I open my eyes and release a long exhale. With the property behind me, I focus on the water and the whispering barely-there waves created by distant water activities. People Jet Skiing and boating and swimming on the public side of the lake.
And, yeah, now that I’m over the shock of it, I can turn all the blame on myself. I’ve been negligent. I should have known better than to let my parents handle this property. They’ve never valued it for anything more than the cost per square foot it could bring. Or the number of resorts they could build.
Situated a two-hour hop from Hollywood and just over a half hour from Santa Barbara, this was a prime location for an upscale getaway. Timeshares would be a huge draw. I get it. After two decades in the hospitality industry, I’d better. And my grandfather wasn’t dumb; he knew it too. But knowing what I know now, I think he kept it small because it was manageable. The popularity of this place would explode if there were a luxury hotel where people could stay.
A boat trolls around a bend in the lake, and I struggle to reset my perspective. My thoughts turn to KT and Chloe. They would be here soon, and, judging by the state of the marina, I expect the house will need a good cleaning and airing out. And, hell, I don’t even clean my own apartment, but for KT and Chloe, who have both been constant and dedicated friends since Niue, I’d scrub every inch of the floor with a toothbrush. It had taken an act of God to finally get us all together in one place, and I’m not going to kick our week together off on the wrong foot with a filthy house.
The boat makes an abrupt turn, veering toward the property, a fishing pole secured in the back. The man driving the boat is shirtless, wearing a ball cap and sunglasses. I hope he’s coming to check out a couple of the coves for fish, because I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone.
I stroll onto one of the docks and look over the railing. The wood is worn and rotted and rickety, but the water is still as crystal clear as it was when I was a kid, and seeing the smooth pebbles beneath the surface makes me smile. I used to love to skip rocks. I wonder where that girl went, the carefree, unassuming, genuine kid who took everything at face value.
The sun feels good on my face and shoulders, and the breeze is heaven against my exposed legs.
The boats engine cuts out, and I look up. The man behind the wheel stands, one hand at his hip, the other around a bottle of beer. “No fucking way.”
Oh God. I’m really not ready to face locals just yet. I lean an elbow on the railing, trying to figure out who he could be. But after twelve years, he could be anyone, and I sure as shit didn’t know anyone here with a body like that. Wide shoulders, muscled chest, abs, biceps. Some kind of tattoo encompasses the ball of his left shoulder.
“I must be hallucinating.” He lets the boat drift toward the dock. “Because you look a lot like a girl I used to know, but you can’t be her because she’s some world-traveling hot shot who would never deign to set foot in Wildfire.”
“Deign? Are you serious? Where in the hell did you pick up a word like deign?”
“Why is that a surprise? Because I’m a backwoods small-town hick?”
“I don’t know who or what you are, nor do I care.” I turn to walk off the dock, but the boards shift under my feet. I tense, sip a breath, and grip the rail.
“You made that clear when you walked away and never looked back, Ladybug.”
Ladybug.
A cascade of fiery tingles bombard my body. There is only one person who has ever called me Ladybug.
I swing back to face the man, my heart throbbing hard and fast. He pulls off his sunglasses and smiles, but it’s not a so-happy-to-see-you smile. It’s sharp, maybe even a little disgusted.
I search for Levi’s face, Levi’s body, anything that resembles the boy who’d once been my sanctuary, my heart, my world. But this man has days’ worth of stubble on the lower half of his face and a cap obscuring the top half.
“I guess it’s true,” he says. “You really did put everything about this place behind you. Otto, the marina, your friends, all the memories.”
His use of my grandfather’s first name throws me. Levi always called him Mr. Gibson, never Otto. As does the mention of memories, which seems way too sentimental coming from a stranger. Levi might have been the only person to ever call me Ladybug, but all his friends knew that was his nickname for me.
“If you’re going to insult me,” I say, forcing annoyance into my tone to hide the swirling unease and anticipation, “take off your goddamned hat so I can see who’s slinging arrows.”
He swipes the red ball cap off his head, drops it on the seat, and runs a hand through his brown hair. It was that motion that confirmed his identity, not his face, not his body, but that one push of his hand through thick chestnut-colored hair.
My stomach seizes and my heart skips. “Levi?”
I still don’t quite believe it. I’m not prepared to face him. Not in the least.
“I’m touched you remember my name.” He lifts one bare foot to the lip of the deck, leans forward, and braces his forearm on his thigh. “You’re looking good, Laiyla. I guess that jet-setting lifestyle suits you.”
I can’t tell if he’s serious or sarcastic, and I’m instantly self-conscious, as if one of the managers I oversee has caught me at the gym in my messy-hair, don’t-care, off-work status. I automatically inventory what I’m wearing—black-and-white skort that looks like a miniskirt with a little ruffle, a white cropped halter fitted to my breasts, and untied black patent leather combat-style ankle-high boots. Realizing that I’m presentable shaves off an edge of stress.
But holy hell. I mean, ho-ly hell. I can’t form a thought, let alone words. He’s…he’s… My heart turns over, and longing the likes of which I’ve only ever known with one man swamps me.
The rush of emotions flips a switch in my brain, signaling danger. I shut down and kick-start logic. This is how I deal with my parents. This is how I function at work. This is how I get through my goddamned life, and it’s now going to be how I deal with my past too.
“Nobody thought you’d come back, not even after Otto passed.” He swipes the ball cap from the seat and tugs it back into place. “There’s been a betting pool going, everyone trying to guess when you’d show and what you’d do with this place.”
“What was your bet?”
“That you’d never come back. You just cost me twenty bucks.”
I smirk. “You always were a loser.”
His face breaks into a smile that steals my breath. I’m pleased he can still take a joke, but I’m not happy to hear he bet against me. He might have every right, but it still feels like a prick move.
“Doesn’t look like much has changed around here,” I say. “You’re still hanging out with a fishing pole in one hand, a beer in the other.”
He laughs, a quick, surprised bark that trills straight down my body and lands in my stomach. “You can still give as good as you get. You probably should back off that dock if you’re not up for a swim. Not much around here is holding together.”
Walking off the dock at his instruction feels like some kind of retreat, so I stay put and cross my arms, but as he drifts closer, any wittier retorts I might have thought up evaporate. His face is a more mature version of the one I’d once found too beautiful to belong to a boy. The tattoo on his shoulder is something intricate and mechanical that I don’t understand. But what really draws my attention is the built chest with a dusting of crisp dark hair, the tautly rounded biceps, the ripped abs. Abs I didn’t think existed outside bodybuilders and models. Certainly the like nothing I’ve ever seen personally.