Page 75 of Chasing Sunsets

“On paddleboarding?” she asks.

I nod.

She smiles. “I think I might be hooked.”

“Good,” I say. “Because next, I’m getting you in a kayak.”

She laughs, but I can tell she doesn’t hate the idea.

We drift for a while, just talking, paddling slowly through the water. I like this. Sharing this place I love with someone—with her.

Maybe it’s the way she looks out here on the water, all sun-kissed and happy. Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t back down from a challenge or the way she laughs, even when she’s frustrated.

Or maybe it’s just her.

Either way, I know one thing for sure: I want more days like this.

Tabby glides ahead of me, her paddle dipping into the water in long, steady strokes. She’s a natural at this—graceful, effortless. The sun catches in her hair, and the way her shoulder musclesripple as she moves captivates me. I swear I catch myself staring at her backside more than watching where I’m going.

She twists around, catching me in the act. “You good back there?”

I smirk, digging my paddle in to speed up. “You trying to leave me behind?”

“Maybe,” she teases, but she slows just enough for me to pull up beside her.

We’ve been out here for a little over an hour, cutting through the Intracoastal, weaving past little mangrove islands and docks that stretch out from the shore. It’s one of those perfect North Carolina days—warm, but not too hot, the sky a brilliant blue with streaks of white clouds drifting overhead.

It’s quiet out here. Peaceful.

And the perfect excuse to show her the house.

I nudge my board closer to hers. “I want to show you something.”

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“You’ll like it. Hopefully.”

I lead her along the water’s edge, past a row of homes nestled among the trees. Some are new, big, and modern with sleek lines and glass walls. But that’s not my style. Not what I wanted.

When we reach the dock, I slow my paddle strokes and glide up beside it. It’s an older dock, sturdy but weathered by the sun, stretching out from the home that’s set back among the oaks. It’s not flashy, like the others.

Tabby slows beside me, taking it in. “Is this it? The one you’re buying?”

I pull my backpack from where it’s strapped to the front of my board and unzip it, fishing out a small key ring. The metal glints in the sunlight.

“Yep,” I say, then glance at her. “It’ll be mine in a couple of days.”

Her lips part slightly, her gaze flicking from the keys to the house, then back to me. “You have the keys already?”

I nod. “The owners are letting me move stuff in early. Figured since we’re out here, I’d show it to you. You’ll be the first to see it.”

Something shifts in her expression—something soft, unreadable—but she doesn’t ask why she’s the first person I’m showing. Maybe she already knows.

She climbs up onto the dock, her movements quick and sure, then holds out a hand for me. I take it, stepping onto the worn wooden planks beside her. Then I hoist our boards up.

The house is exactly what I wanted. What I didn’t know I was looking for until I saw it. A heritage cottage, built decades ago but still solid, still full of life. The exterior is a soft gray, the black trim crisp around the windows. There’s history here.

Tabby lets out a low whistle as we walk up the dock toward the backyard. “Anson, this place is … wow.”

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