“I’d be overcharging you.”
“I promise I can afford it.” He immediately backtracks.“Wait, that didn’t come out right.”
“You weren’t aiming for entitled and patronizing?” I ask. Not my typical diplomatic self, but it’s been a long week, and I am so weary of wealthy customers throwing their money around... like guests who demand I get air conditioning in their cabin, even though we make it clear in all our promotional materials that our cottages do not have AC. We hardly need it here on the coast of Northern California; the daily high rarely exceeds room temperature, but some people believe they deserve perfect comfort at all times. This sort of unrealistic expectation generally comes from our more affluent clients. The working-class families in the campground never complain about the temperature—or call me at 2 a.m. demanding I bring them Fiji water. It’s laughable how many guests have used the emergency phone number for their personal room service.
“No, no. I was aiming for snobby and pretentious,” he deadpans. “I find that’s always a crowd pleaser.” He flashes a sheepish smile. And so help me, I feel butterflies. I love a dry sense of humor... this could be a problem. I need to shut this down now.
Hoping to signal the end of our conversation, I start packing up my paints and then my easel. He doesn’t take the hint and continues to gaze at the view as the clouds turn pink and the water silver. I sigh. Well, if he isn’t going to leave, he might as well be helpful. “Can you hold this?” I hand him the canvas. “Careful—the paint is still wet.”
“Of course.” He holds my painting gingerly as if I have given him something precious. He’s still admiring it when I finish packing my portable easel.
“You really like it?” I ask.
“I do. I don’t know why, but it moves me in a way I can’t explain.” He chuckles. “Sorry, that sounds a littlewoo-woo. My mom’s always saying stuff like that.... I never understood whatshe meant, but...”
I nod. That is exactly how I feel about this view... this place... my home. My painting is a poor imitation of this spot at the edge of the continent. Still, it gives me a small thrill to know that this stranger likes it too.
“Then it’s yours,” I say, continuing down the trail.
He trots after me. “Seriously? Thank you! How much do you want for it?”
“It’s a gift,” I holler over my shoulder. “Have a nice life!” I wave as I scurry down the trail.
“I can’t just take it—I should pay you!” He’s moving cautiously, carefully protecting the canvas while scrambling down the rocks, but I don’t bother to slow down for him. I need to get away from this guy. He is too tempting, and I have no interest in being some guy’s vacation fling. I pick up my pace as the trail levels out, becoming wider and smoother. But the too-handsome stranger quickly gains on me. I mentally move him from tennis player to long-distance runner.
“Wait!” he calls. “I need you to sign it.” I stop, and he catches up in a flash. “Someday when they’re auctioning your art at Christie’s,” he says, lightly panting, “I will want proof that I own one of your earliest works.”
“That is never going to happen. But fine.” I pull out a pen and sign it.
“E?” he says, examining my signature. “I was hoping for more... but I’ll take it.” He gives me a smile as dazzling as sunlight on the ocean. “I’m Edward.”
“Edward,” I repeat, hating how much I like the taste of his name. I start back down the trail.
“Hold on!” He calls after me. “What’s your name?”
I continue, trying to regain the blissful calm I had reached while painting outdoors—a futile task with this expensive tourist trailing behind. “Miss Mysterious E!” he calls after me. “Pleasehave dinner with me.”
I stop in my tracks. Did he really just ask me out?
“Is that a yes?” Edward asks, sounding adorably hopeful.
I turn to face him but hesitate before answering. I never date tourists. That’s my rule. I have too much on my plate, and I don’t have the bandwidth for a relationship, let alone heartbreak. But this guy... he is so appealing—not the Rolex, but the mussed hair, the attentive eyes, the self-effacing humor and genuine smile...
But no, I made this rule for a reason, and I’m sticking to it.
“I don’t date tourists.”
“Seriously? That’s a devastatingly specific policy.”
“Sorry. I don’t have time to waste on relationships that can’t go anywhere. And I never plan to leave Big Sur.” Truth be told, I’m so busy running Norland Park that I don’t have the time to date a local either. But there are so few eligible men my age that it hasn’t really been a problem. The steady supply of tourists is another story. I can’t count the number of lonely, unwashed hikers who saunter through our camp after weeks of solo backpacking, sporting newly grown beards. Most of them pursue my sister, but I’ve had to dodge my fair share of admirers. I’ve just never met a tourist that interested me—except, perhaps, this one. He is, I realize in an uncomfortable spasm of insight, exactly my type.
“That makes sense. But... I could visit—the city is not that far.”
So, he lives in San Francisco. That tracks. Everything about him signals that he belongs in the city. Reason enough for me to say no. But I hesitate. His smile alone is enough to make me reconsider my locals-only rule. Instead of dimples, he has these darling smile creases and crinkles by his eyes.
My mom and sister often joke about how dreadfully practical I am. They tease that in place of a heart I have aspreadsheet. I always laugh along—no need for them to know that I don’t avoid romance because of my stony heart. I avoid relationships because I have a squishy,vulnerableheart that I must protect at all costs. The whole family relies on me. I can’t risk any emotional setbacks. Inherently risk-averse, I am not a thrill-seeker. I have no interest in cliff jumping, motorcycles or sky diving. And this Edward with his easygoing smile and squeaky new hiking boots—just a few hours with him and I’ll be free-falling.
“Sorry, that’s still a no.”
