Page 31 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
But maybe... not just for closure either.
I grip the railing tighter. The wind roars. The sea answers.
It’s always been her.
Still is.
CHAPTER 11
EVIE
The boardwalk smells of fresh cedar shavings and impending trouble. I adjust the lens cap on my Nikon, squinting past sun-bleached banners when the sound of a hammer cracks through the humidity.
Aeron’s leaning over the railing fifty yards down the dock, shirtless and sweaty in the noon glare. Sunlight catches the sweat tracing the valley of his spine, that old scar on his shoulder blade a pale comma against olive skin. I click the shutter before my brain catches up.
“Enjoying the view?”
He doesn’t turn. Just keeps securing a loose plank, muscles in his back flexing like tidal currents.
I step closer, camera dangling from my neck like a shield. “Could’ve hired a crew. Town’s buzzing with volunteers.”
“Done faster myself.”
“Or you’re a control freak.”
I kick a stray nail into the water. It sinks with a condemning plunk.
He finally faces me. Sea glass eyes crinkle at the corners. “Here to work or critique?”
“Documentary purposes.” I tap my camera. “Future generations should know how stubborn you looked hammering in the apocalypse heat.”
A droplet slides down his sternum. I track its path with scientific focus.
He snorts. “Thought you hated nostalgia.”
“Professional duty. Unlike some, I don’t hoard mementos.” His shoulders tense—the journal in his nightstand drawer between us like a third body.
The harbor bell rings. He wipes his brow with the discarded shirt from his back pocket. Smirks when I glance at the scar slicing his ribs. “Still hate swimming, or just the company?”
Ink-stained fingers tighten on my camera strap. “Beat you to Marker’s Rock at sixteen. Still bitter?”
“You only won because you counted the starter.”
The old buoy bobs in the distance, paint peeling.
I toe off my boots. “Prove it.”
He stills. “Sunstroke’s got you hallucinating races.”
“Chicken, Harbor Prince?”
He drops the hammer.
The splash as we hit the water steals my breath. Salt stings my eyes, but I surge forward, channeling every ounce of competitive spite. His strokes eat the distance—effortless, infuriating. I duck beneath a wave, kick harder.
Our hands slap the barnacled rock at the same time.
“Tie,” he rasps, treading water.
