Page 13 of Tangled Up

My steps echo on the marble floor. Pausing at the library entrance, I gaze up at the rainbow reflection overhead. It’s one of three domes in the house—in the entrance, in the library, and in the conservatory, where my mother kept her flowers.

Mom didn’t like oversized chandeliers in the house. She said they reminded her of all those movies and shows where they came crashing down. Instead, she preferred domes that would catch the rising sun, that would send sunrise sparkles reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling white walls. I guess my mother was an artist, or she had an artistic eye.

When I was a young man, I was more focused on running away from this stately mausoleum than appreciating its unique beauty. I had my friend Henry, and later I had Caroline.Sweet Caroline…

Against my better judgment, I recall her here, in this place, under the dome in the library. A fuzzy blanket covering the rug on the floor. Rainbow lights shimmered on her tanned skin, but instead of blues and greens and deep reds, she was brown and gold and amber.

We were so young, learning everything together. My hand trembled as I lightly slid my palm across the soft skin of her bare hip. Her long, brunette curls framed her face as her golden eyes met mine. Her lips were full and soft, the color of wet sand.

When I would kiss her, she would exhale a soft noise, her fingers curling in the front of my shirt. When I would touch her, she would moan, and our movements would grow faster, more desperate.

Clearing my throat, I slide my palm down the bulge in my jeans. I sling my bag onto the couch and dig through it for a pair of black swim trunks. I shove off my pants, leaving my white tee on, and walk to the back of the house, kicking off my shoes at the door.

Salt air pushes through my dark hair in a strong gust, and I quickly cross the wide patio to the wooden steps leading down to the private beach that extends the length of the property. A jump in the cold water should kill the boner in my pants.

Pausing at the shoreline, I think about the day we stood here, her back to my chest, watching the sunset over the Gulf. I remember tracing the tips of my fingers along the soft skin of her arms, sliding my nose along her temple to inhale her scent of roses and coconut.

I would cover her lips with mine, and I was home. Her soft body, her soft hair, her sunset eyes. She belonged to me. She was my whole world. My chest squeezes, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

“Shit,” I exhale, shaking myself.

There’s too much in this place, and I already know how that story ends.

Taking off at a fast pace south, I follow the beach as it curves up into the residential part of Eden. My mother’s family owned most of this island back in the day, but as time passed, they sold it off, plot by plot to developers, until the only part left to her family was the house and the large stretch of private land along the shore.

It made our family something like royalty in the town, but Mom rarely came here after she married my dad. Then she got sick. Then she died.

When I reach the pier, I take a left, heading into the neighborhood. White-sand paths cut through the pine trees that grow thick between the houses and behind the stores. In the summers we rode our bikes everywhere or walked. We were completely unsupervised, but we weren’t looking for trouble. We only wanted to be together and be outside.

A silver food truck with a sign reading “The Salty Brewnette” is parked at the street, and I stop to place an order.

“Freshest coffee on the island.” A young woman with sun-streaked, strawberry-blonde hair tied up in a ponytail on top of her head hands me a cup.

I give her two dollars as I take a sip. “Mm, it’s good.”

“Come back around five and try one of our micro-brews.” She gives me a wink, and Larsen’s other piece of advice flickers through my mind.

I’ve been struggling with this tension, this heat in my blood all morning. “Will you be working at five?”

“Nope.” She smiles, leaning forward to give me a peek at her cleavage. “But I’ll be here if you will.”

Quirking an eyebrow, I glance up at her pale blue eyes. “I could have a beer at five.”

Her fingers linger against my palm as she gives me my change. “I’m Libby. See you later, handsome.”

A smile lifts the corner of my mouth, and I think about this. I’ve never been a random-hookup kind of guy. I fell in love once. Hard. After that, I haven’t sought a replacement.

Still, Libby’s a cute girl with a nice body. I give her a little grin before continuing on the path to Mr. Callahan’s house.

Maybe I’ll follow Larsen’s advice, and maybe I won’t. In the meantime, I have another reason for being here.

Mr. C still lives in the same place, a corner lot with a patch of pine-covered, sandy ground where he apparently still tries to keep a garden. Not much grows in sand and salty soil, but we did steal a watermelon once. Funny he remembered it on his near-deathbed. Old grump.

Rounding the corner, a sharp pain in my foot draws me up quick. “Fuck,” I hiss, inspecting the bottom of my bare foot.When is the last time I’ve gone without shoes?

“Strong words so early in the morning.” The familiar voice stops me, and I glance up to see the man himself sitting on his front porch holding a newspaper.

“I’m sorry.” I hesitate at the gate, thinking I shouldn’t be barefoot.

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