She slid the door to the room open, careful to not wake her mom, tossed on the nicest blouse she’d brought, a gauzy swing-top that barely came down to meet the waistband of her denim cut-offs. Her best friend, Natalie, had convinced her to buy it with her birthday money despite the fact Megan usually just wore a soccer shirt or one of her mom’s FBI tees. Now she was glad she’d packed the blouse. The hem swished and brushed against the bare skin below her belly button, making her feel older, maybe even kind of sexy. Slipping into her well-worn Sketchers, she grabbed her room key and a twenty from Mom’s wallet, scrawled a note, and went downstairs.
The hotel was a small, three-story family-run establishment. They’d had no trouble getting an ocean-view room on the top floor since it was half vacant—tourists rarely came to Harbinger Cove in large numbers until summer, the clerk had told them last night when they checked in. It was too far out of the way, especially now that Route 17 had been expanded to four lanes, making it so much easier and faster for vacationers to bypass this secluded area of South Carolina and instead drive to Hilton Head with its fancy resorts.
No fancy resorts here in Harbinger Cove, Megan thought as she crossed through the lobby empty of people except for a sleepy-looking clerk sitting behind the front desk. The décor was last century: fake wood paneling in an unnatural shade of green, orange faux-leather furniture, lamps covered in seashells too pretty to be real. The single rack of tourist information listed attractions like the outlet mall twenty miles away on the mainland, dolphin watching cruises an hour away down in Hilton Head, historical tours two hours north in Charleston, and featured sun-faded, expired coupons for the collection of shops just across the street that included several restaurants, a small grocery store, a bunch of clothing and souvenir shops, and a bakery.
She pushed through the glass doors leading from the lobby out to the circular drive at the front of the hotel. The bakery directly across the street already filled the air with the enticing aromas of yeast, cinnamon, and coffee. Who could resist?
Her plan in place, she turned the other way and walked down the side of the hotel along the path to the pool. When she arrived, the boy had set his surfboard onto the pool deck while he swam laps, the sun now high enough to send random beams through the dune grass, sparkling like sapphires against the pool’s water.
“I was just going for coffee,” she called to him from the fence surrounding the pool, hoping she sounded like someone sophisticated enough to drink coffee. Actually, her parents didn’t like her drinking caffeine and she didn’t care for the taste of coffee. But what was she going to do, ask him to join her for a cup of hot cocoa? It was already at least seventy degrees, so much nicer than chilly, gray Pittsburgh. “How do you take yours?”
He rolled onto his back, fluttered one eye open and shaded it with a hand, water dripping over his face. His hair was dark, and he wasn’t that much older than her, she realized. Maybe only a year or two. Guys didn’t intimidate Megan—which was maybe part of the reason why she’d never had a boyfriend. All the guys she met ended up being simply friends.
But when you’re the only girl in your black belt class—except for the one gray-haired lady older than Mom—and one of three girls on the regional co-ed all star soccer team, and you hang out with your mom’s coworkers from the FBI and your dad’s friends who were mostly former soldiers, you learned what guys wanted in a friend, but not how to act like a girlfriend.
It had to be about more than the makeup and heels and the coy texts her friends who were girls—and who did have boyfriends—obsessed over.
“Don’t like coffee, but could you get me a milk?” he asked with a lazy stroke of one hand that propelled him to the side of the pool. Before she could answer, he’d rolled himself out of the water and into a sitting position, then upright to his feet in a graceful move that defied gravity. Sometimes, watching her sensei perform kata, she had that same sensation. Movement flowing in sync with nature, as if the body simply went where it was destined to go.
He propped his board up against the fence where it would be out of the way of any other early-bird swimmers, studying her as he moved. As if he were intimidated by her. Megan wasn’t sure what to think of that; it left her a bit flustered.
“I saw you from our balcony,” she said, mainly to fill the time and space between them. “I’d love to learn how to surf. What’s it like? Do you give lessons?”
His smile was genuine. He turned his head to glance behind him at the ocean. “It’s like being with God.” The words were low, spoken like a prayer, and she wasn’t sure if they were even directed at her. Then he bounced on his heels and turned back to her. “The waves are best at high tide, not much going on the rest of the day, I’m afraid. But if you don’t mind getting up early tomorrow…”
She nodded eagerly at his invitation. “I don’t mind.”
“Okay, then, it’s a date. How about I swap you surfing lessons for breakfast?” He patted the hips of his wetsuit. “Left my wallet in my other pants.”
“Sure. That’d be great.”