Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(45)

“Actually, I live in Charleston. I’m babysitting Hope for the summer.” Then, realizing that sounded a bit lame, she added, “I just graduated from USC, and it’s my final summer on the beach before I join the nine-to-five work world.”

“Good move. Then we’ll be neighbors,” he said, obviously pleased with the notion.

“Word on the street is that you’re moving in here.”

He looked chagrined. “I’m not moving back in with my mother,” he explained, then added, “Not exactly. I’m working on something right now and needed a place to crash.”

“What are you working on?”

“A computer program. Top secret. Can’t divulge. I wouldn’t want to have to kill you.”

“Very funny. How long will you stay on the island?”

He shrugged. “Hard to say. It depends on how long the project takes. I’d like to be back in San Francisco by September.”

“I wish I knew where I’d be in September.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m job-hunting.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Something in environmental science.”

“That’s a hot career in California right now.”

“So I hear.”

“You should look out there. San Francisco, especially. Everyone is environmentally conscious, and there are a lot of new startups. In fact, I know of a company that—”

“There you are!”

Linnea swung her head around to see Cara standing at the top of the stairs. Her face was slightly flushed from the exertion and her cheeks had a lovely glow from the wine.

Cara walked closer, her arm out in greeting. “I see you’ve met John,” she said in a knowing tone.

I’m not going to blush, Linnea told herself. “Yes. Just. It seems he remembers me from Lovie’s party years ago.”

“Really?” Cara cast her gaze on John. “You and your brother ran out of there so fast I’m surprised you remember meeting anyone.”

“Bad manners. Forgive my teenage hormones,” he said.

“All’s forgiven because you’ve made your mother very happy by visiting her. All of us are happy to see you again.”

Linnea smiled stiffly and sent Cara warning flashes with her eyes.

“Well, I’ve just come to say good-bye,” said Cara. “Hope will be up at dawn.”

John and Linnea watched Cara disappear down the stairs. In the garden below, Flo and Emmi were bringing in the last of the dishes. There was an awkward silence.

So much for my plans to leave early, Linnea thought. “I’d better go.”

John held out his hand. “I’ll walk you out.”

Linnea looked at him for a moment, then set down her water bottle and grabbed hold of his strong, tanned hand. They walked down the stairs to the gate, a short distance that seemed to take forever in her mind.

“Well, good night,” she said, opening the gate.

John put his hand on the gate, stilling it. “You said you wanted to learn to surf?”

Linnea’s insides jumped. She leaned back to look at his face. His eyes seemed to reflect the moonlight. “Oh, yes.”

“The surf’s supposed to be decent tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Linnea turned and walked back to the beach house, thinking that was the best pickup line she’d ever heard.



THE FOLLOWING MORNING Linnea awoke to a high-pitched ding. It took a minute for her brain to fight its way through the fog before she clumsily grabbed her phone. Blinking her dry eyes, she read the text.

I’m here. Come on out.

She gasped and glanced at the time. It was seven on the dot.

She leaped from the bed, wide awake at the prospect of her first surf lesson. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to set the alarm. She stumbled in her haste to slip into her bikini and put on the rash guard; not to waste time, she slipped her thin cotton sleep shirt over her like a cover-up. As she hurried from the room, she stuck her feet in flip-flops and grabbed an elastic from the dresser top. Running down the hall, she hand-combed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail. Hope was still sleeping, and, judging from the silence in the master bedroom, so was Cara.

She flung open the kitchen door, expecting to see John. But no one was there. Linnea stepped outside and looked around. The air held that lovely early-morning freshness that would dissipate as the sun rose higher. Across the driveway, she saw John in his swimsuit and a pale-blue and black rash guard, already working at fastening the two surfboards to the back of his white Ford pickup. It was an oldie but goodie, covered in dents, spots of rust, and bumper stickers, prominent among them a Tom Petty decal across the rear window. She walked over to Emmi’s driveway.

“Good morning!” she called out.

“Morning,” he called back, not turning his head as he worked the straps.

“We aren’t going to surf right out here?” she asked, wondering why he was loading his truck.

He finished tightening the straps and faced her, slapping dirt from his hands. “No, only the best for your first lesson. We’re lucky there are some decent waves today. Beginner’s luck. This is Isle of Palms, after all. Not California. The waves here are slim pickings.”