My eyes snap shut as a huge part of my brain silently screams bullshit! But perhaps I expect too much. Or could it be our love isn’t the kind of love required for a lifelong commitment?
Frustrated, I look out to the sea and notice the tide has encroached upon the shore to the spot where my neighbor dropped his water bottle. Disliking him doesn’t mean I should let a cozy-covered plastic bottle go adrift and pollute the ocean. I trot across the sand and bend to retrieve it. As I straighten up, I catch him watching me while floating on his surfboard.
I hold up his bottle and point to it, gesturing that I’m moving it back from the rising tide. He doesn’t respond. Shocker. Shrugging, I carry the bottle approximately six feet inland before dropping it in the sand and returning to my chair and magazine.
Not long afterward, he emerges from the water. Salt water drips from his hair as he pushes it away from his face, reclaims his bottle, and starts guzzling. He’s still delectably hunky with his bronzed skin, wet hair, and sinewy arms and legs. My stomach flutters a bit, so I look away as he ambles toward me.
Against my will, my pulse quickens. Hoping to avoid eye contact, I glue my eyes to the pages in front of me and feign deep concentration. God, please don’t remember me! My heart stops when sand hits my calf as he throws his board down near me and sits, forcing me to engage in conversation.
“Thanks for rescuing my bottle.” His congenial smile reveals his dimples and rekindles my adolescent desire. The timbre of his voice makes my body resonate, like plucked guitar strings, fueling utter self-disgust. I attempt to repress both sensations.
“No problem.” I glance at him from beneath the brim of my hat.
“You renting this house now?”
Clearly I won’t escape this conversation without eye contact.
“Yes, for a little while, anyway.” Hating awkward silences, I continue, “Do you rent that one?”
“Me? No. I bought it in foreclosure three years ago. Great deal.” His pleasant expression reveals no shame or remorse.
Raising my brows, I tartly reply, “Not so great for the previous owner, I guess.”
“No, not so much.” His brows rise in observation, not anger. “You say that as if I did something wrong.”
“Well, it’s a shame some people profit off others’ unfortunate circumstances.”
He grins, quirking one brow upward. “Someone’s usually profiting off of another’s misfortune. This time I had a full house and these folks didn’t. Someday it might be the other way around.” I see the glint of challenge in his eyes.
“That’s cynical.”
“No, just honest.” He studies my reaction. “Guess you’ve been lucky enough to avoid a bad hand so far.”
I avert my eyes. This conversation’s frighteningly similar to our first discussion. Eager to change the subject, I nod in agreement and avoid prolonged eye contact.
He turns toward me but doesn’t extend his hand. “Well, neighbor, I’m Levi.”
Suddenly I’m very thankful we never exchanged names in Florida. I rest my magazine across my legs.
“I’m Lindsey.”
“Lindsey.” He rolls my name over his tongue and flaunts a provocative smile before noticing the magazine cover. “Are you a shrink, or are you getting married soon and making sure he’s really ‘the one’?”
His disdainful inflection tempts me to use the word anchor in my reply.
“Neither.”
I choose not to risk jogging his memory with another dispute about marriage. He looks at me as if he senses my dishonesty.
“You know, I swear this isn’t a line, but have we met before? There’s something familiar about you.”
Oh no. In the space of two seconds, blood drains from my face and races to my toes. Can I lie? I gulp to buy time when a woman’s voice behind us suspends my internal panic.
“Hey, Levi, what happened last weekend? I thought you were coming to our little block party,” she coos.
I twist around to meet a midthirty-something woman in a bikini and lots of bling. She’s obviously sizing me up and evaluating my relationship to Levi. A current bed buddy of his, perhaps? She’s not my idea of his type—as if I’d even know his type.
“Sorry, Elena. Something unexpected came up.” He offers no further explanation, but his courteous expression falters before he takes another sip of water and stares at the ocean.
“What happened, someone die?” she teases, pressing for details.
He winces before resuming an unexpressive countenance. “Yes, actually. My pop died.”
Elena and I both react in shock. Given her surprise, I gather they’re not romantically involved, though not by her choice.