Crossing Abby Road (8 page)

“You’d be surprised,” she said. “Things can escalate fast, in the blink of an eye sometimes. So, anyway, thanks. I’m really grateful.” She smiled and shook her head. “You sure scared the crap out of them.”

“Nah, not really.”

Abby tipped her chin and laughed. “Are you serious? They were practically wetting their pants as they ran away. Because you’re all like”—she held her hands out like she was measuring my width—“big shoulders and arms and…what are you?” Her sparkling eyes gave me a quick up-down. “Six-two?”

“And a half, when I spike my hair.”

“I don’t think your hair is supposed to count.”

“Size matters.” I cocked a half grin. “Everyone says so.”

“Wow,” she deadpanned. “You totally went there.”

“That was your bad, you gave me the perfect setup.”

“Anyway, thank you for, ya know, doing that.” She reached out and placed a hand on my biceps. “You’re great muscle.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” I replied automatically, buzzed from the touch of her hand on my arm and from her eyes fixed so intensely on me.

Abby opened her mouth but closed it again, then took a step back. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m not like,
with
you because I need protection. I did this morning at your store—I told you that, but now…” She paused and pressed her lips together. “If I was only using you for your muscles, I wouldn’t have faced that scary guy at Modica’s or met Chandler. I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“I haven’t once thought you were using me for only my muscles,” I said with a smile, picking up the pace again so we wouldn’t draw attention to ourselves. “You’re obviously exploiting me for lunch.”

The relieved look in her eyes made me want to laugh. She’d actually been worried that I thought she was using me as some kind of ad hoc bodyguard. In fact, I’d been tapping into the same excuse to stay with her. Though, no matter what she said, I knew it was a legit reason. Despite what I’d said about those pissant boys, she would’ve been no match for six against one. Those sexy shorts of hers were way too tight to conceal a can of pepper spray.

I wanted to be here with Abby. But I also knew that she needed me to be. My brain was becoming overly crowded with voices reminding me about my meeting, but also that today was all I’d have with Abby. The opposing strategies were really starting to make my gut clench.

“I’ve always wondered why so many of the houses here have names?” she asked as she stopped in front of the Wilsons’ place. They’d actually named it
Wandering Thoughts
. That wasn’t as bad as some of the others. Mine included. “And they’re always on those little wooded plaques.” She was motioning toward the sign nailed to the front fence.

“Most of the homes in Seaside have names,” I said. “It started as a throwback to antebellum plantations. There’s a book about it; I’ve got a copy at home. You can borrow it, if you want.”

Huh. Where’d that come from? It was a natural impulse, and by the way it made Abby’s face light up, I knew it was the right one.

“I’d love that,” she said. Yep, definitely the right thing to say. Talking with Abby was inexplicably easy. Even when I thought I’d said the wrong thing, it was like everything she wanted to hear was exactly what I wanted to say to her.

“Where do you live?”

Her question made me inwardly stumble. Did she sense where I was leading her? My house was three streets away.

“Seaside,” I said vaguely. “Not too far.”

“Around here?”

“Naw. These houses are way too touristic.” I turned my gaze in the direction of my neighborhood.

The decision to live in Seaside had come quickly. I’d fallen in love with the town and the chilled-out surfer way of life. That kind of existence was going to change for me, though, once I expanded my business and opened another store. I was willing to face the new pressure head-on, because I knew how important it was to be a business success. Like Dad had said, that was my dream. Expanding would also tie me more to the community, which was another thing I wanted—to plant roots, stop bouncing from place to place.

“When it came time for me to buy a house,” I said, “I wanted something completely my own, away from the touristy stuff. Something real. Probably sounds weird, I know.”

“Doesn’t sound weird at all,” Abby said. “I know exactly what you mean.” Though she’d just agreed with me, her expression had something gloomy about it. “I have a house in Malibu. Actually, I was only twenty when I bought it, so it’s still under my brother’s name.”

Her brother? Of course she had a family. She hadn’t always been a celebrity wandering around Seaside alone. Was that who she was visiting today?

“It’s pretty lacking in furniture right now,” she added, doing that hair-tug thing, her tell, meaning she was nervous about something, or unhappy. “Everyone keeps telling me to hire a decorator because I never have time, and it’s just sitting there empty, but it didn’t use to be empty. My brother and I, we lived there together before he…before—”

She cut herself off just as she was starting to share. What had upset her? I felt my brows pull together as our gazes locked. Right before she turned her eyes away, she looked almost trapped.

I’d missed something, something in her past, maybe. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one with ghosts. But I had no clue what Abby’s might be, though if I had to guess based on the reaction she’d just had, I’d say they were tied to her brother. My gut said I shouldn’t pry. I also got the strong impression that I’d be relying on my gut a lot today.

“Why don’t you hire a decorator, then?” I asked, attempting to get her back on track.

“I want something completely my own, too,” she said, sticking her chin out a little, showing me a bit of that tenacity from earlier. “Something real.”

Hearing my own words repeated back to me was intriguing and a little comforting. In the scheme of things, we probably weren’t all that different. Well, maybe at our cores we were similar, but as a musician, she traveled for a living, went on sold-out stadium tours, while all I wanted to do was stay put in one place.

Maybe it was a damn good thing after all that she was only here for one day.

Abby blew out a long breath. “I want to do it myself—the decorating. I think I’d be good at it. Someday.”

A car started backing out of the Wilsons’ driveway, but it wasn’t the Wilsons—it was a couple I didn’t recognize. Tourists. I’d never felt suspicious of tourists before—after all, they were the bread and butter of my surf shop. But seeing how Abby immediately went stiff when the couple in the car sat there blatantly staring at her made me wish we were in the middle of nowhere. Just us.

It took everything in me not to pound a fist on the hood of the car or shout at them to get lost. But losing my cool wouldn’t solve anything. I’d been working on that for the past few years, especially after Sophie. Another subject not worth losing my cool over.

“Does your house have a name like these do?”

I’d almost missed her question, too caught up in my preoccupation. “Yes,” I said, though I kept my gaze glued on the couple in the car. The second they made a move to approach Abby, I would step in.

But they didn’t. They just stared. How…jacked up. Abby must’ve been used to it, because she seemed pretty unaffected now, or maybe the reason she squatted down to get a closer look at some flowers was more about hiding.

It was nice, though, that she was asking me about my house. Besides Todd’s Tackle, it was the thing I was most proud of. I couldn’t help relaxing, following her suit again.

“Yeah, my house has a name,” I said. “But it’s hideously kitschy. It came with the place so it’s not my fault, and I haven’t gotten around to changing it yet.”

“What’s it called?”

I shook my head. “No way. Don’t want you losing respect for me yet.”

She laughed and swatted my arm. It was nice to feel her touch me again. For a while there, she hadn’t been, not even playfully. I thought maybe I’d blown it.

I squinted into the sun as I watched the car finally drive away. The late morning was bright and warm. “Mind if I wear this?” I asked as I reached for the Dodgers cap she’d been wearing earlier, adjusting the size holes on the back. The second I slid it on, she blinked at me with that cheese-lust look in her eyes.

“This looks okay on?” I couldn’t help asking.

Abby stared at me for another second longer, then blinked again. “It makes you look, uh…what’s the word you used before?” She tapped her temple. “Oh yes,
cute
.”

“You think I’m cute, huh?” I said, reliving another one of our conversations we were playing in reverse.

She actually rolled her eyes. “Uh,
yeah
.”

Hot damn. Surely the girl didn’t lay her cheese-lust look on everyone, because if she did, how would anyone around her get any work done? Ever?

“Still won’t tell me the name of your house, cutie?” she asked, her voice going all high and sugary.

I laughed. “Nope. But once I’m inspired, I’ll change it to something more rock ‘n’ roll. Something like
Fly Me to the Moon
or
Summer Wind
.”

“
Very
rock ‘n’ roll.” There was teasing in her sugary-sweet voice now. “You’re a big Sinatra fan, I take it?”

“Says the girl with the Beatles ringtone.” I smiled back, enjoying our ping-pong game of flirtatious jabs. In about five seconds, though, I wouldn’t be satisfied by just having my eyes on her.

“I guess we’re both pathetically old school,” she said.

“You called it ‘classically trained’ before. I like that better.”

Her ribbing about Sinatra pushed my thoughts back to Sophie—another unfair comparison. She’d never grasped why I was such a fan, never understood the relationship I had with my grandpa and how that was tied to Frank Sinatra, especially after he died.

There were too many things about me that Sophie had never known, because we never really hung out as friends. That wasn’t totally her fault, obviously. If I was being honest, I’d lost the desire to know her any better or deeper.

And she wanted to get back together. Why the hell would she want that? Maybe she hadn’t had the classic closure after our breakup. Although, I’d think that getting engaged—if even for one day—was proof of closure.

Something else about Sophie’s voicemail did make me wonder, though now wasn’t the time to start analyzing, not when I had a hot girl—who actually did seem interested—right beside me.

I exhaled and continued our walk in the same direction we’d started. We kept the conversation on the safe topic of landscaping, though I didn’t know jack, just what I’d picked up from living in Seaside. Abby really liked the flowers and trees. More than once I’d out-stride her because she’d stop to inspect someone’s front yard, asking me questions about specific flowers that I bullshitted my way through like a boss.

Intertwined with our conversation, I tried to pinpoint when exactly I’d decided to spend all this time with her. Maybe it hadn’t been a conscious decision, but a natural one. An organic beginning.

While stuck in my own head, I’d out-strided her again. When I turned back to wait, it wasn’t flowers Abby was admiring this time. The second she caught me catching her, her eyes flew north to my face, and her cheeks flushed that telltale pink.

“Were you just checking out my ass?”

She scoffed and waved a hand. “Gah. No.” Yeah, she was definitely interested. So was I.

“Am I walking too fast for you, then?” I asked, causing her blush to deepen.

She coughed inside her throat but didn’t answer. I would have carried my questioning further to see what she’d do, but we were here. We’d arrived at Plan B. My house.

Okay, Camford. What the hell are you gonna do now?

Chapter Eight

“Something’s Gotta Give”

Like any average Joe, I’d taken out a loan. I had a mortgage. Dad didn’t understand why I hadn’t used my inheritance to buy the house. I’d had the cash, but it wasn’t about just buying the thing, it was about doing it on my own, tying me to a community. If I couldn’t do it my way, I didn’t want to do it at all.

Just seeing my house made me grin. Yes, it was white with a bright turquoise door and was christened the unfortunate “Cherry Pie Place,” but it was completely kick-ass. The house had been gutted last year and renovated by a designer with an imagination that stretched further than the typical beach digs. It felt more pirate ship/nautical, and less like living inside of a girly seashell. Plus, my furniture was a darker wood than the norm, and since I was no decorator, there wasn’t much of it. But what it did have was ceilings high enough that I could jump rope in the living room every morning, a huge backyard for Sammy Davis, Jr. to run around, an outdoor shower with bamboo floors, a master bedroom bigger than my old apartment in Manhattan, and ocean breezes through the open windows 365 days a year.

I was headed straight for the turquoise door, but then stopped. Almost too late, I recalled Abby’s spooked expression when I’d made that joke about taking her somewhere so isolated that no one would hear her scream. Yeah, I’d been joking, but it hadn’t been a joke when I’d adjusted my plan to set up our picnic right in my own backyard. That would probably freak her out even worse.

No way was I taking that chance.

It took less than a second to formulate Plan C.

“Psst, we’re trespassing now,” I said in low voice. “Private property, remember? So shhhh.”

Her full lips rounded into a silent
O
. From her eyes and body language, I knew she’d already caught on.

I held my index finger over my mouth then waved her forward as we passed the front gate and crept along the side of my house toward the beach behind it. I hoped no one was home next door, springing out of nowhere to chat about the tides or last week’s storm damage; talk about blowing my cover. The walkway to the beach was only a few more steps away. We’d be secluded enough out there on a day like today. If I played my cards right, probably no chance of anyone recognizing or bothering Abby.

Good plan, Marine.

On the other side of the fence enclosing my backyard, Sammy barked a friendly hello and padded our way. Abby let out a yelp loud enough to echo off the Gulf and then slapped both hands over her month, looking frightened but adorably apologetic.

“It’s okay,” I said in a whisper, keeping up the façade. “She won’t hurt you.”

Abby nodded.

I gave Sam some nose rubs through the fence and mentally promised her that we’d hang out tonight, take that run on the beach after my meeting, then watch
The Hangover Part III,
Sammy’s favorite movie.

As I started walking again, I noticed Abby hadn’t moved, maybe wondering if Sam would start barking again. My dog wasn’t huge, like most black labs weren’t, but she was very excitable. “Stay close to me,” I whispered. When Abby still didn’t move, I reached back for her. “Here.”

She looked grateful as she slid her hand inside mine. I immediately clasped my fingers around hers tight, giving the impression this was serious business. I was rewarded with Abby reaching out her other hand, so she was holding mine with both of hers.

Her reaction, how she clung to me like that, made my chest go a little tight. Her hands were small but stronger than I expected. The girl had been through a lot to have such an iron grip. I tried to memorize the feeling of each of her fingers around me, the heat coming off her palms.

Much too soon, we made it to the base of the boardwalk, the shared walkway to the beach. Not wanting to let go of her hand just yet, I continued with the stealth. “
Down
,” I whispered when we reached the top of the stairs, dropping myself into a crouch. Abby obeyed like I was her commanding officer.

I kept her close to my side while we descended the wooden stairs, our shoulders touching the whole way. I could smell her sweet shampoo, a bit stronger now under the heat of the sun. When we got to the bottom of the stairs, she halted, stopping my forward momentum.

She was staring out at the Gulf. It was flat and blue, golden sunlight glinting off the tiny waves, stretching for miles. It was always so cool when people came to visit me here, those who were seeing the Panhandle for the first time. They never expect it to look like the Caribbean, with its white sand and crystal clear water.

I didn’t think this was Abby’s first trip here. She knew about the name plaques on the houses, and she’d mentioned a sister, or she’d been worried about her sister’s bike.

But her expression now. She had a longing, peaceful look in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. Each new expression brought more questions I wanted her to answer.

When she closed her eyes, I kept on watching her, the way her hair moved, the way her shoulders rose and fell as she breathed. How she could go from tense to calm so quickly was another mystery worth getting to the bottom of. Maybe it was some kind of hard-core meditation practice to keep her sane when she felt panicked or out of control.

Maybe she’d teach me. I sure could’ve used that tactic last night.

The night terrors didn’t come as often as when I’d first left the Marines, but from what I understood, thanks to the very brief military-required therapy session after my final deployment, they would never really go away. For the rest of my life, it was going to be a matter of coping with the guilt, making peace with those ghosts.

“This reminds me of a Monet.”

I looked at Abby when she spoke, painfully envious of the peaceful look on her face. What I’d give for just a fraction of that when I felt haunted. I did have moments of that kind of peace, mostly when I was just staring out at the water on a lazy afternoon. Those moments were what grounded me, and happened only when I felt truly happy.

After I got my loan, lazy afternoons in my future would be non-existent. I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to that, but there was no way around it.

“The one of his with all the water lilies,” Abby added, her voice soft and dreamlike. “I’ve always wanted to dive into that painting and just kind of”—she paused to let a quiet sigh slip between her lips—“float away.”

She spoke like an artist, adding more questions to my list. After another moment, she glanced at me, giving me that look again—open and pretty. So peaceful.

My fingers twitched around her hand, and I wanted to pull her in, answering one of my more specific questions about what flavor lip gloss she wore. But also another question. If she put her arms around me right now, would I feel peaceful, too? Could it somehow transfer to me?

She blinked. Maybe she could read my mind, because my attraction was painted on my face like a damn horndog. If I was going to hang out with her, maybe get some of her Zen to latch onto me, I couldn’t do it while wanting to pounce on her every second.

Lesson one in Scout Sniper training:
everything is mind over matter. Even hormones.

I looked out at the water, a million thoughts running through my head. I liked this girl. She was complicated, and complicated wasn’t my thing. Yeah, yeah, I was an unfettered hawk and all that crap, but I couldn’t help it—I liked her.

I suddenly remembered something from when Sophie and I were still together. She’d been watching one of those entertainment shows on TV, and they were playing a story about a relationship Abby was in with another musician. I think he was from England, had that douchebag kind of boy band hair. The reporter compared the couple to Ike and Tina Turner. Apparently, they’d been caught in a public shouting match. This was more than a year ago. Hopefully Abby had gotten out of the situation.

A thought dawned on me; aside from that, I had no clue about her relationship status. For all I knew, she was still with the guy. With all the blushing and arm grabs, she didn’t act like she wasn’t single. But flirting didn’t mean anything, and that was really all we’d been doing. For a second, I thought about just asking her, but then I remembered how she’d reacted when I’d asked her if she was alone today and wondering about her blatant lack of bodyguard. And she’d fired back in annoyance when I’d flat-out asked if she was single.

So, maybe it was a touchy subject. Or maybe she was probed about that all the time by reporters and hated it. Okay, then.

I should’ve asked Chandler about it when I’d had the chance—he would’ve known; he claimed he knew everything about her. I should’ve taken ten seconds to do a quick Google search. I had a flash of how she’d twirled the ends of her hair while grasping the dolphin statue in her fist, then another flash of when I’d caught her looking at my butt.

Before my hand around hers caught fire, I released it, not ready to bring up the tough subjects yet. “On a clear day,” I said, crossing my arms so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch her, “you can see all the way to the South Pole.”

“You must have really excellent eyesight,” she said, not looking at me.

I shrugged. “Good genetics and healthy living.” I walked out to the end of the boardwalk. “You can leave your shoes here,” I added, sitting on the edge and kicking off my flip-flops. I was waiting for Abby to join me, but could tell she hadn’t moved. Hopefully that hand-holding hadn’t made her gun-shy.

Finally, sounds of feet scuffling drew nearer, and she sat down beside me and stretched out her legs. “The sand looks like sugar.” But I barely registered what she’d said, because until now, I hadn’t noticed her shoes. They were platform sandals made of leather and cloth, with thick cloth laces that wrapped around her ankles and halfway up her calves. Damn, they were sexy. It was like a striptease to watch her unlace.

I jumped to my feet. “Um, yeah, it does,” I said, needing to put some distance between her bare calves and me. “But it gets wicked hot.” My feet scorched the second I stepped onto the sand. “And watch out for sharp rocks.” I was a tour guide now. She must’ve been dying of lust.

One of my favorite spots on the beach behind my house was a group of rocks. Nikki called it my mini Stonehenge. The rocks were great for blocking the wind, especially when the evening breezes picked up. But they’d also be perfect for blocking the views of curious onlookers. Abby would be safe here.

I sat on the sand and leaned my back against one of the taller rocks. Abby took her place against the taller rock beside me. I gave myself a mental fist bump of congrats.

“Where were you born?” she asked

The question seemed out of left field, and so conventional. But maybe Abby was after “normal” today, too.

“Highland Falls, New York.”

“Was it a nice place to live?”

I almost laughed. “Not for a kid.” I began pulling out our food from Modica’s. “My dad was stationed there at West Point. I was three when we moved. Until college, I’d never lived in the same city for more than a year or two.”

Abby took the stack of napkins I handed her and spread them across her lap like she was preparing for a feast. “Which college?”

Ah. The full, detailed answer to this question freaked some girls out, though I’d never been ashamed of my job with the Marines. It was necessary, and the people I took out needed to be eliminated. Freaking out Abby wasn’t something I looked forward to, but I wasn’t about to gloss over the truth.

“A school in Maryland,” I said, continuing to organize our food. “I finished two years ago but took some time off before getting a
real
job.” I shrugged. “I was a sniper in the Marine Corps.”

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her sit back, distancing herself from me, and she hadn’t even heard the bad stuff yet.

“Wow, the Marines,” she said, her voice sounding purposefully restrained. “A job like that isn’t, um, well, it’s not what I’d consider
time off
.”

Not the reply I’d expected. I was used to getting a more shocked reaction, or polite disinterest. Some people even asked my kill count—not a subject I ever broached with anyone outside my team. My therapist said residual guilt was normal. But there’d been nothing normal about what I’d done during that time.

I looked at Abby, envious again of her peace, and even more envious of the old me, or even the me right now, who had time to gaze out at the ocean and chill out with a girl.

Wondering if the subject would drop, I wordlessly passed her a fork and a bottle of water.

“So,” she said, “is this school in Maryland you mentioned Annapolis, by any chance?”

“Good guess.”

“
Ex Scientia Tridens
.”

Assuming I’d heard wrong, or imagined her words, I glanced up. Abby had a solemn, respectful look on her face.

“That’s the Academy’s motto, ya know,” she said. Of course I knew. “It’s Latin for ‘From Knowledge, Seapower.’” I knew that, too, but how the hell did
she
? Abby smiled and tossed her hair back over both shoulders. “Navy will have a pretty decent football team this season, don’t you think?” Her voice was light and casual now, like this was a completely normal conversation for us to have. “Oh, and
Semper Fidelis.
” She sat up straight, arched her back, then saluted me.

The girl looked like a damn pin-up girl from the forties. Nothing had ever been such a major turn-on.