“This is it.” He hits the fare meter and eyes me through the rearview mirror. “Eight oh four Sunset Cliffs?”
I blink at the row of cottages that look like playhouses for kids lined up at the cliff’s edge. They’re all identical—small, white slat boards with hunter-green trim—except one. I don’t have to see the number on the door to know that one has to be hers. My sister’s place stands out like a pink flamingo in a sea of pigeons.
“Yeah, this is the place.” I gather my purse to my chest and push open the car door. The briny breeze slaps me in the face and tosses my hair—already frizzing in the humidity—around my face. The driver follows, retrieving my black roller bag from the trunk and placing it at my side. I shove a few extra dollars at him and rub on hand sanitizer while I stare at my sister’s tiny house.
When she left here to come back to Phoenix, she had no idea she’d never be healthy enough to return. My chest grows heavy.
I square my shoulders and the wheels of my suitcase snag on large cracks of jagged asphalt the entire walk to her place. What causes those? Earthquakes? Or maybe the cliff falling slowly into the ocean? My pulse pounds at the thought.
Sure, the view here is gorgeous, just steps away from a small private beach hidden by cliffs on each side, and it’s a balmy seventy-five degrees, but the threat of a natural disaster like a rogue tsunami would make it all impossible to enjoy.
The tiny front porch is decorated in DIY wind chimes made from bottles—and not the cool vintage kind, just regular beer and soda bottles with the occasional string of seashells.
She has a row of colorful rain boots hanging from her porch, each one filled with dirt and the crispy curled-up remains of flowers. I can’t take my eyes off the flower graves, thinking the lack of life growing from them carries a sick irony of her leaving and taking the life of this place with her.
I pull my eyes away and notice my sister has an affinity for repurposing. Lots of seashells, random-sized driftwood, and an old ship’s steering wheel pepper the small beach hut porch.
Thumping up the steps I look around for the red pot the key was supposed to be hidden under. She never did carry a key, even when we were young. She said they held her down. I don’t see a red pot, or any pot. Huh . . . I squat to flip the doormat. It reads No Shoes. No Shirt. No Problem. Typical Celia. I flip it over to see if maybe the key is hidden under there, but there’s nothing. Blowing out a frustrated breath I pull my bag up close to the door where it’ll be safe while I go hunt for help.
My sister had mentioned something about a Mr. Hurtado, the man who rents these cottages and lives onsite. She warned me not to let his gray hair fool me, that he’s as fit as the guys half his age and could build a sailboat out of toothpicks and a paper napkin.
The sun is still high over the ocean, thank goodness for long summer days, but if I don’t get into my sister’s place fast I’ll have to find a hotel and I didn’t see a single one on the drive through town. Granted, I did see the OB Hostel, but judging by the crowd gathered out front and the cloud of marijuana smoke that filtered into the street, I’d rather take my chances sleeping on the beach.
I find unit one easily enough, and thankfully the sign on the door says SUPERINTENDENT with a doorbell and a handwritten note taped above it that reads Ring for assistance.
Here we go. Let the charade begin.
I’m Celia. Be Celia.
I pretend my body is made of jelly and smile like I’ve had two glasses of wine.
That should do it.
With a firm press of the bell there’s a slight buzz from inside as if the contraption is as old as the cottage itself. I contemplate ringing again, but first squint to peek through the windows only to find no movement. I chew my lip and wait some more, then ring again. Still nothing. Exhausted, I’m thinking a hotel for one night might not be a bad idea. I can tackle this in the morn—
“Holy shit!”
I whirl around at the sound of a deep voice to find a tall man wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops barreling toward me with a big smile.
“You’re back!”
I open my mouth to reply but he knocks the wind out of me when he wraps me in a bear hug. My cheek is pressed to his pec and I’m assaulted by his scent—an exotic mix of coconut and cinnamon—strange man, strange germs. My fists ball at my sides to keep from shoving him away.
His arms close tighter around me. “Hasn’t been the same here without you.”
“Um . . .” I pat his back with my fist and step away with the hope of extracting myself and thankfully he gets the hint and releases me.
His eyes narrow and he drops his arms when I step back. “Is everything okay?”
This guy is tan, his eyes a light shade of brown that match the color of his skin, and his shaggy hair is almost exactly the same color. He’s practically monochromatic and if the color had a name it would be medium buff. He’s as handsome as Ryan Gosling, and as my germophobic reaction fades my body belatedly responds to having been pressed against his well-built chest.
I clear my throat and when I try to smooth my hair it feels ten times bigger than it did just minutes ago. Great, my first encounter with a real California hot guy and I look like Roseanne Roseannadanna. “Yes.” I shake my head. “I mean, no, not really.” Come on, Sawyer, words!
“You’re different.” He doesn’t say it like it’s a compliment and even though I expect it I can’t avoid the pinch of embarrassment.
“Nah, not really.” I force myself to relax, hoping to seem more like Cece, but afraid I’m coming off as a ragdoll. “Dude, eight weeks in Bangladesh’ll do that to a girl, and . . .” I point to the mop on my head, an awkward giggle bubbling up from my chest. “I just cut my hair so that’s—”
He hooks me behind the neck and his mouth crashes down on mine.
I part my lips to gasp and when I do his tongue slides inside. With one hand on my lower back, he presses me to him. Stranger’s tongue in my mouth! The flash of panic dissolves as his kiss turns demanding and coaxes a soft purr from my throat. My knees wobble. I grip his arms to stay steady and it’s clear this guy is no stranger to exercise.
Now, I have an average amount of experience with men, dated here and there, Mark for six months, but I have never been kissed like this. Is this a hot California guy thing? Or . . . is this the kiss of a man who’s desperately trying to get a woman to remember who he is. Or maybe, trying to get her to remember who they are together.
Guilt washes over me and I pull back, catching my breath and staring into the hopeful eyes of a man too attractive for a girl like me. For any girl, really, too tempting to be safe. “I’m so sorry.”