Page 45 of Shifting Sands

“All right, all right. When do I get to see this rugged heartthrob in real life again? I was talking to Taeli and Ansley, and we were thinking of bringing Caleb and Tucker down before Langford and Tuck head to Arizona and Caleb goes to his dad’s in Chicago for the holidays. I told them about the WaveRunners, and the boys are all in.”

“How about the first week of December?” I suggest.

“That works for me. I’ll ask them and let you know.”

“Okay.”

We say our goodbyes, and I click off the line.

I check the mirror one last time.

I pulled my hair back into a ponytail to prevent it from becoming wild and tangled on the boat. I chose to wear a thick, warm wool sweater with a cowl-neck, jeans, and ankle boots.

I twirl and decide that warm and comfortable is definitely the best choice. I grab my phone and keys and head out to Aunt Ida’s sundeck to wait for Brew.

Brew

Willis’s boat is old. Real old. Smells like salt and oil and time. The paint’s chipped in every direction, and the floor creaks like it’s got a bad knee. But the engine purrs.

They don’t build things like they used to. Willis reminds me of that fact all the time. Nothing is made to last anymore. We just use it while it still looks pretty and feels good, then discard it for the next shiny upgrade.Wasteful.Our generation is impatient and wasteful.

I angle the bow toward the back of Ida’s place, where the dock juts out like a crooked finger. The house looks cozy—yellow light through gauzy curtains, soft shadows moving inside. Nothing state of the art about it. A sturdy home that has been well lived in.

Another thing that was built to last.

Then I see her.

Brandee steps out onto the back porch in a giant sweater that looks like it is wearing her. The hem brushes the tops of her thighs, and she’s got her arms crossed against the chill. Her hair’s pulled back and a little windblown, and the second shespots me standing at the helm, her face splits into this gorgeous little smile that hits me straight in the chest.

“So, you want me to go out on that thing?” she calls down, arms still crossed.

I grin. “Yep. I told you we were taking a boat ride.”

“You didn’t say it involved tetanus,” she says as she takes in the old vessel.

“She’s got character,” I defend.

“She looks like she’s got ghosts.”

“She does,” I admit, holding out a hand as she starts down the dock. “The hull groans so much that Willis swears it’s haunted. I think it’s just his bad patch job with the fiberglass.”

She laughs, and I swear it warms the air. The wind lifts her hair, and she looks so good, standing there, that for a second, I forget how to breathe.

She lets me help her aboard, and when our hands touch, I feel the jolt of it all the way up my arm.

She smells like vanilla and that sea air scent that clings to Sandcastle Cove in the fall. Clean, crisp, and a little wild.

Once I have her settled aboard, we push off slowly, the boat slipping into the water like it remembers how. The engine hums as we cruise the quiet stretch of the intracoastal. It’s one of those weirdly still November nights—cold, but not biting. The kind of night that carries sound for miles and makes the stars seem like they’re watching you. Following your every move.

I don’t say much at first. Just listen to her talk, watch her mouth move, watch the way she tucks her hands into her sleeves when the wind picks up. She’s beautiful in that way that sneaks up on you—comfortably, unexpectedly. Natural. Like home. A far cry from the made-up beauty queens I’m used to spending time with.

“You cold?” I ask.

“A little,” she says.

I cut the engine and drift us into a calm cove, the water still as glass. Then I throw the anchor and toss the old patchwork blanket across the boat floor, like I planned it all along.

“Come here.”

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