Page 61 of The Voice We Find

I know the personality type she’s describing well. I lived in a Hollywood mansion with it for nearly eighteen months before my eyes were finally opened in the wake of tragedy. I touch her arm, and she pauses in the surf. “And he lives at the winery with you?”

“Technically, I live inhispool house—the one he built to go with his new pool and spa area currently under construction. Thankfully, he put Natalie over my work schedule so our interactions at the winery are limited. But without his signature at the end of my six-month commitment in December, I’ll be forced to leave the winery with nothing more than the debt I came with.”

Sophie fills me in on the details of her Gigi’s trust, about the conditions surrounding the biannual payout, and how she’s eager to have enough funds to be fully independent and out from under her brother’s thumb.

I’m about to ask her more of what she envisions for her future, but Sophie seems to have other plans. She makes a move for the bag of saltwater taffy and steals it from my grasp.

“Bet I can guess your favorite taffy flavor,” she teases as she takes a step backward in the wet sand.

“Doubt it.” I try to swipe the bag back, but soon she’s splashing away in the surf as if we’re engaged in a child’s game of tag.

At first, I keep my steps light, seeing as I have exactly one change of pants, but then Sophie picks up speed and I have no choice but to do the same. Every few strides I hear the faint echo of her laugh, and it propels me forward. All too soon my pants are soggy.

She’s fast, much faster than I would have suspected given her attire, but still, the advantage is mine. I know this beach like I know my childhood home. She’s about to run into the rocks that lead to the tide pools—it’s impassable with bare feet.

“Give them up! You’re out of beach,” I holler into the wind.

“Never,” she calls back with slightly less enthusiasm as she faces down the path of agony.

I cringe as she starts across the sharp, coral-like rock formations jutting up from the sand. I stop where I am because I don’t want to push her any further. I don’t want her to get hurt. And she will. I’ve had my fair share of scrapes and cuts on these rocks as a boy. Just the thought of her in pain makes my abdomen burn something fierce.

“Sophie,” I warn again as she takes another hesitant step. “Fine, you win.” I relent and hold up my hands. “I’m implementing the buddy system.”

She stops, turns. “What did you say?”

“I’m implementing the buddy system. You said it works in every circumstance, so let’s put it to the test. Right here, right now.”

“Okay.” Even in shadow, I can see the illumination of her smile. “And how do you propose we go about it when I’m here and you’re there?”

I glance around the beach for some inspiration, only to give up and follow the prompt of my instinct—which in all likelihood will be as ridiculous in practice as it is in my head considering mybuddyis a professional actress. I squat low and attempt a pantomime in my half-soaked pants. I pretend to grip a rope from the sand and tie one end around my waist while I lasso the other end for a good five seconds in the air as if I’m an experienced cattle farmer from the Midwest. Once I’ve finally built enough imaginary momentum, I toss it out to Sophie.

And when I do, she’s ready.

She’s fully in character when she secures the taffy bag between her teeth so she can catch the lasso with her hands and shimmy it up her legs, over her hips, and around the small of her waist.

When her eyes meet mine, she gives me a thumbs-up, a response I interpret to mean she’s ready to be reeled in.

The whole thing is completely ludicrous, and yet, it’s everything I didn’t know I needed.She’severything I didn’t know I needed.

Inch by inch, I tug the invisible rope toward me, careful not to rush her over the rough terrain. Every successful step decreases the tension trapped in my lungs.

And then, finally, she’s standing in front of me, wearing my old sweatshirt with a bag of taffy dangling at her side. The wind at her back tugs at her braids and creates a wispy halo effect around her face. Her eyes gleam with a look that signals an emotion I wish I knew how to hold on to for the rest of my life.

“You’re a pretty good actor, August Tate.”

I don’t want to act with youis what I’m desperate to admit as my gaze lingers with hers and the air between us thins.

So much of my current reality has been built on the pretense that I know what I’m doing—how to raise a teenager, how to run a household, how to start a business, how to reconcile my anger, how to grieve the parents I wounded.

How to not kiss my coworker and risk the last functioning piece of my heart.

But as I stare at the inviting lips on a face I’ve memorized through the safety of a glass wall over the last two months, I want to risk it. For her. For me.

For the possibility of something I didn’t even know I could hope for, much less find.

I touch her waist, pull her close, and watch her eyelids shutter closed in anticipation, and then I—

Her palm flattens on the center of my chest and instead of feeling the warm brush of her lips, I feel the space her gentle push creates between us. Confusion knits my brow until I see a flash of panic tinge her expression. And then it’s gone in a blink.

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