Love Far from Home Box Set Page 2

  Angelic? Yeah, right.

  On the heels of that thought came Nate’s voice echoing in his mind: Bitter, much?

  Heck, yes, he was bitter. Isn’t that why Nate had insisted on this charade?

  And Michael had come, taking off the rest of the work day. He had nothing better to do today than finish this cathartic exercise or whatever. Only one thing made him walk across the sand instead of cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway with the top down for the rest of the day. That one thing: Nate wouldn’t forget. At next week’s pickup game, he’d grill Michael about it — before, during, and after the game. Nate would see to it that a fun game would turn into a therapy session. The games were a stress outlet for Michael, something workouts didn’t always provide.

  In theory, he could skip this week’s game, but Nate would still hound him. Better to get the job done, go to the next game, and report back. But to do that, he had to face the past.

  As Michael walked across the sand, he felt distinctly out of place. Ahead were groups of children frolicking in the water and making sandcastles, adults lying in the sun — all in swimsuits. And then there he was, a white-collar professional wearing a suit and tie to the beach. As he drew nearer, he could almost hear the Sesame Street song “One of These Things Is Not Like the Other.” He was asking for stares.

  With each step in the soft sand, his bare feet slid a few inches backward. He still had quite a distance to walk; the shoreline lay even farther ahead than he’d remembered. His suitcoat felt heavy, as if it held in extra heat. He took the darn thing off and draped it over his arm.

  This is crazy.

  That wasn’t what Nate wanted him to think about.

  “You haven’t dated anyone in a year,” he’d said in the locker room after their last game.

  “Yes, I have,” Michael had insisted. “Lots of women.”

  “Okay, you’ve had dates,” Nate conceded. “That’s not the same as dating. How many second dates have you had? Third dates? Any girlfriends?”

  At that point, Michael slammed his locker shut and would have stalked out to his car if Nate hadn’t called him back.

  “Michael. Hey. Don’t.”

  He stood there, his back to his best friend, wanting to ball up his fists and yell. He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t leave, either.

  “You need to find a way to move on, and I think going to the beach on Friday may be exactly the thing to help you do that. Close the book on Rachel, then put it on a shelf, never to be opened again.”

  Michael remembered the image of the book, of closing it and putting it on that mental shelf. Of letting it gather dust for the rest of his life. That’s not how he’d lived the past year. Rather, he’d flipped through Rachel’s “book” often, and each time the emotional knife drove into his chest further.

  I don’t break promises. Unlike some people I could mention.

  Maybe there was something to the old folk myth that redheads had no soul, because that would explain Rachel’s heartlessness. Not so much her tears, though.

  The farther he walked, the more aware he became of the sounds from the pier — the unintelligible chatter, thrilled shrieks of kids on the Ferris wheel and other rides, the occasional thump on wood as people went up and down the stairs or something hit the pier, like a dropped skateboard. He intently avoided looking that at the pier itself. He’d go onto the pier and into Rusty’s Surf Ranch another day. Maybe. That’s where he and Rachel had had dinner on a night he’d remember forever.

  Just not for the reason he’d thought at the time.

  Even when he was quite sure he’d passed the restaurant, he kept his eyes straight ahead, never veering to the left, not wanting to see vendors selling all kinds of goods, from jewelry to cell-phone cases to California- and Santa Monica-themed t-shirts and more. On that day a year ago, after their dinner at Rusty’s, he’d bought Rachel a Santa Monica t-shirt before taking her on a walk along the beach, hand in hand, until the sun had dipped and the light came at the perfect angle. Then he’d dropped to one knee and proposed.

  She’d squealed, cried, and said yes, and he’d slipped the perfect ring — a carat and a half — onto her finger.

  How exactly had so much changed so fast? He hadn’t known anything was wrong until she stopped returning his texts and calls. Two weeks into her odd silence, she’d showed up at the recording studio, where he worked as a producer. There had been a time when she used to drop in for lunch unannounced, so at first he hadn’t thought much of it.

  Not until she spoke. “I met someone else.” She never explained more than that.

  What had he done to kill their relationship? What hadn’t he done to make it thrive? What had she needed from him? What had he done to make her look for someone else? He still had no answers to any of it.

  Nothing but, “I’m sorry, Michael. So sorry.” Then tears as she handed over the ring, covered her mouth with one hand — her left one, which already had another ring on it. And she ran out. He’d always wondered if she’d gone out of her way to be sure he saw her new ring. He’d never know. Not that it really mattered.

  Their only contact since had been the wedding invitation, which arrived only three weeks ago — apparently, she’d taken almost a year to plan her perfect day. He assumed she’d sent it more out of a need to inform rather than as an actual invitation. He didn’t bother RSVP-ing his regrets. He just crumpled the invitation into a ball and threw it away.

  Then he’d turned into a raging lunatic at the basketball game that night, which was when Nate stepped in. Why the guy thought that coming here of all places, and of all days, would be healing—

  Several yards ahead, a woman stood alone — red hair, and a braid down her back. Rachel? He stopped dead in his tracks, too stunned to move. What was she doing here? Had she run from her own wedding? If so, why didn’t she have her hair in some fancy up-do instead of the long braid down her back? Why did she wear a long skirt instead of a wedding dress?

  Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, and this was just some woman here to enjoy the beach. Except that she didn’t look like a typical beach-goer. She didn’t wear a swimsuit or carry a towel and beach bag. Just a red purse over one shoulder. She looked like she’d come here alone too.

  If that woman was Rachel, then she’d left another man at the altar, which meant she really was cruel and heartless. Some poor schmuck was waiting at the end of the aisle, about to be humiliated in front of the hundreds of people. For the first time, Michael actually pitied the other guy.

  At least she broke my heart before the wedding day. What an odd comfort: realizing that things could have been worse.

  As he walked, his gaze stayed on the red braid. Now that he was closer, the hair seemed to be the wrong shade of red — darker than Rachel’s. But the woman stood there, hugging herself in the same way Rachel used to. He had an impulse to walk up from behind and wrap his arms around her. She’d lift her head, smiling, and he’d give her a kiss. It was the most natural thing in the world.

  Rather, it used to be.

  His arms physically ached from emptiness. He missed being able to hold someone he loved — who loved him. Someone he thought loved him back, anyway.

  He stopped a few feet to her side and made an effort to look casual as he waited for her to notice him. Finally, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn his direction and look him up and down. His heart rate sped up as he waited for her reaction.

  “You must be drenched in that suit.” Definitely not Rachel.

  He glanced over quickly, barely catching a glimpse of her profile. She was pretty. Very pretty. And not Rachel. As he tried to come up with a witty reply, she sighed and stared out at the sea again, apparently lost in thought.

  She was right, though; the heat was killing him. At least he’d taken his suitcoat off.

  “You’re right,” he said simply. He draped his suit coat over the other arm. “I’m a bit overdressed for the beach.”

  Her only response was a nod. He
couldn’t help but look at her again, surreptitiously. She looked nothing like Rachel. Now that he’d seen this woman up close, he marveled that he’d ever mistaken her for Rachel. Their hair colors weren’t remotely the same — Rachel’s was a dramatic red with strawberry-blond highlights. He’d always suspected that she got the look with the help of a bottle. This girl, though — her hair was dark red and obviously natural. No way could those highlights be from anything but the sun kissing her hair and lightening a few strands. She wasn’t an orange ginger, either. Her red hair was more like burnt sienna — less flashy than Rachel’s vibrant red, but warm and attractive — and real. Her cheeks had a light sprinkling of freckles. Rachel’s did too, but she caked on enough makeup to cover them and give her complexion the look of porcelain.

  He’d never given Rachel’s makeup much thought, but seeing this woman look so much like Rachel, yet so unlike her at the same time, he found the stranger possessing a natural beauty that women like Rachel could only pretend to have.

  The girl turned and looked over at him, her brows raised in question. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, and she sniffed as if she’d been crying. “Do I know you?”

  Now that she faced him full on, he couldn’t help but stare at her eyes — deep brown. He’d only ever known one redhead with brown eyes. Rachel’s were green. Or were they hazel? Not brown, certainly. He would have remembered the striking combination. This woman’s lashes were thick and long, and while she wore makeup, it only highlighted her features; it didn’t cover them.

  When he didn’t answer, the woman tilted her head. “Have we met before?” She licked her lips uncomfortably. “See, I’m, um — I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “Oh. Sorry to interrupt,” Michael said, taking a step away. “You just look like someone I used to know. I’m kind of here ... for something too.”

  She eyed him up and down again, then nodded with the hint of a smile. “Yeah, you don’t look like you came to the beach to surf.”

  “Not exactly.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. He didn’t want to leave, even though standing by a pretty girl wasn’t what Nate had in mind for this. She’d come here for something private too, it seemed. He took a step toward her, narrowing the distance between them, and stuck out a hand. “I’m Michael, by the way. And I don’t usually come to the beach dressed like this.”

  She hesitated for a second before shaking his hand. “Alexandria. And I’ve never been to the beach.” Her small hand clasped his with a firm grip. He didn’t want to let go.

  “Alexandria,” he said, trying the name out on his tongue. “Do you go by your full name?”

  “Nah,” she said, shrugging and letting out a deep sigh and looking back at the ocean. “Five syllables is a lot. My sister calls me Dria, and so did—” She cut off and quickly added, “Friends usually call me Alex.”

  Michael nodded in understanding, then couldn’t help but say, “So the first two syllables and the last one are all covered. Anyone ever use the third one as a nickname?” At her confused expression, he clarified, “Anne. Although I guess that technically, it would be spelled with just an A and N, and that would just look weird. But it’s a thought.”

  “Someday, maybe.” She laughed. “So the middle syllable doesn’t feel as left out.”

  Huh. He’d had thoughts like that as a kid. It’s why he’d sometimes played with the action figures he liked least, so they wouldn’t feel bad because they weren’t Spider-Man and Batman, his two favorites. He’d never found anyone else who gave human qualities to inanimate objects — or, in this case, to sounds and syllables.

  They both faced the ocean again, Michael making a point to stay where he was — to not step away again. He liked this girl, felt drawn to her. Not because she reminded him of Rachel, but because within a couple of minutes, she’d proven to be entirely unlike Rachel in a dozen ways. Their brief conversation felt like a breath of fresh air.

  This is the kind of girl I could take on a second date. The thought should have terrified him, and after it crossed his mind, he waited for the familiar sick feeling in his chest. It never came. Of course, he didn’t verbalize the idea. Any sane girl would freak out at hearing something like that.

  “So,” he said, trying to rock on his heels in an effort to be cool, but failing utterly. “Should I call you Alex? Anne? Dria?” He mentally said her name again — Alexandria — just to be sure he didn’t miss a syllable.

  “Call me Alex,” she said with certainty. “I wouldn’t know who you were talking about if you called me Anne. And Dria is ... well, only a couple of people have ever used that.”

  “Of course. People you randomly meet on the beach definitely don’t fall into that category.”

  “Right.” She seemed to be watching the waves as they broke on the shore, but Michael could sense her gaze still on him, possibly sizing him up. “What about you? Do you go by Mike? Or is it always Michael?”

  He opened his mouth to answer but hesitated. There had been a time, many years ago, when people called him Mikey, back when he was a very chubby fifteen-year-old. The name felt like it belonged to another person altogether.

  “Not for years,” he finally said. “Michael is all I go by now, although sometimes when my mother gets really upset, I’m Michael Lorenzo — Lorenzo after a great-great-grandfather. I couldn’t ask for a more dated name.”

  “I don’t know,” Alex said. “I think my middle name could give yours a run for its money as far as old-fashioned ones go: Bertha.”

  “Alexandria Bertha. Wow. That’s a mouthful. It’s amazing you weren’t bullied into oblivion as a kid but instead grew up to be the well-adjusted woman you are today.”

  She gave a sardonic laugh at that. “Whether I’m well-adjusted is up to debate in some people’s eyes.”

  Michael watched her smile fade as she looked out at the massive expanse of water again; he wanted to bring the smile back. Nate and any therapeutic homework were shoved aside. He nodded toward the pier. “Do you want to get some ice cream or a churro or something?”

  She looked in the direction he’d indicated, and he immediately wanted her to turn back to face him. Or he could reach out to touch her thick braid — it was gorgeous. She looked at him again. “Straight sugar doesn’t usually—”

  “Or, you know, something more like a meal. Do you like crêpes?”

  She spun back around, her eyes alight. “I do, but good ones are hard to find.”

  “I know the perfect place,” he said. “It’s a bit of a drive, but if you don’t mind that...”

  She hesitated, biting one side of her lower lip. She looked out to the ocean, glanced at her purse, then back at the water. “I...” She didn’t voice any objection; her voice simply trailed off.

  “I’ll drive,” he offered. “Then I’ll bring you back to your car so you can finish...” This time it was his voice trailing off. He gestured between her and the beach, twirling his hand. “Finish whatever I interrupted. I’m sure it’s important.”

  He wanted to spend an hour or two with this pretty girl, who seemed quick and smart and fun — someone he felt comfortable around in spite of just meeting her. It was as if he’d found an old friend. An old friend who happened to be hot.

  He’d come back later to drop her off, then find his own closure at the beach. Who said it needed to happen at the exact hour of the wedding? Nate did. But Michael brushed the intrusive thought away.

  “I’d love to have a good crêpe.” Alex patted her purse. “I can take care of this later.”

  Chapter Three

  This is crazy, Alex thought as she rode in the car of a perfect stranger through the streets of L.A. He could be a serial killer or something.

  So why didn’t she feel scared or anxious? In the oddest way, she almost felt as if she’d come home, but to a place she’d never been. Her sister would have a conniption if she could see her now. But Becca never needed to find out.

  And if Michael posed some threat, wouldn’t she f
eel it?

  Maybe I’ll end up as a Dateline unsolved case. She chuckled at the thought.

  He glanced over and gave her a puzzled half-smile. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Doing something like this ... It’s so unlike me.”

  “Doing what, specifically?” He navigated a turn and continued down the street.

  “Going out to lunch with a perfect stranger.” A perfectly gorgeous stranger. “Maybe I’m having a midlife crisis.” She furrowed her brow. “Except, twenty-three is a bit young for one of those.”

  He grinned at that. “I doubt my friends would believe me if I told them about this either. Maybe we’re both having a midlife crisis. Maybe we should do something shocking to freak them out.” He waggled his eyebrows, then laughed, and Alex joined in.

  She couldn’t help but picture Jason’s mother scowling at a news report about whatever mischief Alex and Michael decided to get caught up in. The texts, voice messages, and emails she’d get after the fact — no, MK would not be hearing about this ... outing. Or whatever it was.

  During the rest of the drive, she wanted to ask questions about him, but then he’d ask questions about her and why she’d come to the beach, and … She let the conversation lapse into a surprisingly easy silence, until Michael looked for a place to park.

  He shook his head. “Nothing close. I’ve never had to park here before.”

  At her puzzled expression, he explained. “I used to work at the crêpe shop.” He circled the block, looking for spots again. “Back then, I rode the bus.”

  “And when you’re on the bus, you don’t pay attention to parking.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Let’s just park in here.” He pulled into the lot of a big grocery store with plenty of parking. Soon they were headed across the street.

  People packed the passageways between the small buildings and booths of the market, and Michael moved quickly. Just as Alex began to worry that she’d lose him, he slowed and reached for her.