Page 11 of Between the Lines

“God, no. Don’t even try. Just—paddle. Walk along the shore. Pick up a shell or two.” She huffed down the phone. “Look, you know you have to, right? You know this isn’t about understanding the Majestic’s accounts.”

And he did know that, of course. If this was about money he could have taken his father’s advice, thrown another ten grand on the table yesterday, and slept in his own bed last night. He sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you can do it,” Miranda said softly. “I have faith in you.”

“Pretty sure Luca Moretti thinks I’m an arsehole.”

“Yeah? Maybe he’s the asshole. Besides, don’t be so sure—you’re more winning than you think.”

Which wouldn’t be hard, but he appreciated the cheerleading. “Any tips?”

“Just the usual three, boss: eye contact, eye contact, eye contact.”

He sighed. It was always bloody eye contact.

* * *

When Luca wasn’t helping out around the hotel, or working at the Surf Hut, he put in some shifts as a lifeguard. He often picked up work lifeguarding when he was on the road, and always when he visited New Milton, and this morning he found himself sharing the chair with Ashna Kohli, a premed student at NYMC, also home for the summer. He’d known her since she was a gangly high school kid, but now she was a beautiful young woman whose long legs drew the eyes of half the boys on the beach.

“Gonna be a busy one,” she said, pulling her ball cap lower over her eyes and handing him a chilled bottle of water. Ashna was big on hydration in the heat.

The beach was already filling up with families, the skies clear and an offshore breeze snapping at sunshades and umbrellas. After the still of the day before, the surf was up and Luca watched the surfers out beyond the breakers with envy. He couldn’t wait for his shift to end so he could get out there, too. But the higher surf caused problems closer to shore, with more people in the water and liable to drift into the rip current at the center of the bay. Not to mention idiot surfers coming in too close and city folk, unfamiliar with the power of the ocean, getting grated against the sand. Ashna was right: it was going to be a busy one.

He kept his eyes moving, scanning the water for signs of trouble or distress, his mind turning over the problems at the Majestic. Jude wanted him to come back, which was the root of their conflict. She wanted him to run the hotel and fund her and Don’s retirement in Miami. Well, he wouldn’t. Hecouldn’t. And yet the thought of Wishart getting hold of the old place...

“C’mon, Luca, dish.” He glanced over to find Ashna watching him from beneath the bill of her cap. She looked away, back to the water. “You’ve been huffing and puffing all morning.”

“Just thinking.” He reached for his water bottle. “My mom wants to sell the Majestic.”

Ashna stared. “No way.”

“Yeah. To some dork who wants to turn it into a golf resort.”

“Really? That’d blow.”

“Tell me about it. But this guy’s all—” he adopted a parody of Wishart’s British accent “—‘We’ll leverage the Callaghan bounce for aspirational branding’ blah, blah.”

“No idea what that even means,” Ashna said, taking a swig of her water. “But what about you? Could you buy them out or something? Run it yourself.”

“No chance.”

“Why not?” Her gaze was still on the water, but he saw her back stiffen as she sat up straight. “You love the old place. You’d be great.”

He shook his head, following her gaze to where it had fixed along the beach to his left. “Even if I had the money, which I don’t, I could never go back there for good. Too much water under the—You see that?”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a guy in the water flailing around with a bodyboard like he’d never seen a wave before, each one sending him stumbling. “Is he drunk?”

“Maybe.” Ashna lifted her binoculars and took a closer look. “Whatever’s up, the dude’s all over the place.”

“I’ll go check it out,” Luca said, standing up on the step. “Damn—it’s barely midday. Who’s drunk at this time?”

Ashna snorted. “Have you everbeento an ER?”

He conceded the point, jumped down from the chair, and headed out over the hot sand toward the guy floundering in the water. Halfway there, he watched a large wave building—realized the guy hadn’t noticed—and winced when it broke right over him. Luca had dubbed the experience being washing-machined, the way a wave tumbled you down and over until you didn’t know which way was up. He broke into a run when the cheap bodyboard scooted up the beach ahead of the wave with its owner nowhere in sight. The guy wasn’t likely to be in any danger, but if he was drunk, or if he’d hit one of the submerged rocks on this part of the beach—

As Luca ran into the water, the man surfaced, went under as if his legs had given way, and breached the surface again, flailing and gasping. By then Luca was close enough to grab his arm and haul him, coughing and spluttering, to his feet.

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