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

Hell, it might be a boatload of fifteen-year-old horny boys. I suppose this is like a modern-day Playboy. But the point is, who would have thought I’d ever be the centerfold?”

“You’ve always sold yourself short. If you like doing it, that’s all I care about.”

“You are such a sweetie. I love you.” She wrinkled her nose and reached out and tapped my arm. “How’re you doing?”

“Good. I think we’ll surpass one hundred nests this summer. Last night, we had two nests hatch. Of course, true to my luck, I was on the far end of South Beach, and both hatchings were on East Beach.”

“Great.” She sipped her wine and rocked her chair. “Any non-turtle news to report?”

“Actually, yes. There’s a new guy on the island.”

She snorted out her wine. “Honey, there are new men on the island every week. Married with children. Or still in college and living off mommy and daddy. Loads of new men to choose from each week.” She smirked as she crossed her legs, taking care to keep her lingerie covered. “Those interns of yours are the best thing going. And those surf instructors.” She clucked her tongue in mock appreciation.

Poppy didn’t lie. But the thrill of sitting on the beach with a lukewarm six-pack each night had waned. While I’d barely had a year of being legal, I preferred to hang with the twenty-one-and-over crowd.

I shifted to the edge of the rocking chair. “This new guy is better than any of the interns. Trust me. He’s smoking hot. Not married. No children. He’s a resident. And…he needs help renovating his beach house.”

“He’s an owner?” Poppy’s chin dropped down.

“Do you remember Pearl? The nice older lady who was good friends with Alice?”

“Yeah. I liked her. Didn’t she die?”

“Last winter.” A vision of her weathered cottage came to mind, and I brushed it away. “Anyway, the hot guy? He’s her grandson, and he inherited her beach cottage.”

“Jake’s Watch?”

“Yep.” All the cottages on the island bore a name, similar to the way all boats did. Jake referred to a cherished family dog. Legend had it Jake had come back as a dolphin, and could still be glimpsed offshore, keeping an eye on his old family.

“And you like this guy?” Poppy tilted her head, her grin spreading wide.

“I do. I mean, you know, from afar. We spoke on the beach briefly. He didn’t say much. Everything about him screams surfer. But he’s also got the bad mood brooding thing going. It’s like he needs to be wrapped up in a warm blanket and hugged. Does that make any sense at all? Definitely crush worthy.”

“You got all that from seeing him on the beach?”

“Yep.”

“Well, let me get dressed.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s Friday night. What else are we gonna do before you ditch me to watch sand? Besides, I’ve got to see this guy.”

I waved my hand in the air, dismissing her. “Nope. Not tonight.”

She ignored me and trounced up the stairs. Moments later, she returned in a loose, flowery sundress and flip-flops. “Let’s go.”

“No way. He’s older. He wouldn’t want to hang with us.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know. Not intern age. Maybe thirties? Like, he’s distant crush material. Not spend time with the crush kind of material.”

“Please. The thirties are not old. Trust me. I have clients who are way older, and guess what? They dig twenty-something girls.”

“No. Let’s just go for a bike ride.” I should have never mentioned him to Poppy. I should have kept him as my safe secret crush, like a book boyfriend.

“Hey! You said he needs help refurbishing. Someone on the island needs help from Ms. Luna Rey. That means you’ve got to flip those golf cart sirens into the flaring red position and get to it.” She snapped her fingers. “Let’s go. Hop-hop. I wanna to see the new guy!”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Come on. We’ll bring a bottle of red. Grab an extra glass and corkscrew in case he doesn’t have.”

Chapter 5

Tate

The wood splintered and cracked as I ripped it up, board by board. Water damage had cast a gray sheen over the slim pine boards. This floor had probably been put in during the eighties when two-inch floorboards and high varnish reigned supreme. Over the years, sandy feet wore down the varnish, and the last hurricane had brought the tide high enough to coat the floor in seawater.

Sweat dripped down my forehead and drenched the inside of my heavy-duty work gloves. The old nails proved stubborn. Without lifting an arm, my body odors permeated the air. Something I didn’t need to worry about, as I was doing the job alone. The stench brought me back to the ships.

“Diaz, I need a shower. Or a bath. Where do I go?”

“Que?”

Fish guts covered my chest and coated my shorts. “Shower?” I made a note to learn the Spanish word later, but it should have been obvious what I needed.

He pointed to the back of the ship and called out to his shipmate. “Go,” he told me with a glare.

An Asian man awaited me. Motioned for me to back up. I peered behind me, and a blast of cold water shot down over me. I screamed. Howled. The icy water burned. The wind froze the raw skin.

Men clustered around, laughing and pointing.

“Mas?” Diaz called from the front of the boat.

Three times, ice cold water poured over me before all traces of blood were gone. Shivering, I’d descended into the bowels of the ship, my fingers and toes frozen. Past the empty hammocks. My bag with all my clean clothes rested where I’d left it. Black, beady eyes startled me. The long, naked tail skittered away into the shadows. Bile rose in the back of my throat.

I wiped my forehead with my glove, staring out the back window, through the screened-in porch, searching for whitecaps through the blades of grass on the dunes. I homed in on my view out the window, seeking to forget the fishing boat and my fact gathering expedition for Greenpeace.

A knock sounded at