Page 87 of My Beautiful Sin

“I’m happy to do it.” He checks his watch. “If you want to meet up after you’re done with work, we can dig deeper.”

“Can we wait a day or two?” She glances at me. “I don’t want to interrupt your plans. And, to be honest, I think I need a day to process.”

“Just say when,” Devlin says. “I promise I’ll make the time.”

“Thanks. Right now my head is so full it’s going to be hard to focus on today’s meetings. Plus, it’s a gorgeous day and I’m jealous that you guys are going to the beach while I’m going to Los Angeles.”

“No, you’re not,” I tell her. “You love what you do. And I’m incredibly proud of you. You’re building something truly fabulous.”

The check comes and Brandy puts down her share, or tries to. Devlin waves her away saying that she can repay it by baking some muffins for him to freeze at his house.

He gives her a kiss on the cheek goodbye, and after she and I hug, Brandy heads back up the hill to get samples and her car. Meanwhile, Devlin and I keep Jake, who’s settled into a nap beneath the table, his paws moving as if he’s dreaming about chasing rabbits.

Although truly chasing bunnies is out of the question, a game of catch seems like a good plan. So while Jake and I watch the surf, Devlin crosses the street to the corner convenience store. Because it’s near the beach, it also sells all the paraphernalia a tourist could want. I can attest to that, having popped in not that long ago to buy a pair of flip flops after I’d taken off running in bare feet, thrust into motion by the shock of learning that Devlin Saint was the boy I used to love.

Soon, Devlin emerges with a Frisbee, and the moment he pulls it out of the bag, Jake goes nuts. He tugs on the leash, practically yanking me off my feet as he bounds over the grassy area toward the sandy beach. I gesture for Devlin to take control of the crazy dog, but he’s laughing too hard to be of any use to me at all.

We finally reach the surf and the sandy area where well-mannered dogs are allowed to be unleashed during the off-season. Jake has apparently forgotten the Frisbee, because he spends a solid five minutes chasing the foamy surf as I catch my breath. I lean against Devlin, my back to his chest and his arms tight against my ribs.

“Lot of help you were,” I tease.

“You two were bonding,” he counters. “How could I interrupt?”

I tilt my head back, just because I want to see him. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He bends close and kisses me. A quick kiss that soon turns heated, until I’m spinning in his arms, my own rising to go around his neck. The beach is mostly empty this morning, and I lose myself in the scent of him and the sweet ocean air.

I start to melt—for that matter, I start to regret that we didn’t go back to the house—but I’m quickly cooled off when we are suddenly and unceremoniously showered with droplets. I squeal and jump back, only to realize that we’re being sprayed by a thoroughly soaked Jake, now shaking himself dry beside us.

I meet Devlin’s eyes, and we both start laughing. “Crazy dog,” I say, kneeling in the sand to rub his ears. “You ready for the Frisbee?”

He perks up immediately, and Devlin tosses the disc, sending it sailing parallel to the water. Jake bounds after it, to the delight of two little girls building a sandcastle. Devlin and I kick off our sandals and hold them by the straps as we take off after him, splashing in the surf as we meet Jake coming back, his Frisbee-prey held proudly in his jaws.

“Good boy,” Devlin says, taking the Frisbee, then rubbing Jake’s neck. “Want to go again?”

The dog practically leaps with joy, and Devlin sends the toy flying again. We stroll that direction, hand in hand, until I come to a stop, suddenly realizing where we are.

Laguna Cortez is carved out of the hills, and as such, we have both sandy and rocky beaches. The beaches on the north end of town tend to be rockier as they approach the hills and cliffs that form into reefs that are great for divers and terrible for beachcombers and swimmers.

That’s where Uncle Peter’s house is, though it’s not his anymore, of course. A house on the beachside of the Coast Highway tucked up near a rocky outcropping that rises up toward a cliff now topped with condos. The house is huge and modern with lots of glass on the ocean side, while the inland-facing walls are mostly solid for both design and privacy.

Jake is racing straight toward it. But I stop cold.

“I haven’t walked here since I came back,” I tell Devlin. “Every time I come to the beach from Pacific Avenue, I turn south.” I shrug. “That’s just the way I’m drawn. To you, I guess,” I add with a smile. The DSF is a short walk to the south. And while it’s certainly true that I will always head toward Devlin, we both know that it’s not autopilot steering me away from Peter’s house. It’s loss.

Devlin takes my hand, then uses the fingers of his other to whistle to Jake, calling him back.

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Really.”

“It doesn’t sound okay.”

“Just melancholy. Can you blame me?”

“Not at all.” He nods toward it. Whoever owns it now has kept it perfectly maintained. “Do you want to go closer?”

I shake my head. “Not today.”

“Whatever you need, baby. Whenever you need it. All you have to do is tell me.”