Page 54 of Crushing Clover

“Never? Damn. I probably should have let Lucky take you here first. I was surprised he hadn’t.”

I kicked off my shoes and picked them up. It was freeing to feel the sand between my toes, and the wind whipping tendrils of my hair.

“So, you don’t mind being stuck with us too much?”

“Things could be far worse,” I pointed out. When he frowned, I realized that wasn’t a compliment. “Besides, have you looked in the mirror? It’s not exactly a hardship.”

“Your flattery almost sounds sincere.” He chuckled.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who doesn’t know how hot he is.”

“With women constantly throwing themselves at my feet? I don’t think I’ve ever suffered from low self-esteem.”

“Having women constantly throwing themselves at your feet sounds inconvenient.”

“It’s an absolute tripping hazard.”

“Poor baby.” We smiled at each other, and warmth burbled in my stomach.

Dammit, Clover—you’re absolutely forbidden from developing a crush on any of these men. Not allowed.

Reluctantly, I pulled my gaze from his, looking out over the water. A group of surfers chatted nearby, watching a couple of people who were still out on the water. It was a mixed group of guys and girls, and they seemed happy to be there together, all of them laughing and possibly shit-talking each other, judging by the tone of their voices.

“Is that what life was like for you guys before you opened the restaurant?” I asked.

“Sometimes. Lucky has always been passionate about surfing. Saint and I only do it for fun.”

“Did Lucky surf competitively?”

“A bit. His father really encouraged it.”

“Yours didn’t?”

“My father wasn’t around. Neither was my mom, for that matter. She wasn’t super reliable, so I was mostly raised by my aunt and uncle, along with their kids. I spent most of my school years trying to get good grades so they didn’t regret taking me in.”

I grimaced. “That’s shitty. Kids shouldn’t have to excel to prove they’re worth care and attention.”

“You say that with a lot of authority.”

“One of my workers used to say that to us.”

“Workers?”

“Group home.”

“Man, you’ve got me beat. That’s even rougher than my life.”

“The last place wasn’t so bad. The workers did their best. My last foster home was terrible, though. It’s amazing what people will do to helpless kids when no one cares about them.”

He grimaced and flicked the bell on my collar. “People are the worst.”

“Some of them.”

We walked along, and I realized I felt more comfortable with him, knowing he hadn’t had a stellar childhood either. People who were raised in a regular environment didn’t get it.

We got too close to the water, and a wave rushed up, determined to swallow his boots.

“Who wears boots to the beach?” I teased.

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