“They never do. They panic over what turns out to be a dusting and miss the big one. Must be tough to be them, though.”
“I guess.” She sighed. “You may be grouchy, but you’re also kinda sweet when you say things like that.”
Huh?Earlier, he was grumpy. Now she was accusing him of being grouchy. He couldn’t decide which surprised him more: the grouchy part or the sweet. He didn’t think of himself aseither.
“Are you laughing back there?” Her voice held a modicum of incredulity. “Was what I said that funny?”
“A little. Just because I gave the weather folks a pass … People who know me mostly say I’m even-keeled but that I don’t put up with any bullshit.”Usually. “I guess that could make me seem like a grump sometimes, but sweet? That’s a stretch. I doubt anyone but my mom would use that word to describe me.” Though he had to admit hearing Hailey say so caused something warm to percolate inside him. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Gee, thanks,” she chuckled.
“No, seriously,” he spouted. “You obviously have compassion. I mean, look at what you risked for Rover.”
“Yeah, but look at the mess I put us in.”
“Eh, mistakes happen.”I should know.
She was a little skittish, which he’d give her, but overall she seemed straightforward and levelheaded—and that went a long way in making this ordeal go easier. Had he been stuck with a hysterical woman—or man—this stressful night … Well, he didn’t want to waste brain cells on how much worse it could have been because it was pretty damn bad as it was. He suddenly missed his brick loft with its king-sized bed.
Long beats of silence passed. He had thirty more minutes before he could unfold himself from his origami pose and fire up the truck.
She surprised him when she said, “I have a question.”
“Go.”
“Why did you call Charlie the golden retriever of the family?”
“Well, he’s got way too much energy, he’s annoyingly happy, and women can’t stop petting him.”
She let out a laugh-snort. “So what does that make you? As a dog breed, I mean.”
“Something cool. An Irish wolfhound or a Siberian husky.”
“Not a Great Pyrenees?”
“No, that’d be Reece,” Noah snickered.
“Do you have any dogs?”
“No. You?” he tossed back.
“No. We weren’t allowed to have pets as kids.”
“Makes sense if your dad spent a lot of time on a circuit.”
“No, it was more than that.”
The sad note in her voice tugged at something in his chest, and his bartender persona kicked into gear with an open-ended question. “I’ve never known a competitive surfer. What was that like?”
“Not as fabulous as everyone thinks. It looks like fun and games on the surface, but the dark side isn’t pretty.”
There was a lot to unpack in her statement, a lot he wanted to ask her about, and his attention was wholly captivated. He sensed a painful past he didn’t want to poke, so he waited.
When she next spoke, the smallness of her voice made his breath catch. “My dad never made it to the elite class, but he had an unquenchable passion for the sport—and the lifestyle—so we moved around a lot while he chased that passion. We were nomads, blowing in the wind, riding the waves, and we were always broke. What little he earned paid for gear or parties or vices. Pop’s was liquor, and Mom’s was drugs. To her credit, she worked different grocery store jobs, though they didn’t pay much. Mostly she did it to get the unsold food for free. We had a very eclectic diet.” A mirthless laugh escaped her. “Sorry. TMI.”
“No, it’s fascinating. Really. Most of the people I know grew up in my small town and never left, so we all know the same stories. Keep going.”
As she continued the telling of a turbulent childhood, Noah was struck by the lack of emotion in her voice. “My father spent his entire life trying to make it big, but he never got there. He always had a temper, but he became angrier, more bitter, and he started drinking more and more.
