EXCERPT
Heaving a big sigh, he set the bottle on the marble-like pebbles at his feet and shoved his fingers into his short, dark hair, then dragged his hand down his face, pulling at the stubble on his jaw.
His eyes drifted out to the ocean. The water was calm, and the tide must have been slack because there wasn’t the normal whoosh of the surf breaking against the rocks.
Once in a while, a seal, sea lions or otters would splash about, drawing the attention of the brewpub patrons. They’d even been graced with a few orca or humpback sightings. That was always good for business. Jagger—who handled all of their social media—would post like crazy that there were whales in front of the brewery, then people would flock to their establishment.
Keeping his eyes out on the water, he scanned for signs of life.
It was closing in on midnight. Even the seals were probably sleeping.
Where did seals sleep? On land? Or floating around the ocean like a dolphin? That didn’t seem safe. They had far more predators than dolphins.
No little heads popped up out of the water, and when he concentrated, he heard no sudden gusts of breath from a blowhole or pinniped’s nostrils.
He took another sip. He still had about a quarter of the bottle left, and it hadn’t been full when he started.
But he had a high tolerance for alcohol and could—if he wanted to—finish a two-six himself and live to tell the story. After a three-day hangover, of course. Because he wasn’t twenty-two anymore, and his body no longer found joy in self-destruct mode. It didn’t bounce back as quickly and liked to punish him for a few days afterward to remind him he was a forty-four-year-old man and needed to behave like one.
He continued to scan the beach, glancing down one side, then the other. He looked to the right again and paused.
What the fuck was that?
From where he sat, the shadows and his drunk brain playing tricks on him, he couldn’t tell what it was.
Probably a seal.
But maybe something else?
He stood up, left his bottle where it was, but then paused.
Maybe he needed a weapon?
But glass on the beach was a terrible idea. There were rocks. He could always defend himself with a big rock.
He left the bottle on the rocks and started walking down the beach beneath the trees. The rocks were probably slippery, meaning the path of least resistance and ultimate safety was not a straight line. He wasn’t so drunk that he would do something stupid like traipse along the slippery rocks in the dark. That would probably cause him to break his neck. Then Talia would be an orphan. He was always in his right mind when it came to her.
He reached the point where he was up at the tide line, but directly in line with the lump.
The lump that didn’t move.
Fuck.
He blinked a bunch of times, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the light of the moon a little better, but nothing worked. He needed to get closer.
Careful not to slip, he was mindful where he put his feet, keeping his eyes on the ground as much as he could so he didn’t step on a rock covered with slippery green seaweed.
He lifted his head again now that he was closer to the lump.
Oh fuck!
That was no seal.
That was a fucking person.
A naked person.
Was that a mermaid?
He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head hard enough that he nearly lost his footing, then blinked them open again.
Or was it a dead body?
Oh God.
“Hello?” he whispered. “Are you a mermaid?”
Did mermaids speak English?
Oh, you drunk idiot. Mermaids do not fucking exist.
Hopefully, the person didn’t hear him ask that.
But also, hopefully, they weren’t dead.
He stepped closer, his shoes on the rocks making the stones slide across each other and the normally banal noise of pebbles across pebbles suddenly sounded like a foghorn in the eerily quiet night.
“Hello? Are you okay?”
He was only about fifteen feet away now. It was definitely a person. They had legs. Not fins.
And they were basically naked, aside from black underwear—well, more like a black thong. Shit. Long blonde hair covered the person’s face as they lay curled up in the fetal position. But when he leaned in closer, he noticed breasts. Fuck. Fuck. It was a woman.
Not that it mattered whether it was a dead man or woman. A dead person sucked either way.
But given that he’d come out here to silently self-destruct over the death of his wife, just added another layer of gravy to his open-faced shit sandwich.
“Hello? Are you okay? Do you need some help?” He crept closer.
He finally reached her and sunk to his knees, rolling her over onto her back. Her hair fell away from her face.
And holy flying fuck.
It was Brooke Barker.
The Brooke Barker. Hollywood sweetheart. Big screen phenomenon. Two-time Oscar nominee, Brooke Fucking Barker.
His jaw dropped.
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God, oh God.” He leaned down and pressed his ear to her mouth to check to see if she was breathing . But he couldn’t tell. All he heard was the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently, but forcefully. “Brooke. Ms. Barker, you need to wake up. Oh my God. Fuck.”
He sat down on the rocks and pulled her head into his lap, pressed his fingers to her neck. She had a pulse.
Hall-e-fucking-lujah, she had a pulse.
