Arrived.
I snort softly at the word. More like fled like I was on fire.
I’d thought I’d have to keep moving, never settle, never leave tracks. But the moment I introduced myself as Lucy, just Lucy, and Marcel studied me for a long beat before nodding and handing me an apron, I knew.
I was safe here.
My privacy would be respected, my secrets my own.
But you can take the girl out of Queens and she still checks exits, still searches faces, still deals in cash and changes her phone every few weeks. Old habits die hard.
So when this feeling arrives, I scan the street, the beach, the tables. Nothing out of place. Nothing threatening. The feeling fades as the quote drifts back in.
The things that we love tell us what we are.
My thoughts darken, just a shade. Because I once loved like that. Like those two on the dance floor. With my whole chest. My whole stupid heart.
And that love turned out to be…
I huff out a breath, avert my gaze to the sparkling sea.
Does that make me a fool?
I shake my head, annoyed at myself. I don’t get maudlin. Not usually. And definitely not before sunset, possibly the best time of day if you’re lucky enough to be in this part of the world.
Relief trickles through me when a man steps up to the bar, forcing me to focus on the present, not the dark past I’m running from.
He’s not a local. My eyes catch the difference immediately. Too neat. Too clean. City posture he hasn’t been here long enough to let go of yet.
He’s handsome in a forgettable way, smile easy, gaze a little too direct. More than average cocky.
“Rum punch,” he says, eyes lingering on my bikini top, denim shorts, tiny apron and flip-flops combo that passes for uniform around here.
“Coming up,” I reply, matching his tone, all professional charm.
He watches me make it, asks where I’m from, compliments my hair, my accent, which earns him a droll glance since he sounds American, like me. That draws a false self-deprecating laugh.
It’s flirting. Harmless.
I give him exactly enough to feel seen and not enough to feel invited.
Until he leans in, and I tilt back.
“Not on the menu, buddy,” I say lightly but firmly.
He laughs, curses his luck, leaves a generous tip, and heads for the beach.
The quote whispers again.
I glance at Marcel. “Okay to take my break, boss?”
He waves me off from the overcrowded confines of his shoebox office, where he tries to balance books that stay stubbornly unbalanced. “Go. Before you melt on my floor.”
I grab my drink and step onto the sand, the heat of it seeping through my soles.
The sunset is ridiculous, orange and pink bleeding into the sea like someone spilled paint.
I sink down with a deep sigh, knees to chest, and watch the horizon.
