Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(44)

Linnea thought just getting to know Heather had made the party worthwhile. She glanced at her watch; time to make an exit herself. She was heading toward the gate when she heard male laughter coming from the upstairs back porch. She glanced up. Under the dim yellow light of the outdoor lantern, she caught sight of two men, each with a beer in hand. They were both tall, but the younger one was leaner in tight jeans and a black T-shirt that didn’t hide his broad shoulders.

Curious, she grabbed her purse and thought maybe it was wise to go upstairs and fetch a drink before leaving. She quickly applied a fresh coat of lipstick, then climbed the stairs.

The light on the porch was dim, but she could readily see that the older man was Heather’s father. The second man had his back to her. But his hair gave him away. It was a deep red, brushed back from his tanned forehead. She froze.

The younger man suddenly turned his head to look over his shoulder, as though realizing he was being stared at. Their gazes locked. Linnea sucked in her breath.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“You!” he replied, and broke into a wide grin. “The girl who can’t surf.”

She felt her cheeks burn. Her heart beat fast, as if she’d just suffered an electric shock. His eyes . . . they were the most piercing blue-green color. She actually felt shaky. She wasn’t prepared for this kind of jolt tonight. She collected her wits, not wanting to appear—again—like some silly schoolgirl. She couldn’t hold her own fiasco against him.

David cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I want to say good-bye to Heather and Bo.”

Linnea waited until David disappeared down the stairs. She turned to John. “Thank you again for saving my board.”

“Out on the water, we have each other’s backs,” he replied. “I didn’t see you go back out.”

“As you said, it was a major wipeout. And I didn’t want to be a joke.” She pursed her lips and raised a brow.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said. “But it was pretty funny.”

Linnea flushed again, but couldn’t stop her laugh. “It was my first time on the board.”

“Really?” he asked in sarcasm.

Linnea strategically stepped closer to the cooler, opened it, and peered in. She glanced back over her shoulder to find he was still looking at her.

He stepped forward and asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

She licked her lips and tucked a wayward lock behind her ear. “I’d love a water, but all I see are beers and soda.”

“They’re all hiding in the bottom. Hold on.” He bent at the waist and plunged his hand into the ice. She noticed that his arms were deeply tanned and muscled, and the edge of a tattoo peeked out from under his shirtsleeve. She tried to make out what it was as he rummaged through the ice, but glanced away when he straightened again, a dripping bottle in his hand. He grabbed a paper napkin and wiped off the water, then unscrewed the cap and handed the bottle to her.

“Thank you,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Nicely done.”

“Comes from years of waiting tables.”

Holding his gaze, she brought the bottle to her lips and took a long sip, feeling the cool water slide down her throat. His face was finely chiseled, his dark-red hair long without being shaggy. And his eyes . . . their intensity was smoldering. Smiling inwardly, she thought, Let the games begin.

She tilted her head and asked, “Do you surf a lot?”

“Every day the waves are there. I was surprised how good the waves were this week, considering the forecast. I guess that storm out in the Atlantic had more of a bump than I anticipated.” As he brought a beer bottle to his lips he asked, “And you?”

“Obviously I’m not a surfer. Yet. I was trying out a board my aunt just gave me. I’ve always wanted to surf. I’m on the turtle team, and I walk this stretch of beach every morning and see the surfers out there and wish I could join them.”

“You’re a turtle lady?”

She didn’t miss the tease in his eyes.

“I am indeed,” she replied, and allowed him his laugh. “They’ve been my passion since I was a little girl. My aunt Cara taught me everything I know.”

His expression shifted into surprise. “You’re Cara Rutledge’s niece?”

She put out her hand. “Linnea Rutledge.”

Caught in the game, he smiled and reached out to take her hand. “John Peterson. Nice to meet you.”

“I thought as much.”

His expression changed. “Wait . . . I’ve met you before.”

She looked at him doubtfully.

He pointed at her playfully. “It was at the Fourth of July party at Lovie’s house. Years ago.” He laughed. “You had those long pigtails with enormous red-white-and-blue ribbons.”

Linnea drew herself up. “It was the Fourth of July.”

They smiled at each other, taking each other’s measure.

“I’m sorry to say I don’t remember you.”

John put his hand over his heart. “I’m wounded.”

“I was eight years old.”

His smile turned devilish. “You aren’t eight anymore.”

Linnea was enjoying the flirtation. She sipped her water. “Nope.”

“And you live next door.” It was a statement, not a question.