The last time I pulled an all-nighter I was in college and apparently thirty-one is the new old because I did not feel this shit back then.
I want to be in bed. Sleeping or buried in my book. But I know Lola’s going to be stressing about her sign until it’s sorted so I’m here, pulling up in front of Jarred’s house and putting the truck in park.
I’d wanted to drag Mase out with me. The fresh air would have done him good and given us a chance to talk but when I couldn’t find him, I gave Jarred a ring.
The guy’s going through a rough time at the moment, so I appreciate it all the more when he jumps down off the porch and opens the passenger side door. “Roman,” he says in greeting as he snaps in his seat belt and tips his head back against the headrest.
“You sure you’re good? I can do this myself if…”
“No. I need the break.”
I turn the engine on and glance over at him before reversing. Bags hang under his eyes, and his loose blond hair is all roughed up. He looks worse than I do but he shakes it off before I can ask any questions.
“So, what do you need the second pair of hands for?” he says, sitting forward, his hands gripped around the seatbelt.
I pull out onto the road and the heat in the truck cools as the breeze filters through the windows. “Driftwood hunting.”
We drive the five minutes down to the shore and park by the Marina. It used to be a fishing dock but now it’s mostly filled with sailing and house boats. The beach’s main swimming area is kept clear of debris during the summer season, but the edges of Surfer’s Bay down here by the Heart Home Lighthouse are a treasure trove of detritus that washed up during winter storms.
Across the boardwalk the cafés and beach shops are just opening up. Kelsey is out setting up the crate tables at the Lagoon and I raise a hand in greeting as Jarred and I hop off the marina dock and down onto the sand.
It’s quiet this early in the morning, the beach mostly filled with surfers rather than families, and the rushing sound of the waves hitting the shore soaks through me.
I’ll never get bored of living by the sea. The few times I did go back to London I nearly went insane staying in the city. Here, you can walk outside and not feel trampled on by the world around you. Even in the summer, when the tourists descend, there’s still this ever present calm.
We leave the beach seekers behind though and head for the rougher edges of Surfer’s Bay. Sand kicks up inside my shoes as we pick our way around rocks and over broken branches.
“So, who’s the girl?” Jarred asks.
I stop scouring the debris and cut him a look. “There’s no girl. This is for Lola.”
Jarred toes a piece of dried-up seaweed out of the way. “You do realize Lola is a girl, right?”
I yank at a branch lodged between two rocks. “No, Lola is my best friend’s little sister.”
“Ah.” Jarred nods his head, a lopsided smile on his face. “So does Mase know?”
I find a flat piece of driftwood half buried under the sand. “There’s nothing to know,” I say as I grab the end of the wood and tug on it.
Jarred comes over to help shift the driftwood.
“Right. So, taking time off work to scour the beach for the perfect piece of driftwood for Lola is just a nice pseudo-brotherly thing to do?”
My gritted teeth grind into each other as I lie like the businessman my father wanted me to be. “Precisely.”
Jarred hums in disbelief and I flick some of the sand off the driftwood over his shoes in retaliation.
We’ve dislodged the piece now but it’s not big enough for Lola’s sign.
It ends up taking us three hours and a trip down the coast to find a piece of driftwood that works. Jarred helps me haul it into the bed of my truck and then carry it onto the patio next to the stables when we get back.
We put the sand covered three-meter-wide driftwood down and dust off our hands. “You want a lift back?” I ask.
“Nah, I’ll walk.” Jarred reaches back and rubs his neck. “Listen, for what it’s worth, if Cooper wanted to date my little sister I’d lose my shit. But then Brynlee’s fifteen. Lola’s a grown woman, Roman, and you’re a good man.”
An acrid taste sits on my tongue. “You think Mase will see it that way?”
“If it were a fling or you were just playing about, then no.” He nods to the driftwood where it’s sitting on the sheet of tarpaulin I spread out earlier in preparation. “But no one puts this much effort into a fling.”
