Page 7 of Hot Water

SINCLAIR

I stand there, still dripping seawater and probably looking like a drowned rat, as the gorgeous girl who just stole my heart while saving my life dashes off down the beach. Her golden-brown hair flips in the wind like some sort of movie scene. Before my blown circuits start firing enough for me to stop her, she’s gone.

With a groan, I turn to the lifeguard and watch as he rushes over with sand spraying up in little explosions around his tree-trunk legs. This motherfucker is basically a human bulldozer with bulging muscles and a permanent ‘serious mode’ face.

“You okay, bud?” His voice is as gravelly as a road.

Knowing I need to get rid of this fucker so I can find my girl, I attempt to brush him off. “Yeah, thanks. Just swallowed a little water.” My pained smile probably looks more like a grimace.

His eyebrow furrows—that one big, intimidating eyebrow, because let’s be honest, his face is a solid block of sternness. He crosses his arms, and I swear I hear his biceps protesting the strain.

“We need to have the resort paramedics check you out. Standard protocol.” His stern expression lets me know there’s no room for negotiation.

“I don’t need to be checked out.”

“Protocol,” he repeats, and I realize this guy probably uses “protocol” as his response for everything. Offer him a drink? “Protocol.” Suggest a book for him to read? “Protocol.”

“Sin, are you okay?” My dumbass brother finally comes rushing to my goddamn aid.

“I’m fine.” I’m getting tired of repeating it. While I dick around with these two, my little mermaid is getting away.

So, now here I am, being herded along the beach by the asshole lifeguard who’s making sure I don’t suddenly keel over or get tackled by another rogue wave and my dumbass brother who’s taking photos of the entire embarrassing event. I’m fucking betting the pictures will be well-distributed before long.

At the lifeguard station, the paramedics—a pair of overly eager guys, Chip and Dallas according to their name tags– descend on me like I’m the beach’s main attraction. They make me sit on a rock-hard bench before prodding and poking me to within an inch of my life all while asking a million questions about my health, my diet, my favorite color—okay, maybe not that last one, but close fucking enough.

“Are you experiencing shortness of breath?” Dallas asks, leaning in way too close. His breath smells like peppermint gum, and I briefly consider faking unconsciousness just to get the fuck away.

“Nope, all good,” I assure him while my dipshit brother stands off to the side snapping pictures on his phone.

“Any dizziness or nausea?” Chip chimes in, jotting notes on his clipboard.

“Nope. I’m fine. Can we hurry this up so I can get back to my vacation?” And finding my little mermaid before she disappears from my life as fast as she dropped into it.

“Protocol can be a bit of a nuisance,” the lifeguard cuts in, and I ignore the fucker, hoping to get this shit over with.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the paramedics pronounce me fit to continue my vacation.

As he walks me to the door, the lifeguard tells me unnecessarily, “Next time, don’t swallow half the ocean, bud.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I mumble under my breath as I step into the bright sunlight.

“Stop following me.” I turn to my brother. “I’m fine.”

“But…” he sputters, “I thought we were going to hang out.”

“I don’t have time to hang out with you.” I step into the elevator and slap my hand against the door to keep it open. “While your dumb ass slept on the beach like a baby, I almost drowned and then I met my soulmate.” His eyes almost bug out of his head. “Now, I’m going to figure out a way to find her, and you’re going to stay the fuck out of my way until I do.”

I release the elevator door and watch his mouth open and close silently as the doors swoosh shut.

Making my way back to my room, the luxury of the resort around me suddenly feels like a distraction. I reach my door and fumble with the key, my hands still shaky—not from any lingering injury, but from fear at the thought of my soulmate escaping. As soon as I get inside, I sit at the large glass-top table and open my laptop.

Her name is a whisper on my lips as I type it into the search bar. Amelia Thorne Reynolds. Anticipation overwhelms me as I hit 'enter', the page filling with results almost instantly. Images, articles, and social media profiles, all pointing to a life far removed from my own as a small-town sheriff.

The first hit is an article, featuring a family photo. There is Amelia, unmistakable with her wavy chestnut hair and those sparkling green eyes. Next to her stands her mother, Kennedy Thorne Reynolds, a name synonymous with a billion-dollar empire. Her petite, angelic-appearing mother looks more like a teenager than a multi-billionaire.

Then there’s her dad, Asher Reynolds. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing intricate tattoos that wind down his arms. His reputation precedes him, renowned in the tattoo world for his artistry and vision.

I sit back for a moment, processing the dichotomy of Amelia’s lineage. She’s born between two worlds—one of refined luxury, the other of raw, creative expression. My fingers hover over the laptop, and I scroll through more of the search results, looking for anything that could help me find her.

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