Chasing The Sun (Angel Sands 7)

“Sure,” she said happily. “I’ll meet you out there.”

He lifted the phone to his ear as he walked toward the open glass doors that led to the deck. “Mom?” he said, heading down the steps to the beach. “Is everything okay?”

“I really need your help with my car,” she said. “Can you drive up and see me?”

“You want me to drive up to Sacramento today?” His brows dipped. “You’re five hundred miles away. I can’t head up at the drop of a hat.”

“But I need you, honey.” She sighed. “There’s a part that needs looking at. Maybe I should call your dad. He could help.”

“No.” His voice was sharp. “Don’t call Dad.” She needed to start leaving the poor guy alone.

He sighed, sitting down on the edge of the boardwalk and raking his hand through his hair. He was so sick of dealing with her every time she called. Of her slinking beneath a rock for a couple of weeks before she surfaced again, needing money or attention, or god knew what else.

“Listen, I’m busy until the weekend,” he told her. “I can’t do anything until then. How about we talk then and you can tell me what’s going on?”

“You want me to wait until Saturday?” Her voice rose up.

“The car can wait,” he said firmly. He only had a couple of days left with Lydia, and there was no way he intended on spending them driving up to Sacramento. “If you call Dad, you’ll get nothing from either of us. It’s the weekend or bust. Take it or leave it.”

She sighed loudly. “Well if they find my dead body in a ditch somewhere, it’ll be your fault.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lydia walk out of the coffee shop, two Styrofoam cups in her hand and a paper bag wedged between her arm and her body. She

smiled at him, and he nodded back.

“I need to go,” he told his mom. I’ll speak to you in a few days.” And he’d be firm that her car wasn’t his problem – or his dad’s. He’d spent way too many hours trying to help her. She was a grown woman, and it was time she started acting that way.

“Okay,” she mumbled. “I guess it can wait.”

“All right then.” He stood, dusting the sand from his jeans. “Take it easy.”

“Bye, Jackson.” She sniffed. “You know, even fifty dollars would help.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “Goodbye, Mom.”

Sliding his phone into his back pocket, he headed to where Lydia was waiting for him, taking the coffee cups from her hands and pressing his lips to hers. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“Work problems?” she asked, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow as they walked back to his car.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

25

“Do you think you’ll regret this tattoo the way you regret the eagle?” Lydia asked him, pressing her lips against his chest and breathing him in. He smelled of warm spice and Jackson Lewis, a lethal combination.

“No.” His voice was sure. “I was sober when I got this one.” He ran his hands through her silky hair and curled them around the base of her head, lifting her up for a kiss. His mouth moved against hers, hot and needy, as their tongues slid together, sending a shot of desire through her veins.

“Can I tell you something?” he murmured, his fingers drawing circles on the base of her neck.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “As long as you keep doing that.”

He did as she instructed, tracing patterns with his tips. “I lied when I said the compass didn’t have a meaning.”

Lifting her head up, her eyes met his. “You did?” she asked, bemused. “Why?”

“Because I thought you might think I was… I don’t know.” He sighed. “Weird or something.”

She grinned. “I already know you’re weird.” She pressed her lips against his warm shoulder. “I like your weird. It turns me on. So what does the tattoo mean?”