Then, switching off her phone, she threw it to the bed. Then shoved a pillow over the top.

      Knowing she couldn’t be trusted to sit in the room and wait for Claude without turning her phone back on, Avery changed into a swimsuit, lathered suncreen over every exposed inch, grabbed a beach towel, and headed out to marvel at the Pacific.

      As she padded through the resort, smiling at each and every one of Claude’s—yes, Claude’s!—pink-faced guests, Avery thought about how her decision to come back had been purely reactive, a panic-driven emotional hiccup when her mother had broached the idea of the Divorced a Decade party for the very first time.

      But now she was here, the swirl of warm memories seeping under her skin, she wondered why it had never occurred to her sooner to come back. To come full circle.

      Because that’s how it felt. Like over the next few weeks she’d not only hang with her bestie—or nab herself a willing cabana boy to help get the kinks out—but maybe even be able to work her way back to how things had been here before her family had flown back to Manhattan and everything had fallen apart. To find the hopeful girl she’d once been before her life had become an endless series of gymnastic spins from one parent to the other and back again. Cartwheels to get her absent father’s attention. Cheerleading her way through her mother’s wild moods.

      She’d never felt quite as safe, as secure, as content since that summer.

      The summer of her first beer.

      Her first beach bonfire.

      Her first crush...

      Avery’s feet came to a squeaking halt.

      In fact, wasn’t he—the object of said crush—in Crescent Cove, right now?

      Claude had mentioned him. Okay, so she’d bitched and moaned; that he was only in the cove till he and Claudia sorted out what they were going to do with the resort now that their respective parents had retired and left the two of them in charge. But that was about Claude’s history with the guy, not Avery’s.

      Her history was nice. And at that moment he was there. And she was there. It would be nice to look him up. And compared to the supercharged emotional tornado that was her family life in New York, this summer Avery could really do with some nice.

      * * *

      Jonah North pushed his arms through the rippling water, the ocean cool sliding over the heat-baked skin of his back and shoulders, his feet trailing lazily through the water behind him.

      Once he hit a sweet spot—calm, warm, a good distance from the sand—he pressed himself to sitting, legs either side of his board. He ran two hands over his face, shook the water from his hair, and took in the view.

      The town of Crescent Cove was nestled behind a double row of palm trees that fringed the curved beach that gave the place its name. Through the gaps were flashes of pastel—huge resorts, holiday accommodation, locally run shops, as well as scattered homes of locals yet to sell out. Above him only sky, behind and below the endless blue of the Pacific. Paradise.

      It was late in the morning for a paddle—there’d been no question of carving out enough time to head down the coast where coral didn’t hamper actual surf. Who was he kidding? There was never any time. Which, for a lobsterman’s son, whose sea legs had come in before his land legs, was near sacrilege.

      But he was here now.

      Jonah closed his eyes, tilted his face to the sun, soaked in its life force. No sound to be heard bar the heave of his slowing breaths, the gentle lap of water against his thighs, a scream—

      His eyes snapped open, his last breath trapped in his lungs. His ears strained. His gaze sweeping the gentle rolling water between himself and the sand, searching for—

      There. A keening. Not a gull. Not music drifting on the breeze from one of the resort hotels. Distress. Human distress.

      Muscles seized, every sense on red alert, he waited. His vision now locked into an arc from where he’d heard the cry. Imagining the reason. Stinger? No, the beach was protected by a stinger net this time of year so it’d be tough luck if they’d been hit.

      And then he saw it.

      A hand.

      His rare moment of quietude at a fast and furious end, Jonah was flat on his belly, arms heaving the ocean out of his way before he took his next breath.

      With each swell he glanced up the beach to see if anyone else was about. But the yellow and red flags marking out the patch of beach patrolled by lifesavers were farther away, this part cleared of life bar a furry blot of brown and white dog patiently awaiting his return.

      Jonah kept his eyes on the spot, recalculating distance and tidal currents with every stroke. He’d practically been born on the water, reading her as natural to him as breathing. But the ocean was as cruel as she was restorative, and if she decided not to give up, there wasn’t much even the most sea-savvy person could do. He knew.

      As for the owner of the hand? Tourist. Not a single doubt in his mind.

      The adrenalin thundering through him spiked when sunlight glinted off skin close enough to grab. Within seconds he was dragging a woman from the water.

      Her hair was so long it trailed behind her like a curtain of silk, so pale it blended with the sandy backdrop behind. Her skin so fair he found himself squinting at the sun reflecting off her long limbs. And she was lathered in so much damn sunscreen she was as slippery as a fish and he could barely get a grip.

      And that was before she began to fight back. “No!” she spluttered.

      “Hell, woman,” Jonah gritted out. “I’m trying to rescue you, which will not be possible unless you stop struggling.”

      The woman stopped wriggling long enough to shoot him a flat stare. “I’m an excellent swimmer,” she croaked. “I swam conference for Bryn Mawr.”

      Not just a tourist, Jonah thought, her cultured American accent clipping him about the ears. From the whole other side of the world.

      “Could have fooled me,” he muttered. “Unless that’s what passes for the Australian Crawl stateside these days.”

      The stare became a glare. And her eyes... A wicked green, they were, only one was marred with a whopping great splotch of brown.

      And while he stared at the anomaly, her hand slipped. Lucky she had the smarts to grab the pointy end of his board, leaving him to clench his thighs for all he was worth.

      “Honey,” he growled, by then near the end of his limited patience, “I understand that you’re embarrassed. But would you rather be humbled or dead?”

      Her strange eyes flinted at the Honey, not that he gave a damn. All he cared was that she gave a short nod. The sooner he dumped her back on the sand and got on with his day, the better. And if a dose of reality was necessary to get it done, then so be it.

      “Good. Now, hoick yourself up on three.” When her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip to suppress a grimace, and her fair skin came over paler again, he knew there’d be no hoicking. “Cramp?”

      Her next grimace was as good as a yes.

      Damn. No more finessing. In for a penny, Jonah locked his legs around the board, hooked his elbows under her arms, and heaved.

      She landed awkwardly in a mass of gangly limbs and sea water. Only Jonah’s experience and strength kept them from ending up ass up, lungs full of sea water, as he slid her onto his lap, throwing her arms around his neck where she gripped like a limpet. He grabbed her by the waist and held her still as the waves they’d created settled to a gentle