Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(63)
“I’m afraid I can’t. I have plans.”
He frowned. “With who?”
She smiled and looked at Hope. “My cousin.”
He made a face. “Tomorrow night, then?”
Linnea reached out to touch a delicate rose petal. It was truly beautiful. But the bloom would wilt in a few days’ time.
“Darby,” she said, dropping her hand and looking into those impossibly beautiful blue eyes. “I appreciate that you came here to apologize. It speaks volumes about you. And our friendship. But I want to keep you as a friend.” She emphasized the word. His expression shifted, so she knew he understood her meaning. “I don’t want to start dating you. We’re not the same people anymore. You have your future planned.” She smiled. “I’m winging it. And I like it that way.”
“But, Linnea, we’re so good together.”
“No, Darby. You liked that I was willing to do what you wanted me to do, and that our mothers think we’re perfect for each other—we have the right pedigree and our children would be beautiful.”
“Come on, that’s not fair.”
She knew it wasn’t fair, just as she knew it was true.
He took her hands. “Lin, say yes. Give us another chance.”
She slipped her hands away. “I’m sorry, Darby. I’m saying no.”
She waited to see how he’d react, her muscles tightening.
He laughed shortly, like he’d just caught the joke a beat late. “Got it,” he said, and pursed his lips. He tilted his head, studying her. “We could’ve been something special.”
“You’ll always be my first love,” she told him.
His face softened, and in that smile she caught a glimpse of the young boy she’d been best friends with for so long.
Hope began fussing on the floor, tossing her toys.
“Well,” he said by way of finality. “It looks like you’ve got your hands full. I’ll get going.”
“Okay, but I’ll see you around.”
Linnea picked up Hope and walked Darby to his sleek navy car. He climbed into the front seat and started the engine. It purred into action.
“Bye, Lin-Lin.”
Linnea smiled, touched that he’d used his old nickname for her. As she waved, and watched the car drive off, she heard water sprinkling behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw John standing in front of Flo’s roses, watering them with a green garden hose. He lifted his hand in a silent, neighborly hello.
She strolled over to the iron fence and prickly pink rosebush divider.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said over the fence. His tone was flat.
“You’re watering the flowers.” Linnea knew Flo doted on her roses and took great pleasure in watering them and checking for black spots or insects.
“Yep.”
“Where’s Flo?”
“At the doctor’s. Mom drove her to an appointment. She asked me to water the flowers for her and . . .” He lifted the hose up for her to see.
“That’s nice of you.”
“Not really. It’s called indentured servitude. I’m called upon to change lightbulbs and furnace filters, clean the garage, take out the trash. . . .” He motioned to the bins at the end of the driveway with the hose, accidentally spraying Linnea with water. She squealed and jumped back.
“Sorry!”
She wiped drips of water from Hope’s face, as she scowled and whined.
“Really,” John said, horrified. “I’m sorry, sweet baby. Is she okay?”
“It was just a few drops. We’re fine. My shoes, on the other hand . . .” She looked down at her vintage white patent-leather loafers. They were wet.
“Again, sorry. But you know you should wear sandals at the beach.”
“Now you’re telling me what shoes to wear?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Sorry,” he said again.
It seemed to Linnea that a lot of people were telling her sorry today.
“Boyfriend?” he asked.
So he did see Darby, she thought. “No. Yes. Well . . .” She tried to explain: “He’s an old boyfriend, and now he’s just a friend.”
“You’re going out with him?”
She appreciated his tone of jealousy. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
John stared at the flowers. Then with a decisive movement he turned off the spray nozzle.
“What are you doing tomorrow at seven?” he asked.
“Surfing?”
“Not this time. Seven at night. For dinner.”
LINNEA SIPPED HER second vodka martini, a little dirty, extra olives, and luxuriated in the feeling of being a young woman out in the evening, sitting across a candlelit table from a handsome man, instead of being a nanny, niece, and daughter.
They’d walked the short distance to the Boathouse restaurant on Breach Inlet. The outdoor bar was jam-packed, but inside they were lucky to get a small table by the window overlooking Hamlin Creek. The Boathouse was comfortably decorated in shiplap and parts of old wooden boats. Across the small table lit by a votive candle, John was talking about surfing the mighty Jaws waves in Maui. She liked the sound of his voice, low and melodic with a faint southern inflection. He had the deeply tanned skin, casual style—an open checked shirt over a T-shirt—and that indefinable something else that marked him as a lowcountry man. His auburn hair was sun-starched from his morning ride on the waves. What attracted her most was his laid-back air of confidence, which spoke loudly: This is my turf.