The Reunion by Kayla Olson(38)

“Hi,” I echo, heat blooming in a variety of places. “Come in?”

Only as he edges past me do I notice the backpack he’s carrying, a dark olive green that matches his watch. It appears to be stuffed to the brim. He catches me eyeing it and says, with a grin, “Told you I had everything covered.”

Not. A. Date, I remind myself.

It feels like a date.

Down on the beach, we slip off our shoes and settle onto my indigo blanket, which is soft and comfortable under my bare legs. The beach is otherwise deserted thanks to the stretch of private residences on both sides of my property—my immediate neighbors are even more reclusive than I am when they’re home, and off enjoying the beaches of Bali and Saint-Tropez when they’re not. Still, Ransom pulls on a dark ball cap, just in case. It isn’t the best disguise, but speaking from past experience, every little bit can help. At the very least, it puts us both more at ease.

“This should be perfect timing,” he says, nodding to the sky. The sun has dipped lower in the time since we’ve come out here; soon, the sky and water will be a riot of pink and orange and gold.

From his backpack, he produces a paper-wrapped loaf of artisan sourdough, then an insulated bag. Inside the bag are a variety of cheeses and meats wrapped in the same paper, along with a variety of fruits—blackberries, strawberries, mango, and honeydew—and even a small jar of kalamata olives. He pulls out a plank of smooth cedar from the pocket that would normally hold a laptop, then begins arranging it all.

“This looks incredible.” I’ve always loved a good charcuterie board but have never had one on the beach. “I’ve got some wine inside,” I say, against my better not-a-date judgment. “Should I go grab it?”

He grins, then pulls out a bottle of sauvignon blanc from the backpack, too. “Only if you’d rather have a different kind.”

“No, this is perfect.” I mean it. “Let me at least get us some wineglasses?”

He probably has a pair of those stuffed in his Mary Poppins backpack, too, but I’m halfway back up the stairs to the patio before he can reply. When I return, he pours us both a glass.

“So,” he says. “Tell me all the things, Livvie.”

“You want the long version or just the sound bites?”

He laughs, eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “I’m not in a rush. I want to hear whatever you want to tell me. What was it like for you after the show?”

The years I disappeared, he doesn’t have to elaborate.

“I found a place in Montana,” I reply, the answer fast on my tongue. “A little cabin with a lake and a valley full of wildflowers, no neighbors for miles, all the books I could fit on the shelf, and almost entirely unreliable access to the internet. It was glorious.”

“What made you decide to come back? Too lonely out there?”

I shake my head. In truth, I thrived on solitude after so many years in the spotlight. “I missed the work, loved it too much to let it go forever. And—I don’t know. I kept thinking about my father. He loved acting so much, you know? He would have hated that I cut myself off from it when I loved it so much, too.” I’ve never spoken these thoughts out loud to anyone, but if there’s anyone who will get it, it’s Ransom. “He would have hated the press for making me want to quit.”

“He already hated the press,” Ransom says. “And he would have loved you no matter what.”

His words are cool water to the parched parts of me that will never stop missing my father. It was the perfect thing to say.

We sit together in silence, so close the space between our shoulders is electric, watching the waves as they lick the shore. A nest of shorebirds—snowy plovers, I think—has taken up residence just down this deserted stretch of beach, all tucked into a sand dune. Otherwise, it’s just Ransom and me and the light, gentle breeze coming off the ocean.

“I can’t remember the last time I watched a sunset from the beach,” he says, breaking our silence. He spears a slice of mango with his fork, takes a bite. “I can’t remember the last time I sat on a beach, period.”

“I bet you get absolutely swarmed at the beach,” I say as I fill my plate with berries and cheese and olives, and he laughs. I love an ocean view, clearly, but I’ve learned the hard way to avoid the more populous beaches like the plague. Too many starry-eyed tourists—it’s impossible to get a run in without getting stopped, even when I’ve gone full camouflage in my ball cap, sunglasses, and low side braid. Somehow they always know. Yet another reason I love where I live: most of my neighbors have been famous longer than I’ve been alive, so I’m mostly left alone.

“Well, the view here is amazing.” His gaze flickers from the sparkling sea and lands on mine; a flush of heat warms me to my core. “If I lived here, I’d never want to leave.”

I take a sip of sauvignon blanc. It’s crisp but smooth, cooling me off from the inside. “I should really come out here more often,” I say. “It’s been way too long since the last time.” All this sand at my disposal, and I hardly ever venture past the chaises on my patio. My beach blanket still looks brand-new, even though it’s more than a decade old.

Ransom takes a long look at me, his eyes bright even under the shadow of his ball cap. My words hang in the air between us.