Give & Take (Redbeard Cove #2)

7. Raphael

Chapter 7

Raphael

M y philosophy in life is to not hold on too tightly to anything, because everything is fleeting. Joy. Pain. Love. Hope. It’s not a bad thing. It just is. I don’t attach myself to anything, and I take each day as it comes.

Except today.

Today? Fuuuuuck that.

It’s been a week since the interview, and Lana still hasn’t called.

I pace the back deck at Mac and Shelby’s, throwing back my third espresso of the day. They’ve been kind enough to let me stay as long as I need. This morning, I went for a run on the beach with the dog, hammered down all the loose nails out here I could find, and mowed the lawn. This week, I scrubbed the deck, painted the gate, went kite surfing with Cal twice and scuba-diving with Mac once. I even wrote a whole essay on Tolstoy, which at least will serve as a chapter in my dissertation .

And still she hasn’t called. My phone is hot from me turning the screen on every five seconds to make sure it’s working properly. It is. Lana just hasn’t called.

For the first time in a long time, I’m starting to doubt myself.

I went too far. It’s true, messing with the other interviewees was a risk. But I stand by what I said—that if they couldn’t make it through ridiculous comments from Nova ahead of the interview, they wouldn’t last a week with her if they got the job.

But maybe I didn’t read Lana the way I thought I had. I showed myself like an open book and she still hated me.

That one’s too painful to sit with. So I don’t. I pause, running my hand through my hair.

Then I go inside and hand Nate my phone. “Just keep it for me, okay?” I tell him at his door. “Tell me if anyone calls.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but promises he’ll call for me if my phone starts ringing. His room’s not exactly close to mine, but I prop open the patio door, and my door outside, and hope for the best.

It’s all I can do. I don’t need this job. I can go back to Vancouver. I could return to Cali if I wanted to.

But goddamn, I’ve never wanted to stay somewhere more.

I grip the deck’s railing and take a bracing, salty breath. I need to remember myself. Hold onto nothing, not even a beautiful woman with so many tightly bound layers she’d put an onion to shame .

I head into my room, pulling my leather-bound sketchpad/notebook out of my back pocket. The little book is what I use whenever I’m stuck—with an idea or a feeling. I use it when a thought comes up when I’m reading, or sometimes just to draw. It’s got no lines—no constrictions at all in its weighted pages.

Today, I start to draw. My hand moves as if I’m not the one controlling it. I sketch out a face: a woman with almost haunting pale eyes and soft hair that falls in waves around her face. A slash of brows and a tight mouth, with lips curling just the slightest bit upward.

It’s all wrong. She hasn’t smiled at me.

I toss the book aside, pressing my palms to my forehead. “Fuck.” I need to start thinking about booking my travel back down to Vancouver. I?—

“ Raph— !”

I’ve vaulted off the bed before the kid’s finished yelling my name. I sprint across the deck, through the house, and am up the stairs by the third ring.

“Thanks, man,” I breathe, catching the phone as he tosses it.

It’s probably going to be someone other than Lana. Dee maybe. A brother. Some perfectly nice girl I forgot has my number.

I answer as casually as if I’m relaxing on the couch, not even a bit out of breath. “Raph here.”

There’s a long pause. Then, “Hello, Raphael.”

The words are neutral. The tone is tight and professional. But they’re the sweetest two words I’ve ever heard, in the sexiest fucking voice known to mankind .

“Hello, Lana.”

“There’s no easy way to say this, for me, but your references were exceptional. If you’re still interested in the nannying job, it’s yours.”

My grin could power the whole fucking electrical grid of this town.