Page 40 of The Beach Trap

The one where I shut him down after he’d basically told me he wanted to kiss me?

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” He says this straight-faced, in that dry tone I’ve become accustomed to. But now, with him looking likethat, it hits differently.

“You ready?” he says. “I have reservations for seven thirty, and the place is about thirty minutes away.”

I blink a few times, feeling thrown off-balance. Makingreservations is a normal thing to do for a date, but it’s such a change from the lazy, lackadaisical Noah I’ve gotten to know over the past few weeks.

“I’m ready,” I say, but as we head toward the door, I stop. The dog is pacing at my feet, like he’s reluctant to let us leave. “Do you think he’ll be all right by himself for a few hours?”

Noah glances at me, a cheeky smile on his face. “Well, bless my soul, Blake O’Neill. You’re not worried about the dog being lonely, are you? The dog you don’t like at all?”

I give him what I hope is a withering glance. “He’s seemed nervous lately. What if he pees all over the floors I just sanded? He peed on Kat’s shoes the other day.”

Noah bursts out laughing. I’ve told him a bit about Kat, about her expensive clothes and stuck-up attitude. “That’s a good puppy.” He kneels and gives the dog a few scratches around the ears. “Hey, little Dorito Cheeto. You’ll be okay while we’re gone, won’t you?”

The dog gives a sad whine, and my heart gives a reluctant squeeze.

“He’ll be fine,” I say, mostly to reassure myself. We can’t take the dog to a restaurant. “We should get going, right?”

Noah looks up and shrugs. “I know a place we can go and take the dog with us.”

“You’re okay with that?” My shoulders drop in relief.

“Sure, why not. I’d hate for you to spend the evening worrying about your dog.”

“Worrying about the dog ruining my floors, you mean,” I say, grabbing the leash from the kitchen counter. The dog’s tail starts wagging immediately.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Noah winks at me, making me feel off-balance once again, then says to the dog, “Okay, Cheeto puff, let’s go.”

Outside, Noah opens the back door of his car so the dog can jump in. When he shuts the door, I look at him.

“Was this your plan all along?” I say. “To hang out with the dog? Because I would’ve let you take him anytime.”

Noah takes a few steps toward me until he’s only a foot away, close enough that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. My heart pounds. I can smell the clean laundry scent of his clothes, feel the warmth of his skin, see the flecks of green in his blue eyes.

Damn it all to hell, he’s notjusttall. He’s a highly attractive man, and my body likes his body way too much.

“I didn’t do any of this”—he motions at his face, his clothes—“for the dog. Maybe I haven’t made my intentions clear, so I will now: you look beautiful, Blake, and I’d like to buy you dinner and spend the next few hours getting to know you better. Is that acceptable?”

I take a shaky breath. “Yes,” I manage to spit out. “Of course. Let’s go.”

•••

Noah drives usto Seaside, a picturesque beach town about twenty-five miles east of Destin. In the center of the town is a plaza surrounded by palm trees and shops, bustling with people. With the dog on a leash, we walk under twinkle lights strung through the trees, past a line of food trucks in vintage Airstream trailers. Noah buys me a hot dog and gets himself a gourmet grilled cheese, and then we meander through Sundog Books, where he buys me a classic edition ofLittle Womenso I “have something to think about besides demolishing houses.”

After that, he gets us each an ice cream cone—pralines and cream for me, mint chocolate chip for him—and we wander down toward the beach, the dog trotting along on his leash, happy as a clam.

The sun has set, and the stars wink on overhead, so much brighter than they seem in Minneapolis. We sit and chat as we finish our ice cream, the cool sand beneath us, listening to the waves crashing on the shore.

“So you know why I ended up here in Destin,” I say, “but how about you? I’m guessing you haven’t always been a groundskeeper.”

“You guessed right.” He rubs at the stubble on his face, as if he’s still getting used to it. “A year ago, I went to an office every day. Wore a suit. Gave presentations in boardrooms.”

“Sounds boring,” I say, which makes him laugh. I’m not joking, though. It’s easier to imagine this cleaned-up version of Noah having a job like that, but it still doesn’t fit him. “What happened?”

He takes a bite out of his waffle cone. “I made some mistakes. Hurt people I care about. People who now want nothing to do with me.”

He’s speaking in generalities, like always, trying to cover the hurt with a flippant remark. I did the same thing every year for the Dads and Donuts breakfast in school. Granddad would take me, and I loved him for it, but it always felt awkward, and I’d have to pretend like it didn’t matter to me that myactualdad hadn’t come.

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