Of all the places for Brooklyn to sit, she sat across from Bowie. He thought about going to Monroe to thank her for thinking of him but knew it was all happenstance. Their bonfire area wasn’t big, by any means, but still from where he sat, he had a full view of Brooklyn. For years, he had buried his feelings. Did everything he could to forget, and now they were back, and there was no stopping them. The floodgates had opened the second he had figured out she was driving the SUV that almost ran him over. As much as he wanted to hate her, he couldn’t. His heart, body, and mind wouldn’t allow it, and as much as he wanted to stay away from her, to protect himself from being hurt, he found himself in her proximity, always trying to be near her. He tried to fight the connection he felt, tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t. Watching her now, speaking with Monroe, he couldn’t help but long for her. He wanted to lie out under the stars with her by his side, listening to her life. He yearned to hear the details of where her job had taken her, how she had managed to build such a successful business and raise a smart daughter.
He took stock of the differences from when she was twenty-two until now. The years had been good to her. He loved that she wore her hair longer, that she had filled out with curves he longed to touch. She was reserved, careful with what she said around people, almost as if the outgoing girl he once knew had changed into a shy, quiet woman. When they were alone, she closed herself off, even though he could see in her eyes she wanted to be there with him, to kiss him, feel his hands pressed against her. Yet, she held back, and he was fairly confident that Brooklyn planned to leave once the job at the inn was finished. Bowie wasn’t going to let her go, not without a fight.
And now, here she was, looking directly at him instead of paying attention to whatever Monroe was saying to her. Their eyes locked, and even though a small distance separated them, Bowie could see her staring at him. He didn’t dare look away. He wanted her to know he was doing the same thing, watching her.
He stepped toward her with intentions of taking her down to the surf so they could talk, but Monroe finally grabbed her attention, forcing Brooklyn to look away. He sat and focused on the red flames and embers from the bonfire, trying his hardest to sit there and pretend to mingle with his classmates. It was hot out and the fire was unnecessary, but it was their thing. They always had one. Back when they were teens, one of them—he couldn’t recall who because they all suggested something stupid at least once a day—had the bright idea of burning a pile of driftwood. The blue and lavender flames were a sight to see and attracted beachgoers from all along the shoreline. What the boys hadn’t counted on was becoming sick from the dioxins released by the burning logs. After a trip to the emergency room, they had learned their lesson. Shortly after the incident, the town banned all driftwood fires. Now that Bowie thought about it, they likely did so because Austin was involved, and nothing bad could happen to their precious Austin.
Bowie hated himself right now for thinking ill of his friend. The animosity he thought he had long buried was alive and kicking, and for no good reason. Austin wasn’t there to defend himself, and Brooklyn . . . he could never find the right moment after Austin passed away to tell her how he felt, until it was too late. Carrying about the bitterness wasn’t good for him or anyone around him. He studied their group. Brooklyn was deep in conversation with Monroe, while Carly spoke to Graham. He had no idea where Grady had run off to, probably back to the bar, but he saw Luke frolicking with Brystol and decided he’d rather be with them. He dug through the cooler and pulled out a fresh beer and bottle of water and made his way toward her.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked her. She glanced up at him, her eyes shining like a bright blue sky. Brooklyn’s daughter was beautiful, a spitting image of her mother mixed with the best of her father. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her freckled nose and smiled. He had hated wearing his glasses and was so thankful that his parents had allowed him to get contacts in middle school. Even now, he’d rather go to bed blind than put his specs on.