Rogue Wave by Isabel Jolie (reading eggs books txt) 📕

she reached out and tapped the tip of my nose, “this one, you should meet.”

“Are you trying to play matchmaker?”

She grinned, and I shook my head at her. I slipped the lever over to the R, and the reverse warning blared over the low hum of crickets and frogs surrounding Alice’s marsh side home. “If he comes out for a turtle watch, I’m sure I’ll meet him. I’m working every night this week.”

“He needs you.” Her plea had me moving the lever back to N. The jarring reverse alarm ended, and the marsh once again filled the air with a shrill chorus.

“Moved here yesterday. Doesn’t know anyone. Needs lots of repair work. Think you can help him out? His grandmother is a good soul.”

“You’re talking about Pearl, aren’t you?” Alice’s sad nod and gentle smile said it all.

“I’ll stop by and offer my help.” I had been sad to hear that Pearl had passed away. I’d spent more than one afternoon sipping iced tea with Alice and Pearl. And I loved seeing her carry her board out to the waves. There was something kick ass about watching an older woman with long gray hair climb on a surfboard. She’d also been an active volunteer at the conservancy where I worked. She spent most of her time helping with the fundraisers, but I’d seen her every Wednesday at the Turtle Trots, the 5Ks we ran through summer to raise money. Another intern told me she used to bring cut up oranges and bananas, but she’d pulled back on some of her involvement last summer—my first summer as an intern. Rumors swarmed that she wasn’t feeling well, but she didn’t show it. I thought of her every time I drove past her cottage and saw the peeling paint and rusted nails.

“How’s that Poppy doing?” She nudged me, and her teasing smile brightened the space between us, and I barked out a laugh. Poppy used to be the bartender at Jules, the restaurant and bar at the marina. Then COVID hit. The pandemic was now behind us, and life had returned to normal with the help of the massive vaccination rollout, but Poppy never returned to bartending. Still, everyone on the close-knit island knew and loved her. She and I were among the few year-round residents our age, so we’d bonded pretty quickly when I moved onto the island at the beginning of summer for my one-year stint as a junior scientist.

“She’s good.” I wrapped my fingers around the lever, conscious of the time.

“What exactly is Poppy doing now?”

“I’m not sure anyone knows. She keeps changing the subject every time I ask.”

“Well, can't be proud, can she?”

“I don’t remember her bragging all too often back when she was bartending.” What in the world, Alice?

“Bring her by sometime. I have an herb blend for you both.”

“Is this in the tea or brownie variety?” She mixed her concoctions in soups, teas, and even gooey desserts. I didn’t think she used marijuana, but her lot backed up to the marsh, and if she wanted to grow a few plants, no one would catch her. Potted herbs filled her home and all around her property.

“What would you two prefer?”

“Whatever you like. What about we try to make it by this weekend?”

“I’d love that. I’ll be here. And you’ll stop by and offer Pearl’s grandson some help?”

“Absolutely.” I waved goodbye, pressed the accelerator, and caught air over the remaining speed bumps on Currituck Way.

Mr. Blaid’s spec house on Horsemint Trail came into view just as a text alerted me one of the turtle cages on Access 36 had been tampered with. My job at the conservancy took priority. I whipped the cart around and changed course to head up Long Wynd to meet the volunteer interns and oversee repairs. I cranked up the volume to a Jack Johnson tune and hummed along.

The road curved down, and Pearl’s weathered cottage caught my attention. A tan, bare-chested man stood by one of the porch posts. Unruly light brown with sun bleached streaks hung below his ears, a mass of loose curls. He tucked the front pieces behind his ears. The rough, golden scruff along his jaw glinted in the sun. His longboard shorts hung low on his waist. He focused on the hammer in his hand as he pulled the screen taut.

The faded, worn shorts exposed hip bones that jutted out slightly, and a narrow band of pearly white skin hovered above the waistline, below his bronze tan. He looked like a typical surfer, with lean and fluid muscular lines.

My foot slipped on the pedal as I passed by, taking in every detail as if I’d never seen a shirtless man. Every part of his skin bore the sign of time spent under the sun. There were no tan lines, other than along the edge of the top of his low-slung shorts. A tattoo of a large compass accentuated the muscles of one bicep, and foreign lettering trailed up and down his rib cage on one side.

The cart almost rolled to a stop, and he turned. He wore sunglasses, and I couldn’t see his eyes, but his stare burned with the same searing sensation of the sun’s rays. My stomach fluttered and throat tightened. In the blazing sun, the temperature rose, and perspiration threatened. I lifted my foot and gunned the accelerator. The wind whipped around me and cooled my face.

Sweet Joseph, you’d think I’d never seen a good-looking guy before. Did Pearl’s grandson hire someone to fix the place up? Or was that sun god Pearl’s grandson? Would Pearl’s grandson have tattoos? Pearl had seemed proper, even if she did surf. For crying out loud, she wore a sun hat out on the beach. But that could explain Alice’s matchmaking attempt. Alice had commented more than once on the tattoo running along the inside of my forearm. And I could see her setting me up with a fellow surfer. If Mr. Tattoo turned out to be Pearl’s grandson, helping