“My back is old, but not that old.” He laughs, taking confident strides toward Mr. Hans’s house.
“This could not be more embarrassing,” I mumble, refusing to look at him even with his face so close to mine. Citrus and ocean cling to his skin, a nice combination—not that I’m trying to smell him. He’s just unavoidably close.
And firm.
Firm and bare chested.
Very capable, firm arms.
I suck in my bloated stomach as if this simple act will make me ten pounds lighter.
“Careful.” He eases me to my feet next to Kyle’s Land Rover.
My Land Rover? I don’t know whose life this is at the moment.
“Thank you.” I try to bear weight on my left foot and cringe. “It’s …” I hobble a few steps. “Tender but not awful. I’ll be fine. Thank you. Gabe, will you please grab my shoes?”
Nathaniel crosses his very capable arms over his chest and nods once. “Ice it as soon as you get home.”
“Sure thing, Doctor Hunt.”
“Professor. And therefore just Nathaniel.”
“You should get crutches,” Gabe says, opening the passenger door as I open the driver’s side door.
“Oh! No no no … get one of those fancy little scooters that you kneel on like my dad had. Right, Dad?” Morgan’s enthusiasm blows me away. Gabe could use some of it rubbing off onto him.
Nathaniel’s head bobs side to side. “Maybe. Ice it first and see how it feels in a day or two.”
“Thank you.”
He grins, showing a few white teeth. “You said that, more than once. It was no big deal.”
“You carried me off the beach. It’s a huge you-deserve-all-the-thank-you’s kind of deal. I need to buy you pizza, not the other way around.”
His gaze wanders from mine, often and quickly, like he can’t maintain eye contact with me. It’s … odd. I don’t catch the flirty or bashful vibe. It’s something else. What? I don’t know.
“Are you okay to drive?” he asks again, giving me a two-second glance.
Easing into the seat, I nod. “It’s my left foot. I’m good. Thank—” I catch myself and finish with a silent grin instead.
CHAPTER THREE
Nathaniel
“He’s so cute. And I love the way he talks. It’s like you, Dad.” Morgan rinses her feet off at the spigot on the side of the house while I hold a towel for her.
I quirk a single brow. “Should I feel guilty that my American daughter is so enamored by an American accent? You have it too.”
She sort of does. It’s more of a chameleon accent that changes upon location. I’m partial to her Italian accent.
“He said ‘dude’ a dozen times, every time I tried to grab his phone. Dude …” she says with emphasis, like she’s testing it out. “It’s kind of cool.”
Dear God, please … no.
I’ve protected her from overusing fillers such as like, um, and uh. If our time here in California transforms my daughter into a Valley Girl, I won’t be happy.
She dries off her feet and floats into the house with a dreamy smile I have not seen on her face in … maybe ever. Our last stop didn’t include neighbors. I blinked and she dove into early puberty.
After she changes into leggings, a tee, and clean flip-flops, we hop into our blue rental—a two-door BMW convertible—and spend an eternity shopping for groceries and replenishing toiletries while she talks without taking a breath.
“Dude! That’s a lot of money,” she says when the cashier announces our three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar total.
Dude …
Just great.
“Wow can be used instead of dude in that scenario.”
“Whatevs, Dad.” She rolls her eyes as I push the cart of groceries out to the car.
“Whatever.” My correction gets me back-to-back eye rolls.
As we make our way to the beach house, I glance through the rearview mirror at Morgan grinning, her hair whipping in the wind, hands above her head like riding a roller coaster. I miss my wife every day, even after a decade without her. Knowing I showed our daughter the world, that I did exactly what we had planned on doing, brings a bittersweet smile to my face.
“Do you think you’ll get married again?” Morgan asks.
Ten years.
I made it ten years without her curiosity piquing to the point of contemplating my future apart from hers. It was good while it lasted.
“Nope. You’re my girl. You’re all I need.”
“Dad … you can’t marry me. And if I get married, who will you have?”
It’s not enough that she has her mom’s face and my first love’s name to haunt me on a daily basis. She has to point out all the tiny facts I’ve chosen to ignore—like she’s going to get married and leave me someday.
“I might get a dog.”
“Hey!” She leans forward and pinches the back of my neck. “That’s not fair. I want a dog too.”
I shrug, pulling into the driveway. “Then you’d better just stick with me instead of chasing crazy dreams like getting married.”