Page 43 of Catch and Release

“On the house.”

“Thanks,” Willa grinned.

“See you tomorrow night.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

13

Where. The. Fuck. Was. She.

Shawn’s heart was thundering. They never had a set time they met, but usually it was shortly after the sun went down. She’d been a little later than usual last night, but he knew she taught sunset yoga classes on Thursday nights. Plus, she’d told him she’d grabbed a drink to get to know the bartender, a woman who’d attended her class last weekend.

But tonight? He didn’t know where she was.

Thirty minutes after the sun went down, he started to get antsy. All the lights were off in the house and even though the LED light was on at the end of the wharf, she was nowhere to be seen.

Then thirty minutes turned into forty-five. That turned into fifty. And here he was now, an hour after sunset and she’d still shown no sign of turning up. His skin crawled with worry. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining worst-case scenarios.

Maybe she got in a car accident on Highway 98. That road was notoriously dangerous during tourist season. He would know—it was the highway where his parents died in a car accident.

He felt stupid for never asking for her number. But then again, he’d never needed it.

Shawn roughly picked up his insulated bucket of shrimp and started jogging.

Back down the wharf.

Across her backyard.

To his backyard.

Into the back door.

“I need her number,” he ground out.

Grams was reclined in her favorite chair. She had the news on a volume so loud that it should've been illegal, and in her hands was a knitting project she started a few days ago. She looked up at Shawn briefly, then went back to her knitting.

He growled. Picked up the remote. Turned off the TV. Looked at her.

“Watch it, Scoob,” she said, a scowl on her face.

“Grams,” he said, attempting and failing at patience. “I need Willa’s number.”

“What makes you think I have it?”

“She told me she texted you the other day when she ran out of eggs.”

“Hmm,” she said, squinting her eyes at him. “What makes you think I’ll give it to you?”

Shawn’s jaw ticked.

“Dammit, Grams,” he said, pulling a hand across his face. “Usually we fish off the back of her wharf around this time every night. She never showed. I’m just worried that?—”

He cut himself off and looked away. Grams sighed.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Scooby,” she said. “It’s Friday night. She probably has plans and forgot to mention it.”

He tried to ignore the pang of disappointment that coursed through him at the idea of her having plans that she didn’t bother to mention to him.

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