Sirens had emotional intuition, a type of empathy that went far beyond instinct. It allowed us to experience other’s attraction, adoration, and devotion, to soak up those emotions and satisfy our siren’s compulsion. Unfortunately, the ability wasn’t limited to those feelings.
“Really?” I grimaced, a twinge of guilt adding to my discomfort, and glanced over my shoulder to where the woman stood hugging herself and gazing out over the ocean. “No, I suppose I didn’t.”
“Grief, fear, loneliness—they were rolling off her in waves. It’s no wonder she blew you off. Your speaking voice alone would’ve been hard-pressed to cut through all that.” Niko regarded me with serious intent, eyes steady and assessing, mouth stern. We’d known each other our entire lives, and he’d never looked at me with such judgment. “And I don’t believe you’d be heartless enough to try.”
“No.” I shoved a hand into my hair and tugged hard at the strands. “No, I’d never do that. I should have read her.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Just making sure.”
Something inside me dislodged at the thought of that sharp-tongued, sexy goddess in pain. It banged on my chest for attention like a crazed beast rattling the bars of a cage.
I craved her undivided attention, the compulsion to sing to her and secure her adoration unrelenting. But Niko was right; I wasn’t a monster. And this reaction—this thing inside my chest—it didn’t feel like my siren’s instinct. I wanted to talk to her, soothe her, brush my thumb across those pouty lips.
I shook out my arms, rocked my head from side to side, and rolled my shoulders, trying to dispel those unwelcome thoughts and the nausea that still lingered from her earlier rejection. But despite my efforts to forget the chance encounter and focus on the upcoming night, a seed of hope sprouted that I might see her again and get another chance.
Chapter Four
LENA
I walked through the front door of the house only to change my clothes and walk back out less than ten minutes later. I hopped on my beach cruiser and pedaled north toward Coligny Square along the canopied bike paths that traversed the forests and golf courses dominating the southern half of the island. Coligny was on the opposite end of Sea Pines from my grandma’s house, but the shopping center hosted the only hot yoga studio on the island. I told myself the forty-minute ride was worth it, that I needed to step onto my mat. But as the heat of the practice room permeated my body and I moved through my flow, pretense departed as quickly as sweat. Stripped bare, I stood at the top of my space left only with the truth—I was avoiding the house and with it my future.
I progressed through my vinyasa, flowing from one pose to the next while acknowledging my current state of mind—I didn’t want to make any decisions. Decisions meant committing to a path that moved past my failed marriage, past my grandma’s death, and into an uncertain future. Alone.
I had to choose a direction. I had to transition to the next pose. But staying stagnant and dwelling in the space between lives—between poses—seemed much easier than admitting I stood at a crossroads.
That’s why I came to my mat. The challenges I faced in my practice mirrored the hard lessons and truths I needed to learn in life. So, I stood in my emotional discomfort just as I stood in my physical discomfort. I admitted I wasn’t ready to move on, and for now, avoidance was the sum total of my plan. And that was okay.
And avoidance was also how I found myself standing at the entrance of Shelter Cove later that night.
After yoga, I’d fully intended on spending a peaceful night at home with my journal and a book, but the deafening silence of the empty house gnawed at my attention. I’d barely jotted down a few words before I snapped the journal shut and tossed it onto the coffee table. I needed to get out of that house and out of my head. I needed distraction. Something to lighten the mood.
I got in my car and headed out of Sea Pines toward the northern half of the island. As I drove, two swimmers emerging from the ocean in short, tight swim trunks flashed across my mind’s eye, and the silken words of the man who’d approached me resounded in my thoughts. I blinked away the memory and turned up the radio, beating my thumb against the steering wheel in time to the music in a vain attempt to deafen the voice.
Going to Shelter Cove had absolutely nothing to do with those chiseled bodies from the beach. Nothing at all. I’d sworn off men with playboy personas, and the moment Elias had introduced himself to me, klaxons rang like I was on the bridge of the Enterprise. Red Alert!
I knew the type; I’d married one. Been there. Done that. Have the t-shirt and want to burn it in a trash fire. The asshole left with half our savings after I paid off all his student loans, bought him a car, and added him as joint owner of the yoga studio. My yoga studio. The yoga studio I built from nothing. Student by student. Class by class. None of which was as important to him as the twenty-something I’d found standing in our kitchen in her underwear after returning home early from a visit to the island.
Never again. Never again would I trust a smooth-talking, good-looking man. At least not with my heart.
King Neptune held his trident aloft, ready to smite the visitors milling about the bar and in front of the stage, bronze arms glinting under the lights strung between palmettos in front of the Shelter Cove marina. Music wafted through the damp night air, and the strange but familiar combination of magnolia and low tide filled my nostrils.
I scanned the crowd as I walked to the bar. Who was I kidding? I’d been drawn here tonight and not just by the need for distraction. There was something about Elias, something about his voice. He hadn’t said much on the beach, but even now, the hypnotic quality of his words reverberated through my head, quietly shouting for my attention.
I brushed the hair out of my face and blinked hard, trying to jar his voice out of my brain. I came tonight to distract myself with music. No hot swimmers with sultry voices necessary.
The golf tournament usually coincided with Easter break—around mid-April—and brought all manner of tourists to the island. This year was no different, and Shelter Cove was packed. Sitting at the bar, I ordered a brandy and diet and tapped my foot to the young Joni Mitchell performing on stage. Kids chased after each other while others waited patiently in line to get their faces painted. Couples shared drinks. Families gathered around picnic tables. Men and women in their twenties gathered in groups laughing and drinking.
The scene put an exclamation point at the end of my life’s sentence—You are alone!—each smiling couple, each doting parent, and each needy child a reminder of everything I didn’t have. I clenched my teeth and tried to breathe through the heaviness resettling itself atop my shoulders.
Screw it. I grabbed my drink and gulped half of it down. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea.
The singer finished, and the few people paying attention politely clapped. I spun on my stool to face the stage and nearly choked on my drink. There he was. The swimmer. Elias.
He sauntered onto the stage and up to the mic with an easy stride, carrying an acoustic guitar by its neck. He wore a white linen shirt over khaki shorts, sleeves casually pushed up to his elbows, the loose fabric unbuttoned enough to reveal the top of his strong, tanned chest. His angular face showcased a Hollywood smile—straight white teeth behind a crooked bend to a wide mouth. His hair had been wet when I’d seen him on the beach, but now sandy-blond, sun-bleached waves hung over his ears and forehead like he’d stepped off the set of a surfing movie.
Gods, he was gorgeous. How had I not noticed before?
Probably because you weren’t a half brandy-and-diet deep.
