Stein hadn’t had a chance to circle back to Emberly’s words that night, not with dinner out with her and Nim at a cute Mexican place by the sea, followed by anotherWest-Wing-a-thon.
And they’d all spent the next day at the beach, and he’d gone to bed staring at the shiplapped ceiling, the words settling inside.
By the third day, he didn’t know how to return to them or to face the terrible desire they raked up inside.
Except...what then?
Maybe it didn’t matter, because Declan had roused him out of the what-ifs back to reality.
Hence the early-morning trek out to the beach.
Nimue’s cute little cottage sat nestled in the dunes on a side road that extended from the beach, a tiny place with the barest view of the ocean.Two blocks away sat the quaint town of Melbourne Beach, just a strip of shops on a narrow spit of road.
He liked it here.Quiet.A place he could hear his thoughts.
Maybe the answer to Declan wasno.
Maybe he wanted to go all in, building something different with Emberly.Over the past five days, she’d shaken off her Phoenix layer and settled into someone he’d gotten a glimpse of back in Minnesota.Relaxed.Laughing.Somehow, Emberly had gone from DEFCON 1 to all defenses down.The woman who beat him in a game of chess, letting her lemonade sweat in the sun.
In truth, she’d slid into his heart and taken up residence.
Stein closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun, letting it soak into him.“I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise shall continually be in my mouth.”
“Whoo-hoo!”
The shout lifted from down the beach, and he glanced toward it and spotted a man rising from a beach chair, reeling in his fishing line, fighting with something past the breaking waves.Behind him was a cart with a cooler, a couple chairs, another rod and reel.
Steinbeck wandered down to watch.
Long dark hair pulled back, a worn ball cap on his head, tanned, a hint of a beard.He wore a pair of cargo shorts, a shirt with the sleeves torn off.He had strong arms and stood barefoot in the sand, bracing himself against the bowing fishing rod.
“What do you have on there?”Stein stopped, stared out into the waves.
“Pompano, maybe,” the man said.He pulled the rod back, then quickly took up the slack.“He’s a fighter.”
And right then, the fish lifted out of the water, struggling against the hook, a spray of water off the silvery body.
“It’s a tarpon!”The shout from the man emerged just as the fish shook hard and?—
Aw.The catch splashed into the water, and the man took a step back, the hook releasing.
“Well, briny.”The man stepped back and reeled in his line.Glanced at Steinbeck.“I have an extra pole if you want to throw in a line.”
“I’m not much of a fisherman.That’s my brother Jack.And mostly on lakes in Minnesota.”
The man reached over, handed him a pole.“You don’t know until you throw your hook in.”He winked.Kind face, brown eyes.Steinbeck couldn’t place his age.
He stepped away from the man, then cast the line into the ocean.
“The waves will carry it out.Let your line reel for a bit.”The man had reeled in his own line.The hook dangled, empty.
He picked up a stool from his gear and handed it to Stein.“Fishing is God’s great reminder to slow down long enough to think.”
Right.Stein took the stool and settled into the sand, the line reeling out into the blue.
“Set it.”
Steinbeck stopped the reel.When he looked up, the man had handed him a rod-holder tube.He set it in the sand and affixed his rod.
