” I say with little confidence.
Because is it a good morning?
“Good morning, honey. Sleep well?” she asks, turning to take me in, like I’m a figment of her imagination that her only child is standing in this kitchen again.
A wave of guilt rolls through me as I slide onto the barstool at the granite island, letting out a grunt.
I take a sip of juice; the freshly pressed oranges from our property have me twisting my face up in a pucker.
“Well, I wouldn’t say well.” I clear my throat.
“But yeah, I think I managed a few hours.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Just a few hours? What’s wrong with your bed? Is it not what you remembered?”
I manage a laugh at the absurd situation—a six-foot-two man practically sleeping in a baby's crib. “Mom. Come on, look at me.” I wave my hands up and down my body. “Do I look like I can still fit comfortably in the same bed you got me when I was still into model planes and baseball cards?”
She plates my eggs, snickering. “No, I suppose you don’t.”
I shake my head, chuckling. “I can’t believe you didn’t turn my old room into a home office or gym.” I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth, chewing as I think of other ideas for my old room. “Or like one of those scrapbooking rooms.”
She snorts at my suggestions. “Well, honey, you know I’m not much into scrapbooking these days, and what the heck would I do with a home office?” she asks, turning her attention toward me. “And I think you work out enough for the both of us.” She winks, walking away toward the sink.
Well, she’s not wrong there.
It’s pretty much how I pass the time on deployment.
“So, what’s on your agenda today?” she calls over her shoulder.
I pause mid-bite. “Well, I was planning on knocking out a few house projects today. I want to get them finished and out of the way as soon as possible.”
The sooner I finish them, the sooner I can go back to California.
Maybe I can cut this reluctantly planned three-week detour into two.
I flew straight here the minute I arrived back in the States from an eight-month deployment overseas. It’s fair to say I’ve been missing all the comforts of home.
My California home—not my Georgia one.
“Ready to leave me so soon?”
Shit, I shouldn’t have admitted that out loud. “It’s not you, Mom. Trust me, I’m just ready to see the Pacific Ocean and eat some California Mexican food. Oh, and my king-size bed does sound nice right about now,” I confess.
She snorts, turning to face me as she dries her hands on a dish towel. “You should call Hudson, take a day to get reacquainted with the island. You know he would be thrilled to see you. It’s been six years, Dalton.”
A rush of queasiness rolls through me. I’m pretty sure getting “reacquainted” with the island is the last thing I want to do. Hudson and I have tried our best to keep in touch over the years, but with my continuous deployments, keeping up with Hudson’s life hasn’t been a huge priority for me.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mom.” I pause. “I should probably just start working on the house today.”
“Dalton, don’t be ridiculous. You have plenty of time!”
I swallow, pushing my plate of eggs away. Don’t get me wrong—I love Hudson. I hardly have a single childhood memory without that guy in it. Since we got placed on the same little league baseball team when we were eight, it's fair to say he’s my oldest friend.
The one friend I’d like to think I could rely on to bail me out of jail.
Unless…he finds out what happened between Savanna and me at that bonfire six years ago. Otherwise, he’d probably leave me in jail to rot.
Shit.
Mom registers my silence. “Honey, he’s your oldest friend. Catch up with him.”
Clearing my throat, I try my best not to raise suspicion. “Uh, yeah. Okay, I guess I can give him a call…it’s just that I haven’t seen him in a while.” I fidget with the fork across from me—admiring the intricate pattern stamped into the silver.
“Oh, Dalton, friendships are like riding a bike! Time apart doesn’t matter. Just enjoy your time here on the island, honey.” Her tone shifts to cheerful when she adds, “Treat it as a vacation!”
I practically snort out a rebuttal. Does she not realize the amount of work she has planned for me over the next few weeks? I have a small bathroom renovation and other required maintenance to do here.
That doesn’t scream sipping Pina Coladas on a tropical island.
“Oh, by the way…I found some of your dad’s old tools in the garage the other day when I was organizing it. I’m sure they will come in handy when you start fixing up the guest bathroom,” she says, buttering the slice of bread that just popped out of the toaster.
I swallow hard at the mention of my dad.
Suddenly, my brain is flashing memories of me following him around the house with my red toolbox, filled with old, worn tools that he passed down to me as I watched him work.
I wanted to be just like him.
Because when you're that age? Your dad is pretty much your first superhero, right?
“Dalton, did you hear me?”
My head snaps, still twisting my fork.
“Your dad’s tools…I found some in the garage, packed away and buried under the Christmas boxes.
I saw some power drills. I think it will be helpful to go through them and see what you can use.
But not today, of course. I want you to have a day of rest and catch up with some old friends, honey,” she says, sipping her coffee.
Cracking my neck from side to side, I let out a defeated breath as I stand. Placing my plate in the sink, I cave. “Alright, Mom. That’s helpful. I’ll see what Hudson is up to today. Thanks for breakfast.”
“Of course. Have fun today!” she yells out as I make my way up the stairs toward my old room.
Shutting my bedroom door, I swipe my phone off the bedside table, scroll through my contacts, and land on Hudson’s name. My finger hovers over the button, feeling apprehensive.
Appeasing my mom, I reluctantly shoot him a quick text. It’s a Tuesday morning. I’m sure he’s at work today—chances are high that I won’t hear back from him. But at least I will have the satisfaction of telling her that I tried.
Taking a seat at my old desk, I sit back in the faux leather chair, stretching the knots out in my back as the casters roll against the pine wood flooring.
A sense of nostalgia overcomes me as I think about all the time I used to spend sitting in this exact position—contemplating everything from school, reflecting on memories of Dad, my soon-to-be new life in the military, friendships, and… Savanna.
Glimpsing out the window beyond me, my eyes study the southern live oaks scattered throughout our property. The early morning sunbeams reflect through the white shutters, making vertical stripes along my walls. My eyes snag on a shiny, gold bracelet hiding in the corner of my desk.
Drawing in a breath, I gingerly reach across my desk and pick up the gold chain. My index finger traces the outline of the dainty scallop shell that’s hanging from it. The subtle piece of jewelry—and the breathtaking girl who used to wear it—makes my lungs inflate.
Fuck.
Running my hand through my hair in frustration, I toss Savanna’s gold chain into my desk drawer, shutting it aggressively as if it might combust in flames.
Rising from my seat, I swipe my camo duffel bag off the floor, placing it on my bed as I rummage through it for some work clothes to start today’s projects.
As I’m zipping it closed and heading for the shower, my phone pings with a message.
Swiping it open, I find Hudson’s name revealed across the screen.
Shit.
Hudson: You sneaky son of a bitch! Be ready by noon. I’m picking your ass up for lunch!
A lunch date? How romantic. I hope you’re buying.
Hudson: You know it, babe.
I snort, rubbing my fingers along the stubble growing on my jawline. I guess I’m about to find out if our friendship is like riding a bike. Hopefully, I don’t need fucking training wheels.