Dare to Love the Guy Next Door by Ellie Hall
Paisley
Iprepare to thank my griller-in-shining-armor for rescuing me from that crazy seagull, but not willing to give this guy Jason’s phone number. (Believe it or not, when people recognize me, guys ask for it more than girls.) I don’t want to hear about how he’s on the brink of breaking into Hollywood but needs a connection in the biz (this is also a common plea), and I refuse to divulge anything about the breakup.
If my phone weren’t my lifeline to my friends who’re helping me maintain my sanity, I’d throw the thing in the ocean. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve exceeded my data plan and should just get Wi-Fi, but don’t plan on remaining in Seaspray that long. Really.
Having planned on staying in Miami for the week, I was using vacation time from work and decided to extend it.
Being back at the cottage is both a refuge and a source of sorrow—you might say that I’m heartsick. No, not over Jason. I’d just as soon as toss him to the birds. Thorndike in particular.
My brother lived at the cottage before he died. When I first went inside, I found his sweatshirt hung over the back of a chair. His toothbrush, at least I think it was his, filled the holder in the bathroom. A cup was left in the kitchen sink.
The truth is, all these years, I’ve tried to carry on as if I didn’t lose him to a boating accident and he’s still out there on his adventures. His body was never recovered. For my parents, that brought intense grief. For me, it made me hopeful, or at least let me fool myself into pretending he’s not gone.
My phone beeps, again, pulling me from my thoughts about the past.
How many people have reached out offering condolences about the split, inquiring about Jason’s availability, and wanting to know if he’s a good kisser? All of them. All the people have texted, messaged, DM’d, emailed, and gone through great lengths to stick their noses in my business.
I whirl around and blurt, “No noses! No business!”
A pair of eyes the color of the ocean widen at the sight of the man who rescued me from Thorndike.
“No!” I repeat when I recognize him.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “No?”
“You!” I point my finger accusingly.
He shakes his hands from side to side like he’s uncertain whether he’s dealing with a crazy person. After this week, there’s no telling how many marbles I have left.
“You!” I repeat, shocked.
“Me,” he says.
“You’re the guy from the hotel in Miami. The one who gave me his shirt.”
“Small world?” It’s a question.
“Are you a photographer, blogger, or member of the paparazzi?” I ask.
“No. I’m a surfer.”
I lower my shoulders, slightly calmer. “Oh, yeah. Right. I saw you out there the other day.”
“Every day.” He shrugs in an annoyingly adorable way. “Definitely not a photographer, blogger, or member of the paparazzi.” He picks up the grill tongs. “If you need someone to keep them off your property, I charge by the hour.”
I crack a smile, ready to laugh and then narrow my eyes with suspicion. “Wait. How’d you know my name?”
He presses his hand to the hard skin of his chest, just barely obscured by his grilling apron. “Griffin Sanders.” Then he thumbs the cottage that, upon closer inspection, looks in worse shape than my family’s place. Jason’s Richie Rich lifestyle has spoiled me and I can envision the place fixed up.
“No,” I draw out, placing the name Griffin Sanders with a childhood memory. I also say this because I don’t want to think about Jason anymore. I’m done with him. “No way. You’re not Griffin Sanders. License and registration, please.” I hold out my hand.
His lips quirk. “Felonious Fowl-Claw rivaled Thorndike the Sharp-Toothed-Terror. It took me a minute to remember that.” He wears a boyish smile.
For a split second, I’m scabby-kneed with wild hair, running up and down the beach in a pack of kids along with my brother and sister, and without a care in the world or the knowledge that a toad like Jason Cobb existed.
“How long do seagulls live? They can’t possibly be the same birds. Then again, stranger things have happened.” Like seeing this guy in Miami and now Seaspray Beach.
“Remember the games we used to play?” Enthusiasm laces his deep voice as he goes on to describe the mermaids, creatures of the deep, and pirates that laid siege to these shores.
I nod slowly. “But I don’t remember you like—” Griffin Sanders was the gangliest, goofiest kid among us. He had buck teeth that whistled when he said certain words, was all elbows and freckles, and had a cowlick that wouldn’t quit no matter how many times we dunked him under water. This is not the kid I remember.
He squints as if peering into the past too. “I’m Holden’s brother. Maybe that’ll help jog your memory.”
Oh, my memory has been jogged. It’s practically out of breath and it’s not because of his sibling. “I remember him. My sister called him Handsome Holden.”
Griffin does a sorta-eye roll. “He’s married now. Has a few kids. Lives in Connecticut. I’m his older brother but was somehow the runt.”
There’s nothing runty about this guy. I incline my head, trying to find a resemblance to the biggest goofball of the bunch. This well-built man with the most powerful shoulders I’ve ever seen, abs that Jason could only lust after, and a straight, pearly smile can’t possibly be Griffin.
“All grown up,” he says. “You too.” The way he looks at me rewinds time. I feel young and like I could blush. I might a little, but the sun peeks out from the clouds, warming me. Yeah, let’s blame the sun.
“Wow,” I practically whisper.
“I’ll say.”
“Thanks for the shirt and for scaring off the seagull,” I say these words as if I’m thirteen again and we’re making each other do tongue twisters.
I grew up in northern New Hampshire at Lake Winnipesaukee. My mom grew up in this house on the seashore and then her parents left it to her. We’d trade one body of water for another and visit every summer for the month before and after Labor Day. I was homeschooled so Mom created our schedule, but it was still hot, sunny, and buggy back home, so we’d spend days splashing in the waves, building forts and castles out of sand, and have our snacks plundered by the seagulls.
“Should I ask about the thing in the hallway at the hotel?” Griffin says, breaking what was a long and contemplative silence.
I do a startled, full-body shake as my awareness of where I’m standing and with who fully returns.
“That.” I wave my hand, trying to play it off. “I’m an interpretive art performance artist.” I swallow hard.
His blue eyes shine with amusement. “Is that so?”
“Yep. I tour hotels all over the country, carrying trash cans around.”
“And taking people’s shirts? You must have quite the collection.”
Cheeks. On. Fire. “Oh, hundreds. Do you want yours back?”
“Nah, you can keep it.”
“Thanks again for your donation.”
His eyebrows lift. “Is there a cause?”
“Yes, of course.” I cast my gaze toward the water as a wave rises up, seemingly out of nowhere, and then rolls into shore. “Beach and ocean cleanup.” Lyric was into that.
“Seriously?” Griffin’s expression lights with excitement. “I’m with Stewards Saving the Sea—that’s my non-profit. Our focus is on keeping things that don’t belong in the water out. But we also sponsor weekly beach clean-up meet-ups all over the world.”
It’s my turn to say, “Seriously?”
He nods and goes into more detail. “We should collaborate sometime.”
I’ll never be able to keep up the ruse and give up before I dig myself into a deeper hole in the sand. “I was naked in the hall because someone stole my clothing from the locker room at the hotel.”
Griffin stifles laughter as if he’s a superhero with superpowers and saw through me the whole time. Well, not the whole time. Hopefully he didn’t see through the trashcan. He squeezes the tongs open and closed. “Let me at ‘em.”
I laugh. “They took a T-shirt and my favorite jeans.”
“That bites. I’m sorry. Did you get them back?”
“Nope.” But that’s not even the worst of it. “Whoever took my clothing is auctioning it off on an online site. My best friend Blakely was almost the highest bidder on my jeans.” I sigh and gaze wistfully at the sea. “They were the perfect jeans.”
“At least Thorndike didn’t make off with any of your clothing.”
“No, he was pecking at my book though. I was on my deck, minding my own business while reading, and the beast repeatedly attacked.”
“Maybe he was encouraging you to come over and say hi to your neighbor. Want a taco?”
“Oh, um, thanks but I should head back.”
His eyes lower slightly.
I start to walk toward the steps.
“Actually, there is still some gum in your hair. Do you want me to try to get it out?”
I carefully pat my head and my palm sticks. “Oh boy. Is it bad?”
He scrunches his nose and tips his head from side to side.
I probably should go back to my house because I have no business thinking about how cute Griffin is.
Reasons to go:
-I’d be hanging out with Mr. Buff Beach Bod.
-I just went through a break up for goodness’ sake.
-I was at a really good part of my book when the bird attacked.
Reasons to stay:
-I’d be hanging out with Mr. Buff Beach Bod.
-I’ve been alone for days, stewing in my misery.
-I can’t imagine trying to get the gum out by myself, I’m not a contortionist.
I square my shoulders, telling myself this is just a neighbor thing and the fact that I now look like I have a sunburn even though I’ve been staying indoors or in the shade, crushed by the public humiliation (we’ll talk about what the internet is saying another time), has nothing to do with Griffin. Nothing at all.
“That’s very kind of you, but no saws allowed,” I say, referring to his suggestion about cutting into the picnic table.
“No, definitely not. I’ll look up online ways to get the gum out.”
“In that case, I owe you.”
“No, I owe you because it’s my fault you got gum in your hair. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it but am also surprised it was still there. You’d think it would’ve decomposed after a decade.”
“Concerned is more like. If the gum is still there, how many watermelon seeds do you think I have in my stomach?”
His chuckle ripples a smile through me—smiles aren’t just for lips. See, I think they start somewhere else, somewhere inside, and then if the source is extra special, they make a grand entrance on the lips.
Griffin grins and I must do the same because a beat passes when we’re both just standing there smiling. Then I inhale sharply and it almost sounds like a snort. Apparently I stopped breathing for a sec.
His eyes dance over me then he clears his throat. “I’ll go grab my phone.” Griffin disappears inside and calls, “Can I get you a sparkling water? I have watermelon flavored.”
“As long as there aren’t any seeds.” Gosh, I remember the kids teasing each other mercilessly about growing watermelons in their stomachs if they swallowed the seeds. How many did I swallow? Too many.
I sit cross-legged on the picnic table bench.
Griffin returns and sets down a drink for me then cracks one open for himself. “Okay, gum removal solutions include peanut butter, cooking oil, vinegar, ice cubes, or scissors.” He describes the method for each.
“Let’s try anything but the scissors.” I love my long hair, especially the waves I get when I’m close to the water, and don’t want to chop it.
A seagull circles overhead.
“And let’s get a move on in case Thorndike likes gum,” I add.
While Griffin works, trying to rub loose the wad of gum, I get a mega-hit of his sunblock, sea salt, and sunshine scent. The way he hovers close with the breeze wafting into my nose practically has me hypnotized. I could get used to life like this—easy, breezy summer without responsibilities. Then reality slams back.
“My brother named the seagull Thorndike,” I say as memories surface. “I think the bird resents the Jones family after my dad bought a horn that was supposed to scare them off.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. I think they’re trying to exact revenge—Holden named Felonious.”
We talk about some of the games we’d play, like Red Rover, Marco Polo, Sharks and Minnows, and of course, Truth or Dare.
A dare separate from the Forever Marriage Match pact from my youth enters my mind. I shove it away in favor of reminiscing with Griffin...not kissing him. Those summers seem so long ago and like yesterday at the same time.
He says, “I remember you and your brother and sister used to joke, saying ‘Does this kid have an off button?’ I was, uh, high energy.”
At that memory, I giggle. I giggle. More like Griffin has an on button because this guy has turned something on inside me. Something I never felt with Jason or any of the guys I casually dated before him. But it’s not the right time to be thinking that way. I’m going through a breakup. Grieving. Sulking. Nursing my wounds.
Well, the ones the internet inflicts. After a long chat with the Fab Five, I realize I’m much better off without Jason. Now, if I could just get rid of the online community and their opinions.
“Success!” Griffin’s deep, rumbly voice startles me out of my broody thoughts. “You’ll probably need to wash your hair a few times because of the peanut butter, but it worked.”
“Thank you,” I say, jumping up from my seat.
We bump into each other and as if I’m fourteen again with my first crush, I get all awkward and am not sure what to do with my hands. Though, let me be clear, Griffin was not my first crush nor is he my present crush.
I’ve forgotten how gravity works and how to walk because I lose my balance as if I’m drunk. Oh, right. His sunblock-sunshine scent intoxicated me. Then, trying to play it smooth, I make the mistake of running my fingers through my greasy, sticky hair. Of course, they get stuck because I’m not making this moment awkward. Nope. Not at all.
“Uh, sorry about that. There are a few tangles still.” Griffin tries to free my fingers and ours brush, sending a full body flush through me.
Get it together, Paisley. Remember, this is Gangly Griffin. Not Gorgeous Griffin.
“Nothing conditioner can’t fix. Thanks again,” I say, hoping and praying I didn’t say anything about him being gangly or gorgeous out loud.
He remains his normal, tan skin tone so it’s likely I didn’t just embarrass us both.
“Hey, if you want to try surfing sometime, you know where to find me.”
At that, the warmth leaves me with a chill despite the sun shining overhead. “Oh, uh, thanks. I’m not really an ocean person though.” But I don’t want to think about that and with a quick wave of my hand, I dash back to my cottage.
