Page 1 of Raven

1

Raven

I was sittingon my deck, minding my own business, when a scream cut through the salty air.

I sat up, ears tuned.

“Damn it, Mike, stop it!” a woman’s voice shouted.

Another scream followed, this one edged with frustration and coming from down the beach. I hesitated—just for a second—but curiosity won out.

When I spotted the commotion, I laughed.

A woman lay sprawled on the sand, a dripping-wet golden retriever bouncing around her like a lunatic. Tail wagging like a propeller, he darted into the waves and then back to her, leaping and splashing, soaking her all over again.

She groaned and sat up, clearly exasperated, before grabbing a tennis ball and flinging it into the ocean. Mike—if that was his name—tore after it, and to my surprise, she followed, sprinting into the waves before diving beneath them like a mermaid swimming out into the waves.

I watched for a beat too long. And yeah—she had a body that didn’t quit. But I turned away before I started looking like a creep.

I went inside and started making lunch. Halfway through my burger, another scream—sharper this time, with a thread of real distress—snappped me to my feet.

I bolted to the beach.

The woman was treading water offshore, one arm crossed over her chest. On the sand, Mike pranced proudly with something dangling from his mouth.

I knew it was her bikini top before I saw that red string hanging out of the dog's mouth.

I couldn’t help the grin. I called out to her, “Need some help?”

Her eyes widened. She ducked beneath the water and popped back up. Debated.

“Can you grab my top from Mike?” she finally called, voice tight with embarrassment.

“Sure thing.”

I took a step toward the dog, who saw me as part of the game. He danced just out of reach, eyes sparkling with pure mischief. Then he bolted into the surf again.

I chuckled. “He’s really committing to this game.”

“Tell me about it,” she muttered, watching her dignity bob away with the waves.

I pulled off my T-shirt. “Here, take this. I doubt he’s giving that thing up anytime soon.”

I balled it up and lobbed it her way. She caught it—barely—and I turned around to give her privacy.

A minute later, she stepped out of the surf, dripping wet, my shirt clinging to her curves as it hung down past her bikini bottoms.

“Thanks,” she said, brushing a wet strand of blonde hair from her cheek. “Mike’s still young. He doesn’t listen to a word I say.”

I shrugged. “He’s a puppy. That’s what they do. Bit of training, he’ll settle down.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“I’ll wash your shirt and bring it back,” she added, suddenly shy.

That’s when I really saw her. Sun-kissed skin, lean muscle, legs that went on for days. And something about the way she stood—casual, confident—like she didn’t need attention to own a room. She had stormy blue eyes. I hurriedly looked away when I realized I was starings

“I’m Beatrice Jones,” she said, offering a hand.

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