Seven Tears into the Sea by Terri Farley Page B

remember?”
    â€œI’d remember, believe me,” I said.
    â€œIt was here,” he said, trying to give my memory a nudge as he studied me with serious brown eyes.
    â€œHere?” I asked. Although he had that peculiar Celtic rhythm to his speech, like the old folks along this beach, I really didn’t think he was a local guy.
    His description of “here” came with a vague gesture that took in the entire California coast. When he moved that way, sinews flexed from his forearm to his index finger.
    I was doing it again, and I do
not
ogle strangers.
    â€œWhen?” I asked, I guess because I wanted it to be true.
    He looked down at the sand between his feet. This was not a hard question. He was either dumb or a really bad liar. I was beginning to work up some real irritation with myself and him when water dripped from his hair to his chest.
    I tried to draw a breath, but it got stuck.
    That dark gold tan flowed over his muscles and under the droplet. He must work out, because he had a really nice chest. In fact, he had really nice everything.
    He looked up as if he’d finally formulated an answer.
    I was so embarrassed he’d caught me staring, I got mad.
    â€œYou had me going there for a minute,” I snapped.
    â€œGoing where?” he asked, but the question didn’t sound sarcastic.
    All the sea lions had fallen silent, and I heard how sharply I’d spoken. He looked confused, so I softened what I’d said.
    â€œIt’s not a very original pick-up line. That’s all,” I told him. What if he wasn’t a native speaker of English? He did have that accent.
    My brain was working up more excuses for him when I noticed the way his wet hair clung in little thorn shapes to his cheekbones. Something about that stopped me. I recognized him. Almost.
    His face lit with a puppyish joy. He flushed a little.
    As if he could read my mind, he said, “I knew you’d remember.”
    All this time he’d been sitting on that sun-warmed rock, but now he stood. He was taller than I’d expected. At least six feet tall. Muscular. And intimidating. When he moved toward me, I backed up a step.
    He noticed. His eyes darted past me, as if he’d block my escape.
    Not good, I thought, and a jolt of adrenaline made me hyperalert.
    â€œI’ve got to go to work,” I said.
    â€œWouldn’t you rather stay here?” His head tilted back, and he seemed to take in the blue sky vaulting over the red-brown rock walls. He got that same look he’d worn with his eyes closed, when he was basking, taking joy in the sun’s warmth on his wet skin.
    â€œIt’s my first day of work.”
    He gave a “so-what?” shrug. Maybe he was rich.
    When he reached toward my arm, the adrenaline rush returned. This was going too fast. It didn’t matter how cute he was.
    â€œThey’re counting on me,” I said.
    He could have reached me, but his arm fell back to his side. He looked resigned and maybe a little disgusted.
    As I started back up the trail to Mirage Point, I waved, then I heard him take a breath.
    I knew he was going to say something. I kept moving, but I did look over my shoulder.
    â€œGwennie,” he called. “Will you come back this time?”
    I took that steep path at a run.
    How did he know my name?

CHAPTER FOUR

    All day, I wondered if he’d show up at the Sea Horse Inn.
    He could be a guest I’d met there when I was a child. Or someone who’d attended Siena Bay Elementary school. It was possible I’d met him at a Northern California swim meet.
    But the thing is, I would have remembered. I’m not the boy-crazy, crush-a-week type, but if he’d asked me to call him, I would have melted on the spot.
    He looked like a competitive swimmer. My thoughts kept circling back to that fact, but it didn’t feel right.
    Something embarrassing, which made me glad no one could read my mind, was that I’d