I set my phone down on the coffee table and sank into the couch, unsure what to do with myself next. The house felt hollow in my grandma’s absence, a discarded shell washed up on shore, empty and forgotten. Thoughts of the past churned and clashed with worries about the future. They fused to form a heaviness that weighed on my shoulders and settled onto my chest.
I was spiraling. I needed to return to the present, an impossible feat sitting in that house surrounded by the past. Time for a change of scenery. I wrenched myself off the couch and marched out the front door, determined to regain purchase over my runaway mind.
The winding path to the beach snaked through live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and loblolly pines speared the sky with questing branches. Through the thick canopy, sunlight dappled the sandy walkway. Cicadas chirruped their persistent song, and pine needles crunched underfoot releasing their fragrant scent. It combined with magnolia and ocean salt to suffuse the warm, humid air with a sweet perfume unique to Hilton Head.
Grandma said magic lived on the island, and as I wound my way through the old trees, the other-worldly energy flooded my senses, making it feel as though I walked through a dream.
I emerged from the dense tree cover to a wooden bridge crossing one of the waterways that connected the swampy lagoons of Sea Pines. A turtle poked its head out of the water, and I stopped to scan the banks for alligators. That late in the afternoon, the sun had begun its slow descent, and without its mid-day heat, the gators retreated to their swampy homes. Maybe tomorrow.
Across the bridge, the path grew sandier, and the smell of saltwater pierced my nostrils. My pace quickened with anticipation, and soon, I crested the dune, and the clear blue expanse of the Atlantic materialized before me.
If the sights, sounds, and smells of the island weren’t enough to prove the presence of magic, emerging from the tree cover onto a white beach kissed by cerulean waves would make anyone a believer.
I kicked off my sandals and sank my feet into the warm sand, squishing the soft grit between my toes with each step. At the water’s edge, the cool surf lapped my ankles, and the ocean breeze caressed my face. The crash of the waves and the distant cry of gulls provided the scene’s soothing melody.
I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to the sun, longing to feel something—anything—besides loss. And for a moment, I was truly present. I forgot about my grandma, the house, my failed marriage, the fear of being so completely alone, and was present to the controlled cadence of my breath, rising and falling in time with the rhythmic surge of the ocean.
Splashing broke the spell of my meditative escape, and I opened my eyes. Two sets of arms cut through the surf, powerful swimmers coming up from the south.
Annoyed by the interruption, I waded deeper into the water and shut my eyes, desperate to regain my peace. The swimmers moved through the water with efficiency and grace, the churn of their strokes fluid and regular. I added their music to the harmony of the waves and my breath.
The hypnotizing beat slowed, and I reopened my eyes to find two men emerging from the break. They stood, and my body sparked like a live wire. Two perfect specimens of male physique shook water from their hair and waded through the waist-deep water. They had to be professional swimmers—tall and lean, with broad, muscled shoulders and washboard abs. Oh, gods above… The water dipped below their knees revealing thick quads beneath tight swim shorts. Damn. Bodies like those in trunks like those should be illegal.
I blinked hard to regain focus. My lusty body staged a coup of my brain any time I encountered a well-built, athletic body. Not good. I beat down the revolution by reminding myself that my affinity for muscles is what had landed me with my ex-husband. Turns out a nice body doesn’t necessarily translate into a nice guy. Who’d have thought.
I swiveled my gaze away from the eye candy and focused on the horizon. Meditation. Breathing. Right.
Chapter Three
ELIAS
I shook the water from my hair and trudged through the knee-deep break toward the beach, invigorated from the exercise and eager for the night’s performance. “Good swim. Feeling more awake?”
“You know it.” Niko stretched his arms behind his back.
“Nice.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “All set for a night out and a week of front desk duty.”
He groaned and slumped his shoulders.
“And remember—no need to turn tonight into a first date. Just take the adoration hit and move on.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged off my hand.
“I’m serious, man. It’s in our nature. Embrace it.”
Niko’s forehead creased and jaw worked as if chewing on an idea. “Don’t you ever want something more? Something deeper?”
“No.” Simple. Definitive. True. “I don’t.”
He stared at me blankly for a moment before shaking his head. But who in their right mind would tether themselves to a single person when an entire ocean of possibilities lay before them? Not me. The rush of flexing my song’s power and basking in adoration slaked any thirst I had for connection. All without strings. I didn’t need anything more, and someday, Niko would realize that’s all he needed as a siren.
“Good thing your dad didn’t feel that way, or you wouldn’t be here.”
I stopped, chuffed out a snort, and held up my hand to count on each finger the reasons he was full of shit. “One: Dad got Mom pregnant. Two: he wasn’t an asshole, so he proposed even though he’d only known her for all of two months. Which, three: absolutely changed his life. And four: he was lucky Mom didn’t freak when she found out he was a siren and that she was pregnant with a demon baby.”
“Okay, okay.” Niko held up both palms, relenting. “But you forgot five: regardless of how they got there, your parents, and my parents, love the hell out of each other and wouldn’t change things for the world. I’m just saying, E, something more is possible.”
I shook my head. Maybe, but he’d never convince me that possible was worth the drama of finding it or the risk of rejection. I was perfectly content being a bachelor.
We emerged from the water, and my attention snapped to a flash of pale blonde in my periphery. A woman stood knee-deep among the shallow waves, eyes closed, face lifted to the wind. Her hair, so pale it was almost white, was tied high on her head, the long ponytail a waterfall of sunshine cascading past her neck and ending between sculpted shoulders. Wisps of hair floated around her freckled face in a halo of morning light.
