Page 34 of The Beach Trap

That part’s tougher to explain, but I take a deep breath anddive in. “From my father,” I say. “He wasn’t really a part of my life, and I guess he felt bad about that, because when he died, he left me half of this place.”

“Half?”

“He left the other half to hisotherdaughter—the legitimate one. The one he raised.” My cheeks grow hot. “My mother was the other woman. His, um, mistress. She died when I was nine, and after that, I never saw him again.”

Noah’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. I’m sorry. That’s...”

“Ancient history,” I say, waving a hand. “I’m going to sell the house once it’s fixed up and use the money to pay for my grandpa’s care facility. He’s got Alzheimer’s.” I clear my throat, feeling uncomfortably exposed, wondering why I’m telling this to a guy I hardly know. “What about you? Why are you here?”

He exhales a long breath. “Over the past year, I’ve screwed up every single aspect of my life. I came here to hide from the world for a while. Figure out my next step.”

He sounds defeated, and my heart goes out to him about whatever happened to put him here, living above a garage and wearing clothes he might have found in a dumpster. I wonder if that’s what the unkempt beard is about; another way to hide from the world.

“Are you having any luck?” I ask. “Figuring out your next step, I mean?”

“I don’t know. I want to do something to add a net value to the world.” It’s an oddly introspective response coming from him, and it makes me wonder if he has a background in business. I get the sense that there’s more to Noah Jameson than I’ve seen so far. But it’s clear there’s a big pile of hurt beneath his words, and I figure it’s time for me to change the subject.

“Well,” I say, trying to sound upbeat, “you added a net value to my kitchen remodel today, but just barely.”

He gives me a quizzical look, eyebrows cocked. “Just barely?”

“Have you never painted anything in your entire life? The drips! I’m going to spend most of tomorrow sanding those out and scraping blobs of primer off the garage floor.”

“Maybe I wanted to give you a little something to remember me by,” he says, smirking.

He’s flirting, and although it’s fun, I’m not sure if that’s where I want things to head. I have a lot to accomplish this summer and I don’t need distractions. Plus, he clearly has his own issues.

That’s when I notice that he’s looking at my mouth. Almost immediately, his eyes flick away.

“You gave me the lip look,” I blurt, then clap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry, ignore that. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“No, no, please explain,” he says, amused. “What is this lip look?”

His gaze drops to my mouth for another brief moment, and there it is again: that flip in my stomach.

“It’s something my friend and I used to talk about when we were kids,” I say, then stop myself. It was Kat, actually. We talked about it at camp, in our bunks when we stayed up long after all the other girls were asleep. We shared the names of the boys we were crushing on, and who we’d like to have our first kiss with. Shaking that off, I continue. “In romantic movies, the characters always look at each other’s lips before going in for a kiss. Next time you watch a movie, you’ll see. It’s totally true.”

He sits forward, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Interesting. I guess I want to know...” He glances at my mouth again, then raises his eyebrows. “Would that be a bad thing, right now, in this moment?”

I swallow. He’s close enough that I can smell him, and he smellsverynice. A little sweaty from working outdoors, but it’s aclean sweat. Spicy and musky and masculine. My hands feel tingly, and I know if I lean toward him, he’ll close the gap and kiss me.

But I don’t. Instead, I give an awkward laugh and lean back on my hands.

“Well, this whole scruffy face-pubes thing”—I motion to his beard—“makes it difficult for me to know what’s going on under there.”

“Ah. Understood.” His voice sounds strained, and his expression is unreadable as he stands. “Better get going, anyway. Tomorrow is pool-cleaning day.”

I feel like I’ve done something wrong.

“See you in a few days,” I say, “and thanks for the help.”

But he’s already walking away, tossing a goodbye over his shoulder.

•••

My final nightin the beach house, I can’t sleep. My body is so tired it’s practically twitching, but I can’t seem to relax. It’s definitelynotbecause of Noah and the fact that I’m still replaying our last conversation, wondering if I should have made a different decision.

To distract myself, I head to the bookshelf in the living room and look for something to read. The dog follows me, keeping an eye on me in the darkness. There are a whole bunch of old paperbacks there, Nora Roberts and Stephen King and Tom Clancy. I’m about to pull one out when I see what’s on the lowest shelf.

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