Once in a Lifetime(89)

Was she okay? The jury was still out, but that he’d asked at all meant she needed to work on her poker face. “I’m good,” she said, not adding the automatic “thanks” as she would’ve in the old days, back when she’d still been a people pleaser. Of course, being “good” was more than a bit of an exaggeration, but what she really happened to be was none of his business.

He met her gaze and held it, and she knew that he knew she was full of shit. But after a beat, he gave her a short nod and left her alone. Becca watched him stride up the pier steps and then vanish from sight before she turned her attention back to the ocean.

Whitecaps flashed in the last of the day’s sun, and a salty breeze blew over her as the waves crashed onto the shore. Big waves. Had Sexy Surfer really just been out in that? Was he crazy?

No, she was the crazy one, and she let out a long, purposeful breath, and with it a lot of her tension.

But not all…

She wriggled her toes some more, waiting for the next wave. There were a million things running through her mind, most of them floating like dust motes through an open, sun-filled window, never quite landing. Still, a few managed to hit with surprising emphasis—such as the realization that she’d done it. She’d packed up and left home.

Her destination had been the Pacific Ocean. She’d always wanted to see it, and she could now say with one hundred percent certainty that it met her expectations. The knowledge that she’d fulfilled one of her dreams felt glorious, and she was nearly as light as a feather.

Nearly.

Because, of course, there were worries. The mess she’d left behind, for one. Staying out of the rut she’d just climbed out of, for another. And a life. She wanted—needed—a life. And employment would be good—something temporary, a filler of sorts, mostly because she’d become fond of eating.

But standing in this cozy, quirky little Washington State town she’d yet to explore, those worries all receded a little bit. She’d get through this; she always did. After all, the name of this place nearly guaranteed it.

Lucky Harbor.

She especially liked the “Lucky” part, since she was determined to chase some good luck for a change.

A few minutes later, the sun finally gently touched down on the water, sending a chill through the early July evening. Becca took one last look and turned to head back to her car. Sliding behind the wheel, she pulled out her phone and accessed the ad she’d found on Craigslist last month.

Cheap waterfront warehouse converted into three separate living spaces. Cheap. Furnished (sort of). Cheap. Month to month. Cheap.



It worked for Becca on all levels, especially the “cheap” part. She had the first month’s rent check in her pocket, and she was meeting the landlord at the building. All she had to do was locate it. Her GPS led her away from the pier, to the other end of the harbor, down a narrow street lined with maybe ten warehouse buildings.

Problem numero uno.

None of them had a number indicating an address. After cruising up and down the street three times, she admitted defeat and parked. She called the landlord, but she only had his office number, and it went right to voicemail.

Problem number two. She was going to have to ask someone for help, which wasn’t exactly her strong suit.

It wasn’t even a suit of hers at all. She hummed a little to herself as she looked around, a nervous tic for sure, but it soothed her. Unfortunately, the only person in sight was a kid on a bike, in homeboy shorts about ten sizes too big and a knit cap, coming straight at her on the narrow sidewalk.



“Watch it, lady!” he yelled.

A city girl through and through, Becca held her ground. “You watch it,” she yelled back.

The kid narrowly missed her and kept going.

“Hey, which building is two-oh-three?”

He called out over his shoulder, “Ask Sam! Sam knows everything!”

Okay, perfect. She cupped her hands around her mouth so he’d hear her. “Where’s Sam?”

The kid didn’t answer, but he did give a jerk of his chin toward the building off to her right.

It was a warehouse like the others—industrial, old, the siding battered by the elements and the salty air. It was built like an A-frame barn, and both the huge front and back sliding doors were open to the elements. The sign posted did give her a moment’s pause.

PRIVATE DOCK

TRESPASSERS WILL BE USED AS BAIT.



She bit her lower lip and decided her need to find her place outweighed the threat. Hopefully…

The last of the sunlight slanted through, highlighting everything in gilded gold, both the skeleton of a wooden hull in the center of the space and the guy using some sort of planer along the wood. The air itself was throbbing with the beat of the loud indie rock blaring out from some unseen speakers.

From the outside, the warehouse hadn’t looked like much, but as she stepped into the vast doorway, she realized the inside was a wide-open space with floor-to-rafters windows nearly three stories high. Lined with ladders and racks of stacked wood planks and tools, it was neat as a store. The boat hull, centered in the space, looked like a piece of art.

Just like the guy working on it. His shirt was damp and clinging to his every muscle as it bunched and flexed with his movements. It was all so beautiful and intriguing—the boat, the music, the man himself, right down to the corded veins on his forearms—that it was like being at the movies during the montage of scenes that always played to a soundtrack.