The Love Shack. Christie Ridgway
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was Skye and Gage.
Turning away from her mother’s work, she went to the bookshelf where her collection of sand dollars sat in a glass candy jar. “‘I’d be rich if I had a penny for every dollar you girls brought home,’” she murmured, repeating her father’s favorite phrase. She and her sister had never tired of finding them, believing they were the currency of the merfolk.
It had been a childhood perfect for such fancies, living at the cove. There was the bustle and excitement of summer, energized by the families moving in and out of the cottages, not to mention the day visitors who came to play at the sand and water. In the off-season, the surrounding beach houses most often stood empty, but the minds of Skye and her sister did not. They’d exercised their imaginations no matter how tranquil the cove became.
Which likely only added to the disquiet she’d experience at this summer’s end. Her ancestors had made movies, she and her sister had made up a thousand stories and this winter she could see herself conjuring up a bogeyman around every corner.
She’d have to leave to save her sanity. Then the other Alexanders, who loved the cove but had left it behind, would tell her it was time to place their property on the market. Even if they wanted to hold on to it for a few more years, that wouldn’t make it easier on Skye, who would be miles away.
If she couldn’t live here, it was no longer home.
Sighing, she returned to the chair behind the desk. In a minute or two she’d go back to her cottage, set all the locks, hang the cowbell on the doors designed to warn her of an intruder. Then she’d settle in for another night of fitful sleep. Until then...
She pulled open the right bottom drawer. Behind a stack of files was an old wooden box that had washed up onshore when she was a child. It was of some sort of resilient wood—it hadn’t warped from its bath in the salt water—and it used to hold a little girl’s treasures: a baby doll the size of her thumb, the shell of a turtle, a book of funny rhymes Rex Monroe had once given her. A packet of letters had been added to the contents.
As she reached for the container, her cell phone chimed. Skye started, cursed her jumpiness, then picked up the device. It was a text message, and the number wasn’t familiar to her. When she tapped to open it, a photograph appeared on the screen.
An open ibuprofen bottle, a ginger ale can tipped on its side and a washcloth folded into a compress.
It could only come from one person, the man she hadn’t seen since he’d walked her home last night.
She texted back: Ouch.
And Gage responded, Ur talking to me?
Feeling sorry for u.
May not deserve ur pity, but will take it. & I apologize.
Smiling a little, she stared at the cryptic sentiments. After last night, she’d wondered—worried—how their first encounter would go after the incendiary exchange at her front door.
No apology necessary, she typed. Wasn’t sure u’d even remember.
She’d hoped he’d forget, actually, because then she wouldn’t have to explain her reaction to what he’d said. He’d been teasing her, of course, and hadn’t been subtle about it, but his words had poked at her all the same. On my honor, I’d make you come twice before entering you.
She was aware she’d gone big-eyed and still, stunned to her marrow.
Gage texted back, U looked as if I’d promised rats to eat ur entrails.
Making a face, she moved her thumbs over the keyboard. Game of Thrones reference?
U betcha, baby.
He’d called her that last night, in a raspy, masculine tone. “Baby. I swear I’d do right by you, baby.” A shiver worked its way down her back and she stared at the screen, mesmerized by the memory. He’d been teasing and sexually frustrated and none of it was really aimed at her personally, but part of her, somewhere deep beneath the layers of clothes and nerves and nightmares, responded to him on a purely female, physical level. Maybe she should be glad about that, she thought.
But those tears stinging her eyes didn’t feel like gladness. They felt like loss. No matter what was stirring deep inside, there was too much ice and fear between it and any man.
She’d never be able to get close to one in that way again.
Her phone pinged again. Skye?
Here.
R u ok?
Sure! The exclamation point was added for emphasis. To cover up any awkwardness he might pick up between them. She wanted him to think she was normal. Like the sanctuary of this little building, the friendship she had with Gage was another thing that made her feel secure. Normal, even.
Her damage had to remain hidden from him.
C u 2morrow? she typed.
C u then.
Her phone went quiet and, letting out a sigh, she slumped back in her chair. If these were her last weeks at the cove, then she wanted to enjoy them as best she could with the pen pal who would be on his way again soon. She’d hide her weakness, her unruly responses and anything else that might reveal too much.
On another sigh, she let her head rest against the seat cushion and wrapped her fingers around her phone. It felt warm to the touch, and she tightened her hold on what seemed like a tangible connection between herself and Gage. Maybe it was dangerous to want to hold even such a small piece of him. After all, she knew he wasn’t going to stay. But then she didn’t have what it took to follow up on the ache she had for him, anyway.
What if he’d arrived last summer? she wondered.
But he hadn’t, and perhaps that was a boon. Perhaps this poignant pain served to underscore how futile it would be to care for a man who would never settle in one place. With one woman.
Maybe she dozed. She must have, because she was suddenly alert, heart galloping in her ears. The phone had fallen from her lax fingers to the desk. Was that what had woken her?
Her breaths were unsteady and loud in the room. Outside the office, the ocean spoke shh shh shh, and she struggled to heed its warning. Something was tickling at her primal brain and she carefully moved her head to look about.
All seemed normal, these four walls still her safest haven.
It was just her skittery nerves, she told herself. Keep it together. Breathe through the anxiety. Don’t be such a ridiculous goose.
It was still summer and she couldn’t afford to let the fear get the best of her so soon.
Then a new noise came from outside. It was a scraping sound. Maybe metal against wood? Like someone prying at the locked door.
Someone was trying to get in!
Her brain screeched the words in her head, and her flesh went cold. Rigor mortis seized her muscles as her gaze glued to the entrance. There was no inward sign of tampering, but that noise came again.
Scritch. Scritch.