Page 12 of Tides of Change
But then, maybe I was just being paranoid, and there were no negatives.
Garrett spread his hands wide, and his voice pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. “Hey, it’s okay…”
The hesitation in his tone hit me like a blow to the chest. He was giving me an out, but it felt like a fragile thread was stretching between us, one I could either strengthen or snap.
I gave him a touch of a smile and dropped my hand. “A beer sounds good.”
Undeniable relief lit Garrett’s face, and my resolve to distance myself weakened further. One beer. I’d stay an hour and then go home to my empty house.
He clasped his hands and rubbed them together. “Great! Have a seat.”
By the time I’d toed off my shoes and settled on one end of the couch, Garrett had reappeared from the kitchen, necking two bottles of beer in one hand like a practiced pro. The bottle he handed me was cool to the touch, the amber glass sweating in the cozy glow of the living room lamp.
“Cheers,” I murmured and tipped my bottle to his. The first sip was icy and crisp, with an earthy richness. I studied the label and raised my eyebrows at the unfamiliar design. “This is excellent. Barnacle Brews?”
“It’s made right here in Seacliff Cove. I’ll take you to the brewery and introduce you to Callum.”
I froze for half a heartbeat. He was already talking about a next time and meeting his friends. Despite my better judgment and the rational defenses I’d built, the words hit me like a warm rush of pumpkin spice latte. My chest tightened as I struggled to hold him at arm’s length. I couldn’t dwell on wishful thinking and wanting something I might not be able to have. I needed a safer topic. “Maybe someday,” I said under my breath. Then louder, “Why did you become a deputy sheriff?”
“I was born to be a deputy sheriff,” he said with a sheepish chuckle. “My father was one—retired now—and he named me after Pat Garrett.”
I couldn’t help it; the corner of my mouth twitched upward. “The sheriff who shot Billy the Kid?”
“Exactly.” He took a long pull from his beer, his throat working with a rhythm so hypnotic that I had to drag my gaze away.
Why was that so suggestive? So maddeningly sexy? The heat that surged through me was entirely inappropriate. My fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, the condensation damp against my palm. I forced my mind to stop wandering down paths it had no business exploring. He’d offered me a beer, not a—I cleared my throat. “If you followed in your father’s footsteps, does that mean you didn’t really want to be a deputy?”
“Oh, no.” His denial was instant, his voice full of conviction. “Being in law enforcement was the only thing I ever wanted to do. I looked up to my dad. Wanted to wear a uniform just likehim. In my childish mind, it was all about putting away the bad guys.”
As he took another sip, I forced my attention to the sturdy texture of the sofa fabric and not the stretch of his throat or the languid way he leaned against the couch.
“The reality is, it’s not a thrill-a-minute. It’s a lot of paperwork and minor complaints, punctuated by moments of adrenaline-packed emergencies. But I believe in protecting and serving my community.” He shrugged, an unassuming gesture. “That’s probably more than you wanted to know.”
I almost said,I want to know everything.But I clamped my lips shut, terrified of revealing too much. Instead, I offered a crooked smile. “I’m always interested in people and their stories. It’s the writer in me. Who knows? You may end up in a book one day.” I put a period on the statement with a wink.
He grinned in reply. “Just don’t kill me off.”
The humor in his words slid right past me as a chill ghosted down my spine. My smile faltered, the weight of his safety heavy on my chest.Not on my watch.
He raised his bottle, pointing it toward me like a casual invitation. “What about you? Did you always want to be a writer?”
“God, no.” I swigged my beer, the tang hitting my gut. “I wanted to be a pediatrician.”
Garrett tilted his head, studying me with his perceptive blue eyes. “I can see that. You’re good with Noah. What changed your mind?”
My fingers tightened around the bottle. “I took creative writing as an elective. My professor thought I had talent and became my mentor.” My lips quirked at the memory of Professor Halpern’s unruly hair and blunt critiques. “I entered a few contests, published some short stories, and ended up lovingwriting.” I shrugged. “By the time I graduated with a degree in biology, I knew I was in the wrong field. I wanted to write.”
But that wasn’t the whole truth. The rest was a familiar weight in my chest. The nights I spent hunched over my laptop after endless hours at my day job in a sterile lab, my dreams poured into chapters when everyone else had long gone to sleep. It had been grueling, a balancing act that sometimes felt impossible. But when the Jake Slate series finally took off, I knew it had been worth it.
Garrett nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Where did you go to school?”
I paused, the words catching on the edge of caution. Telling Garrett where I went to college meant giving away a piece of where I came from. But something about him—steady, grounded—made me want to take the risk. “Columbia University,” I said, and let it hang there between us.
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted slightly, the only real sign of surprise. He leaned back on the cushion, eyes narrowing—not with suspicion, but with new curiosity.
“Impressive,” he said. His voice was calm, measured, but I could see the wheels turning behind his gaze. “East Coast, then.”
I gave a small shrug, not ready to fill in the blanks.
