Page 41 of The Beach Trap

“You don’t think they’ll forgive you?” I ask.

“I don’t know—I haven’t asked.” He glances at me. “And yes, I know it’s cowardly to run away from my problems. I just... I need some time to figure out whatIwant. I’ve spent my entire life doing what other people expected of me, and I’m honestly not sure what I expect ofmyself.” He takes another bite of his cone. “I’m feeling sort of stuck.”

I nod and lick my ice cream. “I can understand that. I’m stuck, too.”

I tell him how my grandparents paid for my college education but that I didn’t finish because my grandma got sick. I came home to help out, but also because I knew from losing my mom that once someone was gone, you’d give anything for just one more day with them.

“Not that I regret leaving school,” I say. “But I do wonder how things might’ve turned out if I’d finished college.”

“What were you studying?”

I shake my head, crunching into my waffle cone. It occurs to me that I’m being more open with him than I have with anyone else in a long time, but it feels easy. Comfortable. “I changed my major three times. Couldn’t settle on anything. So maybe it’s good I didn’t finish—still, it feels like I wasted their money. I could’ve become a nanny without college.”

“If you like being a nanny, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

I’m not sure I actually do like it. I love the kids, but I can’t see myself doing it long term. “There’s nothing wrong with being a groundskeeper,” I say to him, “but do you want to do it forever?”

“Definitely not,” he says flatly. Then he clears his throat, knocking his shoulder into mine. “Anyway, this has taken a depressing turn. Change of subject?”

“Good idea,” I say, laughing. “What do you want to talk about?”

He’s finished his cone, and I give the last of mine to the dog, who scarfs it down like he’s been waiting his entire life for the opportunity.

Noah turns to face me. “Hmm, let’s see. Rapid-fire questions—you say the first thing that comes into your head. Favorite Disney animated movie?”

“Beauty and the Beast.”

“Bzzzzt, wrong.” He gives a thumbs-down. “The correct answer isTarzan.”

“Phil Collins wenthardon that soundtrack,” I agree, nodding. “Who’s your favorite Avenger?”

“Loki.”

I snort. “He’s not an Avenger, but it doesn’t surprise me that you’d like that smarmy, sneaky little shit. The correct answer is Thor—specifically Thor inRagnarok, with short hair and a beard.”

His eyes glint with amusement. “With a beard, eh? Who’s the best Obi-Wan—Alec Guinness or Ewan McGregor?”

There’s a fleck of ice cream on the corner of his mouth, and for a moment I imagine leaning forward and licking it off. Instead, I force myself to answer the question: “Alec is wiser, but Ewan is hotter.”

“Hold on—did you just give me the lip look?”

My eyes snap up to meet his. Just like that, the energy between us has shifted from playful to something completely different.

“Um. Sorry.” My cheeks warm as I point. “You have a little ice cream right there.”

He holds my gaze as he licks the corner of his mouth. “Did I get it?” His voice has dropped an octave.

“Yeah,” I say, a little breathless.

“Too bad. I thought maybe you were going to... you know.”

There’s heat in his eyes, glinting in the moonlight, and I squeeze my thighs together. “Maybe I was hopingyouwould.”

“I wanted to do that a couple weeks ago, but you said the beard grossed you out.”

I scoff. “I didn’t say it grossed me out!”

“You said the beard made it ‘difficult to know what was going on under there.’ Now youdoknow. So...” He raises his eyebrows, challenging me.

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