Ask Beau.
“Not on your life,” I say to myself.
He’s your neighbor. That’s what neighbors are for,Gemma.Put those muscles to work!
“He’s not my only neighbor,” I argue. “And he’s not the only one with muscles.”
Before my brain can provide a counter-argument, I head for the door, down the front steps, and march right over to Grams’sotherneighbors. Mr. Daines is probably well into his fifties by now, but I bet he can still move a couch a few feet.
I ring the doorbell and wait. And wait some more.
I ring it again, then knock for good measure just as the door opens, revealing a shirtless guy in his early twenties with themost intense bedhead I’ve ever seen. He rubs his eyes and tries to run a hand through his long blond hair, but that mess cannot be tamed without drastic measures. The waves are sticking up in every direction—except for the chunk on the right side of his head that’s matted to his skull. That’ll be a doozy to brush through. Supposing he does brush his hair, which isn’t at all certain.
“You’re late,” he mumbles, shuffling away from the door and leaving it open.
“Huh?”
“There are a few drinks left. Maybe.” He gestures lazily to the left as he turns into the living room. “Kitchen’s that way.”
“What? No, I’m not?—”
I hear a slumping sound and am sure even without looking that he’s already passed out on a couch.
I sigh. So much for getting any help from these neighbors.
When I was young, the Daines family lived in this house, but it looks totally different now, even from my limited view of the hallway and a portion of the living room. It’s got new flooring and paint, and the two pieces of artwork I can see have that sterile, generic look that tells me they were probably purchased at Hobby Lobby on clearance.
I hesitate for a second, then take a few steps inside the house, wondering if this is what I should be copying as I stage Grams’s house. I peek into the living room, and my brows go up at the sight of passed-out bodies littering the floor and couches. It’s hard to tell from the random arms and legs splayed at all angles, but I count three guys and two girls. One of the girls—wearing a big T-shirt and either underwear or a bikini bottom—stirs, and I decide against exploring more of hangover land.
Maybe if I come at two or three, they’ll be sobered up. And dressed.
I shut the front door behind me and go down the steps, trying to think if there’s anyone on the island I could reliablyask for help. That’s the trouble with making enemies and then leaving for fourteen years, I guess. It’s not like we had no one on our side of the feud, but I don’t have people’s numbers or even know if they’re still around.
I glance up at the sound of an approaching golf cart, and my breath catches at the sight of Beau pulling into his driveway, hair and shirtless body glistening, surfboard on top of the cart.
He kills the engine and gets out, his bare feet hitting the pavement. He reaches for the surfboard, giving me an unsolicited view of what that uniform has been covering. The muscles in his back shift and ripple as he unties the board, pulls it off the roof of the cart, and tucks it under his left arm.
Which is when I realize I’m still standing on the neighbor’s sidewalk.
Beau runs a hand through his wet hair as his gaze comes up. “Gemma,” he says, his walk slowing. His eyes flick to the neighbor’s house behind me, and his brow furrows ever so slightly.
“Surf patrol?” I ask.
He glances at his board, and that’s when I notice the spot just above the hem of his swim shorts. I can’t tell if it’s a scar or a birth mark from here, and he shifts the board so it’s covered. Probably trying to help me rein in my roving eyes. He should probably wear a wetsuit, then.
“Just catching a few waves before I start my day. Did they keep you up last night?” he asks, lifting his chin to indicate the house behind me.
“What? Oh. No.” I walk toward Grams’s house. “I just went to ask for some help moving something, but…”
“Hungover?” he asks knowingly.
“A bit, yeah. The guy who answered the door assumed I was there for the party.”
“So…not hungover. Still drunk.”
“I’d say it’s pretty likely. Is it his house?”
“No, they’re just this week’s guests. It’s a short-term rental. Can I help you? I’m not drunk or hungover.”
