“No, like half an hour ago, during golden hour. It’s actually my favorite time of day anywhere. It’s gorgeous at the beach or on a lake, and even in the city, when the setting sun ricochets off the brick buildings and makes them glow.”
“Speaking of, we’ve got about half an hour of light left. Want to grab dinner at the clam shack and eat it on the jetty? They use a separate fryer for shellfish, so it should be safe for you to eat there.”
Her lips part as she pulls away and turns her head to look at me. I’m not sure what I see on her face. Confusion, maybe? “You... looked into that for me?”
“I didn’t bring you all the way down here to kill you, Morgan,” I say, my voice dry as I roll my eyes in her direction.
“Oh yeah? Why did you bring me all the way down here?” Her tone is slightly mocking, because we both know that she’s going to end up in my bed tonight, despite the fact that she left her bags in the guest room.
“Couldn’t have you dying from heatstroke back in Boston, either.” I let out a deep sigh as I stand and reach my hand down to pull her up. “I didn’t realize keeping you alive was going to be so much work.”
She looks up at me and laughs. “You’re doing a stand-up job,” she says as I pull her up from the sand.
I press my lips to her hair where it meets her forehead, but as soon as the scent of her hits my nostrils, I know it was a mistake. Like always, she smells like vanilla, cinnamon, and sugar... like a delectable treat I can’t wait to devour.
“All right,” I say, clearing my throat as I pull away, “let’s go get dinner before it’s too dark to see our food.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MORGAN
From the front seat of Aidan’s Jeep, we watch the waves crash into the long rock jetty that juts out into the ocean, protecting the mouth of the river and the harbor on the other side of it. We’d attempted to take our baskets of fish and chips down to the jetty earlier, but the combination of gusty wind and a lot of sea spray from the waves meeting the rocks, drove us away. Instead, we’ve got the top of the Jeep down and the windows up to block the wind as we eat and chat while watching the ocean.
“Did your mom say anything to you about Thanksgiving?” Aidan asks, and my head swivels so fast I probably look like I’m possessed.
“No, why?”
“Max said something about him and Anne maybe coming to Tampa for the holiday. We play Carolina the night before, so we’ll probably land in Tampa on Thanksgiving morning, before our game the next day.”
“She hasn’t said anything.” I’m not sure how I feel about the idea. Last year, I spent Thanksgiving with Lauren and Jameson, Audrey and Drew, Jules and Colt. My dad—who I normally spend the holiday with—was on the West Coast for work. Ihadn’t really thought yet about this year, but my plans definitely do not include my mom. “But I love Thanksgiving and, I don’t know…I worry that she’d ruin it for me somehow.”
“That sounds exactly like something she’d do.”
“Listen,” I say, reaching across the gearshift and resting my hand on his forearm. “Don’t dislike her on my account. I understand that she’s just not capable of being the kind of mom I want her to be, and that’s made all the difference in how I view her.”
“You meanlowering your expectationshas made all the difference.” It’s harsh, but he’s not entirely wrong.
“I don’t know whyyousound mad about that? Setting realistic expectations, based on who she is, not who I want her to be, has saved me a lot of heartache.”
He wipes his fingers on the napkin sitting on his leg, and then puts his free hand over the back of mine. “All I see is the way you keep giving her chances and she keeps showing you that she doesn’t deserve them,” he says. “And I keep wondering, why?”
“She’s my mom.”
“Morgan, you shouldn’t lower your expectations for howanyonetreats you, but especially not family. They’re the ones who are supposed to have your back no matter what.”
“I have my dad for that,” I say, and Aidan lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half scoff in response. “What was that?”
“Nothing. Just agreeing with you.”
Goose bumps rise on the back of my neck, and it’s not from the cool air outside the Jeep. I lift an eyebrow, and my tone is suspicious when I ask, “Why do I feel like you know something about my dad that I don’t?”
“He basically told me to stay away from you.”
Of course he did. My dad is nothing if not overprotective of his only child.
“Good job with that,” I say with a laugh, thankful that I didn’t mention to my dad that I was headed down to the beach. I don’t need to raise his suspicions.
“I’m not always good at taking orders,” he says, and gives me a sly smile.
