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Fuck, yeah … I could get used to this life.
38.Sloane
People always ask me what my favorite time of year is, and I can never give them just one answer because there are two spectacular seasons in Mermaid Beach. The first is in the spring, when the day’s temperatures are rising but the humidity isn’t oppressive yet, and the water is still refreshingly cool. The second is in the fall, when the days are cooling off but stepping into the Gulf is like swimming in a bath.
In both cases, the beach is quieter but not deserted. It’s never truly empty here. Even in January when locals bundle up in sweatshirts, people will lounge in the sand, listening to the waves lap while basking in the sun and watching the odd pelican linger. I’ve spotted swimmers in February when the Gulf is twenty degrees colder than in season. Northerners, usually, venturing down from Michigan or New York, reveling that the white powder beneath their feet is not snow.
It’s all relative, I guess, but you won’t catch me in the water at that time of year. I don’t enjoy the bite of cold. Even the sand is frigid against your bare feet.
I shut my book and finish the last drops of my coffee. The first days when seasonal staff start rolling in are the best. We’re on the verge of the boom, but we’re not there yet, and weusually have hands to spare. My life feels temporarily lighter in these early days.
Rebel opened the coffee shop this morning with the help of the new girl, Amanda, reacquainting herself with the menu and machines, and letting Frank sleep in for the first time in months.
I wish I could sleep in, but my internal clock is hardwired. Still, I don’t feel guilty about taking twenty minutes for myself with this calming view before help Frank with moving equipment.
Except for the bobbing head I spot out in the water.Waytoo far out, especially to be swimming alone. Ten bucks says it’s an ignorant tourist who’s never heard of a rip current and has no idea how bad they can get around here with the sandbar. That, or they were so enthralled by the lapping waves—like a mermaid’s call, impossible to ignore, Gigi always says—that they didn’t notice the giant red and purple flags flapping in the breeze. Now they’re trying to swim back to shore like an amateur. If they keep it up, they’ll exhaust themselves and drown. It happens every year.
With a groan, I abandon my things and march along the beach toward the water, waving my hands. “Thisway!” I yell, gesticulating wildly to my right. “Swim this way!”
My phone sits heavy in my pocket. Do I call for help yet? Do I go in after them? Ugh, it’s too early for this shit.
The guy—I think it’s a man?—finally clues in because he follows my direction, swimming parallel to the shoreline, getting himself out of the dangerous current.
Relief washes over me as I watch him approach.
By the time he reaches the beach, he’s on his hands and knees, crawling, and collapses in a heap on the sand.
“You’ve gotta pay attention to those currents,” I chastise, closing in. “They’ll pull even grown-ass men out before you know it.” And grown-ass, this pile of sculpted flesh definitelyis.
He rolls onto his back, his bare, muscular chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.
My jaw drops. “It’syou.” The guy who came into the shop two days ago. “Ronan, right?” I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of him more than once, hadn’t glanced up when the door jangled with a customer, hoping he’d make another appearance.
His mouth opens but he can’t seem to manage words, waggling his finger, gesturing for me to come closer.
I drop to my knees beside him. “Do you need me to call for help? I can get someone here?—”
“Sea witch. Sloane,” he squeezes out through ragged breaths before his arm flops to the side. He closes his eyes.
I bite my bottom lip against the urge to grin. He remembers my name too. That’s …something. “I thought you said you were from Miami. Did you not notice the flags?”
“Indianapolis, originally, and I was jogging … The water looked so inviting.”
I wait as his breathing evens out. “You’re going to be okay.”
His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “I need mouth-to-mouth, just to be sure.”
Now I can’t contain my smile. “Barely alive and flirting already.”
“I know where my skills lie.”
Whatarethis guy’s skills, besides wielding that deep, grating voice that I feel deep in my core?
A passerby calls out, asking if we need help.
Ronan answers by raising his arm and giving the thumbs-up sign but otherwise makes no move to stand.
“You didn’t come in for that coffee.”