Whichever approach he chose, she was going to be startled—and if he waited for her to spot him, she might not be happy to find him standing here gawking at her.
Best to take the initiative.
“We meet again.”
She gasped and swung around, arm extended, finger on the trigger of a canister aimed at his face.
“Hey.” Pulse surging, he held out his hands, palms forward, and took a quick step back on the hard-packed sand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just trying to be neighborly and welcome you to the area. No harm intended. My name’s Zach Garrett—and we happen to share this beach.”
Several slow, silent seconds ticked by as she inspected him from behind her dark glasses.
The canister never wavered.
Was it possible she didn’t recognize him from the shop?
If he didn’t remind her of their encounter last week—fast—he could end up with burning eyes and balking lungs.
“We’ve met, you know. At The Perfect Blend, in town.”
After a few more beats passed, she lowered the canister. “I remember.”
“You must be renting the Clark house.”
She didn’t respond.
Geez.
Either Charley was uncharacteristically off base in his assessment and this woman was more cold than cautious—or she was super freaked out and gun-shy for traumatic reasons.
“If you’re wondering how I know that, I live next door.” He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, keeping his posture casual and nonthreatening. The tension radiating from this woman was almost palpable. “It’s also the only house with access to Blackberry Beach that’s rented out. I know all the other residents.”
Her rigid stance relaxed a hair. “Thanks for the explanation. Sorry if I overreacted.”
“No worries. It never hurts to be too careful these days. We live in a crazy world.”
Her throat worked. “Yes, we do.”
He waited for her to put the canister away.
She didn’t.
Find a more innocuous subject, Garrett.
“Is this your first trip to the beach?”
“Yes.”
“I see you sampled the namesake berries during your descent.” He smiled and tapped the corner of his lips.
She lifted a hand, as if to scrub off the offending stain, but paused as she spotted more telltale blemishes on her fingers. “Guilty as charged. I can’t dispute the evidence.”
“It’s no crime to pick the berries. We all do. You’re fortunate to be here during peak season. Depending on the length of your stay, you may be able to enjoy them for your whole visit.” Not the most subtle attempt to find out the duration of her trip—but it did give her an opening to offer additional information.
She didn’t take it.
“I plan to bring a container in the future and fill it.”
The woman was as hard to pin down as a burrowing razor clam.
“Join the crowd. I have a bowlful in the kitchen myself, waiting to become blackberry cobbler. It’s one of my late-summer specialties.”
She cocked her head. “You bake?”
“Yes. Among other leisure pursuits.”
She slid the canister into her pocket. “I know a few men who enjoy cooking, but most prefer to let their wife or girlfriend do the baking.”
While her body language and inflection implied her comment was inconsequential, it wasn’t. She was digging for background information too.
That was promising.
And unlike her, he didn’t mind disclosing a few personal facts. Perhaps that would encourage her to reciprocate.
“If I had either, we’d have to share the kitchen now that I’ve been bitten by the culinary bug.”
It was difficult to judge her reaction with her eyes hidden, but his gut told him she was relieved by his answer.
Or was that wishful thinking?
Maybe she was just glad he was a relatively normal guy rather than a serial killer who stalked women on secluded beaches.
“Well . . .” She rubbed her palms on her jeans. “I think I’ll explore the other end of the beach.”
The conversation was over.
He held on to his smile despite his disappointment. “And I’m heading home. If you watch for it, you can spot the turnoff to my place from the main path on your walk back, a couple hundred feet before you reach yours—unless you’re too busy eating blackberries.”
Her mouth bowed a few degrees. “I’ve had my allotment for today.”
“So have I—but that won’t stop me from picking a few more on the hike up. I tend to overindulge while they’re in season.” He swept a hand over the beach. “Enjoy yourself down here. It’s a little piece of heaven—and a great place to touch base with the Almighty, if you’re so inclined.”
As the comment tripped off his tongue, he frowned.
Where had that come from?
Given his present relationship with God—or lack thereof—dispensing that sort of advice was disingenuous at best.
Besides, while it appeared she could use someone to talk to, a fair number of people were turned off by any reference to God. Until he learned this woman’s story, it would be wise to refrain from doing or saying anything that would shut her down.
As if she could be any more shut down than she already was.
Again, the glasses masked any clues to her reaction, and her tone remained neutral. “I agree that the quiet and space and fresh air and solitude are a little piece of heaven.” She emphasized solitude.
His cue to leave.
“It’s all yours. In case you’re wondering, very few residents trek down here—especially during working hours.”
“Except today.”
She meant him.
“My hours are different from most people’s. I’m at the shop from six to two. The rest of the day is my own. That’s why I’m down here at”—he twisted his wrist—“four.”
“I’ll remember that.” Keeping as much distance as possible between them, she skirted around him and struck off toward the other end of the beach.
It didn’t take a genius to read between the lines of her last comment.
In the future, she’d visit the beach while he was at the shop—eliminating the possibility of any more meetings.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he watched her recede.
Give it up, Garrett. She wants nothing to do with you. Write her off.
Sensible advice supported by a preponderance of evidence—including her continued reticence. In general, two people exchanged information during initial meetings. In their case, while he’d given her a bit of personal background, she’d offered zilch.
Instead of wasting his time and energy on his reclusive neighbor, he ought to go home and bake a blackberry cobbler.
Also sensible advice.
He slogged through the shifting sand that led to the back of the beach and began his ascent up the winding path.
At the first bend, he glanced back.
Kat was still walking away from him, two seagulls circling above her. As if they were trying to keep the woman who seemed so alone company.
At that fanciful thought, he blew out a breath.
More likely they were hoping for a handout.
Whatever had prompted their interest, however, they continued to stick close. And she didn’t try to shoo them away, as she had him.