Page 18 of A Shore Fling

NINA

M y phone buzzes just as I’m settling in on the front porch with my cup of coffee.

I glance at the screen, groaning when I see my sister Irene is FaceTiming me.

I consider ignoring it, but she’ll keep calling until I finally pick up.

I accept the call, and her face appears.

She’s grinning way too hard for this early in the morning.

“There she is. The prodigal sister, live from the land of lobsters… and harbormasters who save damsels in distress. How’s beach life treating you?”

I snort. “Well, I don’t miss the city yet, so I’m calling that a win.”

“Wow.” Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “That’s a little surprising.”

“How so?”

“You’re a workaholic. I figured after a week, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself and you’d come back.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, I’m glad I was wrong. How’s the hottie harbormaster?”

Still hot. “He’s fine.”

“Then you’ve seen him since the last time we spoke?”

“We’ve been around each other more than I expected. He saved me from floating out to sea, and I saved him from an allergic reaction.” I cringe as I add, “Which I caused.”

“What?”

“It was a busy weekend.”

“Start with him saving you from floating away and work your way forward.”

I share the critical details from the weekend, and when I’m done, her wide eyes stare at me through the screen.

“You sound like you’re one rescue away from writing his name in your journal with a heart around it.”

“I don’t have a journal with me,” I say.

“I call bull. You’re a chronic listmaker, and that habit didn’t disappear just because you left the city.” Irene raises one perfectly arched brow. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

I sigh, leaning back in the chair and stretching out my legs. The sun’s barely up, but the air already smells like salt water. “Fine. I brought some notebooks with me.”

“And have you written his name down in one?”

This is embarrassing. “No comment.”

She points at me. “I knew it.”

“I don’t know what to make of my feelings for him. I’m not sure if I like him or hate him or both. It varies from one moment to another.”

“I’m just going to put it out there, I’ve heard hate sex is super hot.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

“Pfft. Of course you are.” She grins like she’s won. “You have that face. The face you make when you don’t want to admit you’re catching feelings. I’ve seen it. Remember Louis from college?”

“How could I forget? He ghosted me in the middle of junior year.”

“That may be so, but you had six months of obsessing over him and telling me you were in love.”

“You make it sound like I fall for every guy I meet. And my days of obsessing over a man are over.”

She shakes her head. “No, you don’t fall easily, and that’s the point. You’re spiraling over this guy, and that’s not normal for you.”

“I’m not spiraling, and it’s not love. At this point, it’s barely a truce.

” I didn’t come here looking for a romantic entanglement.

But there’s something about Travis that sticks in my head, even when I try to shake him out of it.

He's sharp around the edges but grounded. He’s literally someone who wouldn’t let me float away without grabbing my hand.

And I hate how much I admire that quality in him.

“I think you should let yourself be open to a vacation romance. It might be just what you need.”

“And what happens when I leave?”

“You walk away knowing you had the summer of your life, and you return to work refreshed.”

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think it would be that simple. Sex only complicates things, and the no-strings relationships hardly ever turn out as planned.”

“Maybe it would be different for you. I hope you let yourself find out.” Irene’s blue eyes implore me to heed her words.

“Just don’t shut it down before it even starts.

You went there to hit pause on the chaos and to step out of your element.

Maybe this is part of what that looks like.

” She falls silent for a few seconds, and then her face lights up.

“I just thought of the perfect name for what you need… a shore fling.”

Before I can respond, the call drops. I wait, expecting her to call back, but nothing happens.

After a minute, I set the phone on the arm of the chair and take a sip of my coffee.

I look around at the neighborhood that’s already starting to feel like my home away from home.

I’m comfortable here with the cedar-shingle-sided cottages and the simple charm of the landscaped yards.

It’s so quiet at this early hour, but by late morning the kids will be out and about, riding their bikes and skateboards.

At night, the teenagers on this street play manhunt, and they don’t mind when the younger kids join in.

It’s so wholesome, and it gives me hope to know not every teen is scrolling social media.

Havenport is the type of town people move to when they have families.

My grip tightens on the mug. It’s hard not to wonder how different things might’ve turned out if I’d grown up in a place like this, with neighbors who knew my name, and a front porch that got used.

Maybe I’d be the kind of person who trusts more easily and doesn’t assume everyone has ulterior motives for getting to know me.

Maybe I wouldn’t live for my job or put up with my family pressuring me to fall in line.

But that’s not who I am. Not yet, anyway.

The salt-laced breeze brushes my skin, and that’s when my thoughts wander to Travis, and I wonder if he’s already begun his workday.

I’ve been trying to convince myself ignoring my growing attraction for him is the right thing to do, but after talking to Irene, I’m not so sure.

What would be so bad about having some fun with the rough-around-the-edges harbormaster?

Besides, so far he’s proven himself to be impossible to ignore.

I spot the dusty bike leaning against the far wall while rummaging through the garage in search of a better beach chair.

It’s a pretty pale green with a wide leather seat and a little white basket on the front.

The tires are flat, but a pump’s hanging from a hook nearby.

Maybe it’s time I do something spontaneous and fun.

I inflate the tires, brush the dust off the seat and handlebars, and wheel it out to the driveway. The idea of riding it into town, exploring the local shops, maybe grabbing an ice cream, or poking around the bookstore seems kind of perfect.

Except for one tiny problem. I’ve never ridden a bike before. My parents weren’t the “let’s take the training wheels off” kind. They were the “extra tutoring and violin practice” kind. If it didn’t go on a college application, it wasn’t worth the time.

I grip the handlebars and stare down at the pedals, willing instinct to kick in. Unfortunately, it doesn’t. Still, I climb on and push off, and for a second I get it rolling. And then it’s not.

The front wheel jerks sideways, and the whole bike tilts. I try to put my foot down, but it’s too late. Toppling over, I land hard on the sidewalk and let out a very undignified yelp. I lie there for a second, stunned. Then I sit up and brush gravel from my palms and the side of my leg.

“No big deal,” I mutter. “Just a grown woman eating pavement in broad daylight.” I untangle myself from the bike and then push it upright.

I can do this , I tell myself as I try again.

The results are about the same, only this time, I don’t fall.

I wobble wildly before I give up and walk it toward town.

I make it about three blocks before I hear the rumble of a truck engine behind me. I glance over my shoulder and, of course, it’s Travis. Why wouldn’t he see me when I’m failing at something?

He slows to a crawl beside me, one arm resting out the window, with a dark brow lifted. “Taking the scenic route?”

“Don’t start.” I’m not in the mood to tolerate his sarcasm.

He pulls over and kills the engine. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just enjoying the weather.”

He gets out and nods toward the minor scrape on the side of my calf. “You look like you lost a fight with a curb.”

“Technically, it was a sidewalk,” I mutter. “But thanks.”

“Want a lift?”

I hesitate, pride flaring for half a second before logic wins. I nod, and he hoists the bike into the bed of his truck like it weighs nothing. I climb into the passenger seat, still brushing dirt from my skin.

He pulls out onto the road, shooting me a sideways glance. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

I sigh. “I thought it would be fun to try something new when I found the bike in the garage. I figured it couldn’t be that difficult to ride.”

“Like driving a boat?” he asks, smirking.

I scowl. “I’m glad you find my misfortune so amusing.”

He doesn’t reply right away, and I notice he’s not driving toward my cottage. I figured when he offered me a ride, he’d take me home.

“Where are we going?”

“To fix a major childhood oversight.”

Five minutes later, we pull into an empty church parking lot.

“Are we going in to light a candle and pray for me to get some coordination?”

His lips curve. “No. Not even Jesus himself can make that happen.”

I huff out a laugh. “You’re mean.”

“No, I’m honest. I’m also going to teach you how to ride,” he says, getting out of the truck.

“Oh. No, thanks. I’m good,” I quickly say.

He opens my door. “Too late. Let’s do this.” He holds out his hand, and I stare at it while I debate whether I should take it or not. “Come on,” he encourages, and I slip my palm across his. He pulls me from the truck, then moves around to the back to drop the tailgate and lift the bike out.

I cross my arms. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Probably. But so was trying to ride the bike to the shops when you don’t know how.”

I groan. “This is humiliating.”

“Not at all,” he says, grinning as he adjusts the seat height. “This is cute as hell.”

I stare at him. “I can’t believe the words ‘cute as hell’ just left your mouth. Are you feeling all right?”

He smiles. “I feel great, and so will you once you conquer this.”

I don’t respond. Part of me wants to run. The other part wants to see if I can do this. Can I finally learn something every six-year-old on this street probably mastered years ago?

He holds the bike steady, one hand on the seat and the other on the handlebars. “Okay, hop on. We’ll start with me guiding you.”

“I swear, if I fall again and you laugh…”

“I won’t laugh. I’ll be the supportive coach you need but never had.”

“That doesn’t sound remotely believable coming from you.”

“Humor me and try anyway.”

I take a deep breath and then swing my leg over the seat. My hands tighten around the handlebar grips, holding on for dear life.

“All right, feet on the pedals,” he instructs. “Don’t overthink. Just pedal and trust me to keep you steady.”

That last part is the hardest. Trust is earned, but I guess if anyone’s proven themself worthy of my trust, it’s Travis. So I do as he says and start pedaling. It’s slow and awkward at first. He walks beside me, gripping the bike, guiding it straight.

“Keep going and pedal a little faster.”

My hands tighten on the grips even more. “I don’t want to die in a church parking lot.”

“You won’t. You’ll just get slightly maimed.”

“Wow, that’s comforting.”

“Maybe you should try less talking, more pedaling.”

I move my legs faster. I feel the wobble in the front wheel, but somehow I’m still upright.

“You’re doing it,” he says.

“No, you’re holding the bike.”

“Am I?”

I glance over my shoulder and realize he’s not.

My heart jumps into my throat, and just like that, I lose my balance.

The bike veers right, and I plant my foot down just in time to stop another crash landing.

I stumble, breathless, heart racing. He jogs up beside me, hands out like he's ready to catch me, even though the damage is already done.

“I didn’t tell you to let go!” I yell, glaring at him.

“I didn’t think I needed to wait for your go-ahead. You were doing fine until you looked back.”

“I wasn’t doing fine. I was in survival mode.”

“You stayed upright longer than you realize.”

I groan as I lean on the handlebars. “Why did you have to bring me here?”

“Because this is a skill you should’ve learned years ago, and it’s not too late.”

“I guess my parents didn’t think it was important.”

“So what do you say? You want to go again?” he asks.

I consider saying no. I should say no. My pride’s taken enough hits today. But something is encouraging about the way he’s looking at me and that makes me want to prove I can do this.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go again.”

He smiles like I passed some kind of secret test. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to let you quit anyway.”

I squint. “You’re bossy.”

He smirks. “You’re stubborn.”

I climb back on the bike, already feeling more confident, and I’m not clutching the hand grips like I’m facing off against death itself.

“Ready?” he asks, hands on the seat and handlebar again.

“Ready.”

And this time, when he lets go, I don’t look back.