Page 8 of I'll Catch You
5
Claire
My metal detectorstarts going off likemad.
I put it aside and draw a line in the sand around the area it’s detected, digging through the damp ground and carefully sifting the sand through my fingers. This might be my lucky day. If I find gold, maybe I can pawn it off to my fish guy and get next week’s catch forit.
I keep digging until I hit water, then keep going a little bit further. My fingers finally catch something hard and I fish it out. It’s a piece of lanyard with a string of metal can tabs strung on it. This was probably someone’s prized possession at some point, but now it’s justtrash.
Well, if I’m not getting rich, at least I’m helping keep the beach clean. I walk toward the water to rinse the makeshift bracelet and tuck it into my pocket for safekeeping. Maybe I won’t throw it out. Maybe I’ll keep it in the cabinet where I display all of the many things my dad used to find. It might not be a great discovery, but maybe this one is akeeper.
“Hey,” I hear a male voice say behind me. I close my eyes and let out a breath. I would know that voice anywhere, even though I’ve only met him once. It’s Peter. It’s Peter and his distinctive, deepvoice.
“Hello,” I say, turning around with my arms folded across my chest. “I didn’t expect to see you here thisevening.”
“I didn’t expect to see you either,” he says, peering past me at the patch of beach I’ve disturbed. “So is this your side hustle? Maybe you should open a shop. I hear a lot of gullible city people will pay big money for cute craftystuff.”
“You’re making fun of me,” I say, bending down to grab my metal detector. I try not to let the smile that’s threatening to spread across my lips show. I don’t want to like this man. I’m supposed to hate him. Part of my identity is wrapped up in hating city people without knowing very much about them. It’s not a good quality. I’m aware of that. At the same time, my pre-judgements are not unfair. He did come here to try to take my restaurant away from me. Still, maybe hate is the wrong word. Strongly dislike. He couldn’t know what the restaurant means tome.
“I’m not making fun,” he says, taking a step toward me. When he gets closer, I have the opportunity to get a better look. His dark brown eyes heat me up with his gaze, wrapping around me and making me feel a little off-balance. His broad chest is covered with a simple black tee shirt that shows off his thick shoulders. If I didn’t already know he was from the city, I’d think he worked out here as a day laborer on constructionsites.
After what feels like too long, I break away from his heated gaze and turn my back to him with a tickle in my belly that’s still telling me to gaze into those eyes of his, in spite of what my better judgment is telling me todo.
“What are you still doing out here, anyway?” I ask over my shoulder. I feel him following me as I kick the sand back into the hole I dug and continue my search. My detector beeps as I glide it past a beer can. Peter bends down next to me and picks it up. I nod in his direction. That was nice of him. Maybe he can build a house with it. A house for ants. That’s crafty, right? And then he can sell it in this little homey arts and crafts shop he’s instructed me to open without knowing why I’m doing what I’m doing. For a moment I’m actually thankful for the distraction. Yes. Just like earlier today, he’s provided a welcome distraction. And like all distractions, he’s here to do a job and then be forgotten just as quickly. He’s a cheesedoodle.
“I’m in town for the week,” he says. “I rented a house. It’s actually reallynice.”
“You say that as though you’resurprised.”
“Not surprised at all,” he protests with a clarification. “It was just a littleunexpected.”
“How is that different from surprise?” I arch an eyebrow at him. He’s looking at me in this odd kind of way again. I look down and when I see what I’m wearing I remember that I stripped my top off some time between shoving a s’more into my mouth back at the bonfire at Brent’s and when I dripped chocolate on myself. I tug on the wire of my bathing suit top that I wore as a bra today. I’m not indecent. It’s the beach. Peter should really stop staring. Or at least if he’s going to be looking at my eyes the way he is, he should shift his gaze lower. Look at my boobs. That’s easier to handle because it’s the way plenty of guys look atme.
“I expected to feel a little itchy when I got here,” he replies, kicking a little sand with the heel of his deck shoe. “But I don’t. It’srefreshing.”
“Uh huh.” I roll my eyes in his general direction. I don’t mean to. It just kind of happens. Another rich guy romanticizing the big, open sky, the white sand beach, and what I’m sure he thinks of as folksy, common people. He came through here expecting to inspect our down-home ways the way a sociologist would. Instead he met actual people. How charming forhim.
I wait for the other shoe to drop. He’s here to ask me again if I want to sell. He’ll start prattling on about other properties he’s purchased, how he’s kept them as close to what they were before as possible, and how I’m giving up a valuable opportunity. I know he’s going to sound like someone in a late-night infomercial. Phrases like “act now,” “while supplies last,” and “buy one, get one free” flash through my mind like foghorns. I’m not susceptible to those kind of manipulations. My father trained me well in the fine art of negotiation. Go with your gut, Claire, that’s what he always told me. You can run circles around men with your intellect all day. Don’t be blinded by it. Don’t get too comfy on your high horse, because the other side might have a step stool and they’ll take you down slowly if they haveto.
“Have you always lived out here?” Peter asks. I look back at him. In his own, sweet way, he’s actually very nice. His smile is genuine and his question seems the same. Maybe he isn’t the blood-sucking vulture I thought he was, circling like I’m acarcass.
“Yeah, so far,” I reply. My voice sounds pinched. My fingers fly to my temple and I feel warmth between my foot and thesand.
“Oh shit,” Peter mutters, erasing the distance between us. I feel my knees weaken and I tumble toward him, my hand splaying against his chest. I’m woozy and it’s not his eyes that are doing it tome.
Blotches of purple and black swim in front of my eyes as Peter lifts me into his arms and cradles me against his chest. I regain my composure and peer past his forearm at the trail of blood dripping from myfoot.
The last thing I see before my eyelids fall are Peter’s big brown eyes. I think I might get lost in them if I weren’t about tofaint.
