Page 118 of Spring Tide

“His name’s Luca,” I say pointedly. “And no, I knew about the injury. I just ... I didn’t know what the end result was.”

“Yeah, I mean, it makes sense.” He shrugs, head dropping back as he stretches out his pitching arm. “That kind of tear is pretty fucking nasty.”

I sigh and shake my head, murmuring out a distracted “Mhm, yeah.”

He searches my face. “So, if you didn’t know ... does this mean you two aren’t together anymore?”

I manage to suppress an eye roll, my curiosity wilting. “Not currently, no.”

He perks up. “So you’re available, then? Would you—”

“No, sorry.” I wince, attempting to let him down easy. Considering everything that’s happened this term, I’m not sure why he would even try. “I’m not really available or, um, interested.”

“Yeah, no worries.”

He pats the bench, gives me a tight smile, and stands to leave. As he’s walking away, I cover my face with my hands, aching to reach into my bag for my phone.

In the grand scheme of things, what harm could one little text do? I could quickly check in with Luca, ensure that he’s not spiraling out of control, and then go back to taking my space.

I blow out a breath, working to distract myself from the thought—nibble on a cuticle, tap my fingers against the bench, scratch at my forearm. Fiddle around with the Surfbreak poker chip in my pocket. In the end, I choose not to even tempt myself, keeping my phone tucked safely away inside my bag.

It wouldn’t be fair to either of us to break my rules now, not when I still need more time to think.

* * *

Two more painfulweeks of silence pass before I spot Luca at the pier. I’ve successfully avoided Amber Isle for the most part, on the off chance that he might still be working. But today happens to be a balmy Sunday, finals are over, Stella’s working, and I’m a girl in need of the best burger on the beach.

From my spot at the counter, I can see that he’s seated on a bench, rifling through a box of fishing equipment. His head is turned toward the ground, and he hasn’t spotted me yet. By the time I finish up with my meal, I decide that I might as well approach him.

Standing a few paces away, I clear my throat and toss out a pitiful little “Hey, Luca.”

His head darts up, eyes widening in surprise. He clears his throat, wipes his hands down the front of his jeans, and carefully pushes himself into a standing position.

With warmth flooding his cheeks, he says, “Hey, Harper.”

I bite my lower lip, gaze trailing across his tall frame. Despite his obvious exhaustion—tilted posture, dark circles, pale complexion—he looks good. Just as ruggedly handsome as always.

“Can I join you for a minute?” I ask, gesturing to the slatted wooden bench behind him.

He carefully nods, reclaiming his seat as I move in next to him. It’s quiet—peaceful for a moment—only the whooshing of the waves breaking the silence between us.

“So, how’s that space treating you?” he finally asks, voice soft and low.

I shrug, murmuring, “Just peachy.”

He slumps down. “Really?”

“No, no, I wish.” I let out a self-deprecating laugh, a nervous smile playing along the edges of my lips. “Told you I’m a horrible liar.”

His gaze softens. “So you have been missing me, then?”

“Of course I have.” I shift to face him, studying his guarded expression. “Do you miss me?”

He smooths a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I miss every-fucking-thing about you.”

I arch a brow. “Oh yeah, like what?”

“I miss your eyes, your lips, your hair, your smile. The sound of your voice when you’re happy. The way you blush when I say something you weren’t expecting. The smell of your skin after a day at the beach ... Touching you for touching’s sake. Kissing you just because I can.” He takes a deep breath, swallows low in his throat. “God, there’s no fucking question that I miss you, Harper.”

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