Page 23 of Seashells and Daiquiris

It never said what I felt.

And her ass? Couldn’t it have mentioned I like the way she tucks her hair behind her ears repeatedly, or how her lips quiver when she wants to really laugh? Now she probably thinks all I’m doing is staring at her ass, which is very nicely shaped.

Whenever I look at her and merge the consideration that she’s my actual soulmate, my body comes to life like a dormant beast. Like perhaps I’m permitted in wanting her, knowing I won’t have to say goodbye. To protect her, too. Because if she’s actually mine, Thalassa can fuck off with her curse.

I had truly accepted my fate with the sea witch until a romance author with a cracked phone case brought my shell to the bar, and with the rules changing on me.

I grip the steering wheel and keep my eyes on the road because looking at her right now feels dangerous. She's in my passenger seat with her laptop bag and the shell that followed her like a stray. Something about the way she named it “Shellie” makes something in my chest do a thing I can't explain.

I want to take care of her.

Not in the abstract way I've felt responsible for the others—the guilt of dragging another innocent person into Thalassa's orbit. I want to make sure she eats breakfast. I want to know why she laughs that way when she drops things, like joy startles her. I want to put myself between her and every flower pot and seagull and ounce of dark magic that Thalassa sends her way.

Damn, I forgot what it was like to want someone.

With the others, I kept my distance because wanting something I couldn't have felt like cruelty, to them and to me. I didn't let myself look too long or think too much, because what was the point? The shell would move on and so would they, and I'd go back to wiping down the bar and feeling nothing.

But the shell isn't moving on. It's getting louder. It spoke in my voice. And when Freddie grinned at me from the top of those stairs and said ‘that is fun to hear’, something in me unlocked that I didn't know was still there.

I glance at her for a moment. She's looking out the window, fidgeting with the strap of her bag, the shell pulsing softly between us.

Yeah. I'm not letting anything touch her.

FREDDIE

The Riptide is actually a fascinating place to write my book.

There’s so many interesting people to watch, and the breeze from the open wall facing the ocean is utterly to die for. I guess I should clarify that I’m not getting a ton of writing done, actually, but this is a lovely spot to sit and get lose in the ambiance.

Liam walks around like he owns the place, and the shift is immediate. The careful, guarded man from the car becomes fluid and confident. He jokes with regulars, pours without measuring, catches a glass mid-air when someone knocks it off the counter, and does it all with an ease that makes it look effortless.

Makes me wonder more about him, like has he always worked somewhere like this? It’s not like I intended to be an author, and yet here I am. I actually went to school for business, having worked in HR before the success of my stories took off.

I’ve since learned the other person tending the bar is named Kira, her pinkish coral-fae skin (yes, learned that one, too) very hypnotic. She spots me, spots Liam, spots the laptop I'm setting up at the far end of the bar, and heads my way with a full grin.

"The writer's back," she says, bringing me a water.

"Oh, yeah, just finding somewhere regular to write," I reply, having zero story concocted for why I will constantly be around Liam.

Her eyebrows shoot up, looking at Liam. He gives her a look that says don't with the force of a thousand words, which returns her attention to me, her grin widening. "Interesting."

That’s when the merman walks around the bar, and motions back to it. “Leave her be… here go tend real quick.”

“Sure thing, lover man.”

He rolls his eyes, and my heart races a bit as he slides in the booth across from me. He waves her way. “I’ll handle everyone, so they don’t bother you. Sorry about that.” He leans forward, forearms on the bar, tattoos deliciously on display. "You writing?" He nods to my laptop that’s still closed.

“Hey, mind your own business. I’m trying. I have a deadline that I've been cheerfully ignoring."

His eyes sharpen a bit like he’s paying attention. "What kind of stuff do you write? Aside from romance? Like what kind?” A grin spreads across that handsome face. “Is it, what are they calling it… spicy?”

I narrow my eyes at him, my stomach doing more flips that send a rush up to my neck and cheeks. "Spicy enough to make you blush."

Something in his expression shifts, darkens. "Prove it."

Well, crap, now I’m the one blushing. “Oh, no, I can’t read any of that out loud. It’s bad enough to hear the narrators⁠—“

“Oh come on, just a little line?”