Rogue Wave Isabel Jolie (books for 20 year olds .TXT) 📖

The man could groan all he wanted, but in his soul, he was a free spirit. He’d like Tate as much as I did if he met him.

“I’m not sure I like this guy.” He sounded stern. Unnatural. Even though he couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes.

“Because of his age?”

“Maybe I need to come visit you.”

“Dad, you can’t even leave the house. Tell me what shows you’re watching.”

A commotion carried on in the background. I stepped out onto my back porch and sat down on the step, staring out over the dunes. Whitecaps sprinkled the dark landscape, luminous for seconds before disappearing.

“Luna, is that you?”

“Mom? What’re you doing home?” It was midmorning, time to clean up from the breakfast crowd and prep for lunch.

“Came home to check on your dad. Did I overhear correctly? You’re dating someone?”

“Yes.”

“Why is your dad shaking his head? What did I miss?”

“He’s a little older.” I grinned, mainly because I had a crystal clear vision of Dad tugging on the strands at the top of his head. He’d be bald sooner than nature planned if he didn’t drop that habit.

“Tell me a bit about him.”

“I already told Dad.”

“But now I’m on the phone.”

“Fine.” I huffed but still smiled. “You guys are gonna love him. Really. His values are aligned with ours. He’s dedicated his life to environmental causes. And he surfs. You always told me—”

“They’re mellow and thoughtful. You remembered?”

“You said it all the time when we’d go out on the beach. ‘Pick a surfer, Luna. Surfers are the best.’”

She chuckled. “Oh. My. Goodness. Luna has fallen in love.”

“I never said the L word.”

“You sound it.”

“Mom, I’m twenty-two. I promise you, this guy isn’t my lobster. I know where you’re going in your head, and he’s not the lobster.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Your voice didn’t get all sing-songy when you talked about Brandon.”

“I’m gonna hang up now.”

“I told you. You’re more like me than you care to admit. Your heart was bound to fall young.”

“You read too many romance novels.”

“I know my girl.”

“Love you, Mom.” I loved the woman, but she was dead wrong about me being anything at all like her. No way, no how would I get tied down and remain in one sleepy town for the rest of my life.

Chapter 17

Tate

The low hum of crickets, toads, seagulls, blue herons, and an unidentifiable mixture of sea life coming in on the high tide merged, lifting into a chorus. The sun cast a golden glow over the acres of marshland.

One of the nature groups built a long wooden path through a section of the estuary, connecting the island to a raised strip of uninhabited land. As a kid, I’d ride my bike out here and look for alligators. Spotting two lumps above the murky water had been a favorite pastime.

Not many island visitors explored the marsh. Most wanted to head to the beach. A few bird watching enthusiasts were known to canoe or even paddle board through the winding creek during high tide. But those trespassers were rare enough the marsh remained one place you could go and find solitude.

I sat out on the extended dock, swinging my flip-flopped feet, watching the shifting colors of the horizon, and listening for the popping of snapping shrimp.

“There you are.” She found me.

“Hey.”

Luna sat down beside me and caressed the back of my neck like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I leaned into her touch.

“I couldn’t find you all day. I’ve been worried.”

“Because of this morning?”

“Yeah, because of this morning. Who was that guy?”

I scratched the scruff on my jaw and stared at the distant setting sun. “No one you need to worry about.” The words stung as I said them.

“Why are you doing that?” Her hand dropped from my neck.

Her shimmering brown eyes hinted at hurt. Windblown hair lay tangled down her back, and her well-lotioned skin glistened, smooth, fresh. In comparison, my skin bore a weathered appearance, like the wood we sat on, worn down from too many seasons exposed to the elements.

She reached for my hand and intertwined her fingers with mine. A better man would push her away.

“Where have you been all day?” she asked, tackling the gap between us from a different angle.

“Spent most of the morning in the business center behind the coffee shop. I needed to use a computer and have reliable Wi-Fi and phone service.”

“Did you get a lot done?”

“Some. Got some balls rolling.”

“Tate, who was that guy this morning?” A mosquito sting stabbed my calf, and I slapped at it, the sound barely registering against the backdrop of the evening marsh symphony.

“I’m turning into lunch meat. Want to go back to my place? We can stop at the market and pick up something for dinner.”

She twirled one long blonde strand around a finger and considered my offer.

“If I come over, will you tell me what’s going on?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you.” She deserved that much.

She decided to swing by her place for a shower since she’d been in the ocean earlier in the day, and I picked up a frozen vegetarian casserole from the market, some cheese and crackers, and two bottles of wine. All the fixings for a date night. Something that probably wouldn’t have been a strange event for most men my age, but the last time I dated, I’d been in college. When I returned to the States, I supposed I expected to transition back to a normal life.

The struggle to return to normal reminded me of what they called land legs. People always thought of seasickness when they thought of side effects of the sailing life. All sorts of pills and pressurized wraps around pulse points existed to help with it. Land legs equaled the flip side of sea sickness. With enough time on a ship, your body evolved to need the roll of the waves. Your physical being melded to the rhythm of the sea. When you found yourself back on land, your