I sigh, plopping down in the sand and staring tiredly at the water, the waves a wild hypnosis that lull my mind into a continual round of questions and musings.

This day is not turning out how I expected it to. Not at all.

Six

Beckett

Bro Code Rule Number One:Always leave at least one urinal between yourself and another bro when going about your bodily business. I have no problem with this rule; in fact, I’m a big fan. There’s nothing about another bro that I want to see in my peripheral vision when I’m taking care of things. I need space, they need space; we’re all good with that.

No, it’s Bro Code Rule Number Two that’s sloshing around in my brain at this precise moment, causing all sorts of problems.

Bro Code Rule Number Two: Never mess with your bro’s sister. Not ever. Don’t check her out, don’t hit on her, anddefinitelydon’t touch her.

I haven’t touched Molly O’Malley. Don’t plan to. I haven’t been hitting on her, either. In fact, I’ve been pretty standoffish.

But if I’m completely, absolutely, 100 percent honest with myself? My eyes have wandered her way a few too many times for it to be natural or accidental.

It’s possible—not definite, but possible—that I maybe, kind of,mightbe checking her out.

Maybe.

She’s lounging in the sand right now, her hands behind her head as she lies on her back, one leg propped up, the other stretched just far enough that the waves lick the soles of her feet. She’s got her shorts and t-shirt back on, a boon for my sanity, but there’s still plenty to appreciate. Her chin is tilted up, her lashes fanning over her cheekbones, a full smile on her lips. Her hair is still piled on top of her head, mingling with the sand, red against gold.

And it’s strange, looking at her. She evokes something oddly…well, I don’t know. I’m not sure what word to use.Visceral,maybe. She evokes something visceral in me. She’s not a classic beauty, with traditionally attractive proportions. She’s too short, too curvy, to be model-like or statuesque. No, the thing that’s so captivating about Molly is that she experiences her surroundings so openly, so sensually. There’s nothing reserved about her delight or enjoyment. She’s probably the kind of woman who makes borderline obscene noises when she eats her favorite foods, and she likely thinks nothing of it. That’s just how she lives: with an almost embarrassing amount of pleasure, with greed for the world.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” she sighs happily. She stretches a bit, arching her back, and I look away.

“Not particularly,” I mutter, scooting sideways to put a bit more space between us—not that it’s necessary, since we’re already separated by a healthy three feet of sand. But I don’t care; both my bodyandmy thoughts will stay far away from Baby O’Malley—even if it’s painfully clear that she’s not so little anymore.

Figuratively speaking, anyway. Physically, the woman probably has to stand on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf of the refrigerator.

Molly rolls her head sideways, one hot chocolate eye squinting open to look at me with definite attitude. “Are you always this grumpy, or do I just bring out the best in you?”

“A little of both,” I say, a grunted admission that she might not even be able to hear over the sounds of the wind and the ocean. Her family only left an hour ago, but in that time it’s cooled off considerably, and the breeze is a refreshing change from the muggy heat of this morning.

“I guess you and Wes can balance each other out,” she says, rolling her head away again so that she’s once more looking at the sky. “Him with his happy-go-lucky shtick while you just glower in the background.”

“Probably,” I admit. “That’s how it usually was in high school.”

“I remember,” she says.

I’m tempted to ask her howmuchshe remembers, because she was so easy to ignore back then. She didn’t force you to pay attention to her without even trying, the way she does now. I would hazard a guess that she remembers a lot more about me than I do about her.

Although maybe that’s just my ego speaking. I have no desire to sit here and reminisce with her, anyway, so I don’t say anything. I just study the darkening horizon. I’ve been keeping an eye on the shadows that are rolling in from that direction; I’m not worried at the moment, but the weather can turn on a dime out here.

“You should try to cheer up,” she says with another happy sigh. “It’s almost Christmas, but you’re riding the Scrooge Express. You live on a gorgeous island doing work that you love. Smile a little.”

I’m silent at this, because how do I explain that I’m normally more friendly than I have been toward her? And how do I explain that while I’m maybe not the most open person, Ilikethe way I am?

“I smile,” I say instead, threading my fingers through the sand on either side of me. But I look over when Molly gives a snort of laughter, unladylike and loud, and find her eyes on me once again.

“Do it,” she says, a challenge in her voice.

I blink at her. “Do what?”

“Smile,” she says. “Do it. Smile. Right now.”

My lips pull down as I stare at her. “What are you—”