The Navy Seal's Rescue. Jo Leigh

even bring it up, but there was something off about him. His eyes still made him seem young, and his floppy hair, permanently sun streaked and brushing the neckline of his T-shirt, had grayed some, mostly at his temples. It wasn’t that, though. His movements were somehow more careful. Even when he walked the short distance from the kitchen to the table. “I’m not that old.”

      “I know. That accident? Whose fender was the bender?”

      His guff of air was a warning, but she wasn’t about to back off yet. “Mine, okay? I got distracted. What, that’s never happened to you? I’m fifty-eight years old, and I’ve had exactly two car accidents. Both of them minor. I think my record is pretty damn good.”

      “When was the other one?”

      He didn’t answer.

      “Could vertigo be the problem?”

      “No.”

      “What about surfer’s ear?”

      “You think I wouldn’t know if I had surfer’s ear?”

      “Have you checked?”

      “Yes.”

      She was about to ask him another question, but reconsidered.

      His stare made her feel awkward, something she wasn’t used to. Ronny wasn’t just a community legend, he was her own personal hero. His kindness had always been unfailing, and she’d known many boys turn into good men because they’d hung out with her beach bum dad. “Isn’t that famous coffee of yours done by now?”

      “Yes, it is.” She got up, took her empty plate into the kitchen, which was really just on the other side of the standing counter, and poured them both a cup. Despite his complaining, he’d always liked the way she made it with a pinch of cinnamon.

      “Tell me what else has changed,” she said, setting his cup in front of him. She kissed his forehead before sitting down.

      There was the smile that she loved. “Every damn thing. Except the surfing and the fishing. Some company offered me a fortune to buy the shack, and my slice of sand.”

      “Really?”

      “Of course I told them no. I’m never leaving this place. I want you to have it after I kick off. Besides, this old thing survived Hurricane Sandy, the town council and five mayors.”

      “Even you have to admit it could use a few repairs.”

      “I’ll get to them before winter hits, how about that?”

      “How about you hire someone before winter?”

      “Why? I’m perfectly capable—”

      “I’m not saying that. But come on, why should you? You already do too much. Tell you what. Now that I’m a rich attorney, let me do this for you. I didn’t get you anything but a card for your last birthday.”

      “Absolutely not. You put that money into savings. Jeez, I want you to retire early so you can come back home where you belong. This town needs a Cricket. Bad.”

      She reached over and took his hand. God, his skin was dry and spotted. So much exposure to the sun. His words, though, they brought a small lump to her throat. “Okay. We’ll discuss the repairs later. Right now, I want to ask you something.”

      “What?”

      His eyes had narrowed, and Cricket immediately put off the question she’d been about to ask him. “Do you ever go up to Sam’s Sugar Shack?”

      “Yeah, sure.”

      “You know the new bartender?”

      “There’s a new bartender?”

      “Maybe not new,” she said, realizing it had been three years. “Tall, lean, muscular build—”

      “Oh, you mean Wyatt?” Ronny frowned and turned to the window. “Why, is he here?”

      Her throat tightened and she almost took a look outside, herself. “Are you expecting him?”

      “No,” Ronny said. “I figured you must have seen him on your way over. He runs most mornings, past here, to the fish market. Sometimes he likes to hang out here or at the market, just to shoot the breeze.”

      “Does he own Sam’s?”

      Ronny nodded as he sipped his coffee. “Yeah. For a couple years now. Good guy.” A smile tugged at Ronny’s mouth. “As long as you don’t bother his waitresses or get rowdy. He doesn’t care if you’re a local or not, you have too much booze and act up, he’ll put a stop to it. Always calm, but tough. Like you know he could kick your ass, so you just might as well walk it off.”

      “I’m sure that’s never happened to you.”

      Ronny laughed. “I have many sins, Baby Girl, but overindulging in alcohol isn’t one of them.”

      “I suppose that doesn’t go for the recreational weed I can still smell in the rugs?”

      He laughed again but before she could tell him she wasn’t calling him out on his habit, there was a knock on the door. A banging, actually.

      “Dammit, I told you guys to stay away today,” Ronny yelled, and goodness, his voice hadn’t weakened a bit.

      “Ronny,” some guy yelled back. “Don’t be like that. Hector said your daughter’s hot. We want to meet her.”

      “Beat it!”

      “Besides, there’s a sweet two-foot swell coming in, and you’ll be sorry if you miss it. Come on, man.”

      “You want to escape, now’s the time,” Ronny said, inclining his head. “I bet you can still crawl out through your bedroom window.”

      Cricket grinned. “You knew about that?”

      His look told her more than words.

      “No. I’d actually like to meet these young hooligans. Make sure there are no unsavory characters.”

      “Except me?”

      “Except you.”

      The front door, never locked to her knowledge, squeaked open. “So, it’s okay if we come in? It’s just me, Ted, Igor and Wendy. The rest of the guys are still out there.”

      Cricket mouthed, “Igor?”

      Her dad just laughed as the door opened farther. “Ronny?”

      “Fine. But you don’t touch. Anything. Especially the fresh coffee. You want some, you heat up the stuff in that pot by the microwave.”

      The boys and Wendy came in a rush, as if they’d all been huddled by the door. Wendy was a pretty girl in a very small bikini top and boy’s trunks. Her long hair was pulled into a braid down her back, and she was tan with bright green eyes and the pink lips of a teen. There had been a time when Cricket had looked a lot like that. Not the eyes so much as the innocence.

      The boys were a range of heights and ages. One kid looked no more than fourteen or fifteen, and one might have gotten into the bar without a fake ID. But they all looked like surfers, as close to the California stereotype as they could get without a Malibu tattoo. It felt as if they’d all looked like that, from the time she’d learned to surf herself, at the tender age of nine.

      Someone whistled. “You are hot.”

      “Thanks. Also, too old and wise to get mixed up with surfers.”

      “Hey.” That came from a chorus of voices.

      “Besides,” she said, finishing her coffee. “I’ve got to get back to the hotel and meet the gang.”

      “Who came?” Ronny asked.

      “Everyone but Meg.”

      “Jade?”

      “Yeah.