Chapter 5

FIVE

Liam

I watch Izzy, my concern growing as the color drains from her face.

She has to be talking about Natasha. But that makes no sense. It’s been almost a year since we broke up. How could Izzy not know?

Then there’s the way I’ve been shamelessly flirting with her all day. Does she think I would do that if I were seeing someone else?

Admittedly, I’m a little out of practice. Maybe my flirting game is way off? Either way, the shock on Izzy’s face seems sincere, so I have no choice but to believe she really didn’t know.

And now I have to make this right.

Behind us, another server pushes out of the kitchen, his tray coming dangerously close to knocking Izzy in the side of the head.

I tug her toward me, and she lifts her hands to my chest, but as soon as the server has moved into the bar, she pushes away from me, following after him.

“I need a minute,” she says over her shoulder, hustling away.

I have no idea where she’s headed, but I don’t want to lose her in this crowd, so I follow behind, trying to give her space while also staying close. When she passes our table and heads toward the door, I stop long enough to grab my suit coat and Izzy’s bag, shrugging my shoulders at Alisa, who is watching with interest.

I finally catch Izzy at the edge of the parking lot, standing in the yellow glow of a streetlight. I stay a few yards back, balancing my desire to give her the minute she asked for with a desire to keep her safe. Because I don’t love the idea of her being out here alone, especially when her phone is in the bag I’m currently holding.

“Sorry,” I say when she looks my way. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be done for the night or if you planned to go back in. I grabbed your stuff just in case, and my stuff too, since I drove you here. Which I clearly don’t need to tell you because you were there. I’m just saying, if you want to be alone, I could stand over there and wait.” I point behind me to the opposite side of the parking lot, realizing too late that I’m babbling, and take a deep breath. “I don’t feel okay leaving you alone out here. Just purely from a safety perspective.”

She lets out a little chuckle and shakes her head, her lips finally lifting into a small smile. “I remember this about you,” she says.

“Me being overly protective?”

“No. You talking a lot when you’re nervous. Do you remember when you thought you got caught sneaking sodas from Eloise’s secret stash? You talked to her for ten minutes about dinosaur bones.”

While I love thinking about all our shared memories, I’m not sure babbling when I’m nervous is what I want Izzy to remember. Being protective sounds much more manly than spouting off about paleontology. I’ve come a long way since then though, so I smile. “I think she would have given me a soda just to shut me up. I’m happy to talk about dinosaur bones anytime, by the way. Not just when I’m in trouble. Just throwing that offer out there.”

Her smile is a little warmer, a little wider. “Thanks.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, all serious now. I take a tentative step closer.

“Yes? I think?” She lifts a hand to her arm, rubbing it up and down like she’s chasing away a chill. “Sorry I ran. I just got a little overwhelmed by the crowd.”

It’s a lie. Izzy has never minded a crowd. She’s been confident and comfortable in her own skin as long as I’ve known her.

But I get the sense she needs me to believe her, so I simply nod. “I know what that’s like. Take all the time you need.”

I study Izzy’s profile, thinking about how brilliant she was today.

I barely got through my walkthrough of the Make Change software, and I could see it click with her. And then she spent the rest of the day nailing it like she’d been using the program forever. She’ll probably do a better job training the staff than I will, which makes it all the more ridiculous that her boss has her essentially doing busy work in a cubicle when she’s so insanely brilliant.

I stand with Izzy for a few more moments until a breeze whips through the parking lot, sending a chill down the open collar of my shirt. “Do you want to go back inside?” I ask.

She frowns but otherwise doesn’t respond, so I try again.

“Or I could take you home?”

Still nothing.

“Or we could go get you a cheeseburger somewhere? We skipped right over dinner and went straight for drinks. Which in hindsight might not have been the best idea.”

Izzy’s eyes light up, and she points. “That one. A cheeseburger.”

The breeze gets stronger, and Izzy sucks in a breath. Savannah never gets full-on winter weather, at least not for more than a few days at a time, but it’s probably in the low fifties now, and Izzy doesn’t have any kind of coat.

I slowly walk forward, closing the distance between us, and lift my suit jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders. “A cheeseburger it is.”

I slide my hand to the back of her neck, gently pulling her hair loose from the collar of my jacket. A simple touch, but it somehow feels so intimate that there’s a catch in my chest.

“Riley’s has great burgers and also gluten-free bread,” she says. “I could marry their sweet potato fries.”

Though I’m well versed in navigating the world of dining out while managing my celiac disease, I still appreciate Izzy remembering and thinking of me.

“We can go wherever you want. Don’t worry about me. I can find something to eat just about anywhere.”

Her eyes glint with a hint of mischief. “But Liam, I don’t want your butt to explode.”

I groan. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Never,” Izzy says.

It’s a phrase she heard me say all the time as a kid, especially right after my diagnosis. I said it with full sincerity to anyone who would listen to explain why I couldn’t eat like everyone else.

“Well, in that case, I really need to check out these sweet potato fries. If you’re planning to marry them, I’d like to give my stamp of approval. Maybe threaten to hurt them if they ever hurt you.”

“Riley’s sweet potato fries could never hurt me.” Izzy grins, but it falters quickly. She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m sorry I freaked out in there.”

I wait without saying anything because I get the sense she isn’t quite finished owning whatever truth she wouldn’t admit before.

“I think I was just … surprised?” She tugs my coat a little tighter around her shoulders. “You know our family. They’re always in everyone’s business. How did no one think to tell me you and Natasha broke up? I mean, you brought her to Christmas last year! I assumed there was an imminent proposal.”

The idea of proposing to Natasha makes me jolt. “There was never a proposal on the horizon.”

Especially not after seeing how she measured up to you, I don’t add. I still feel guilty about bringing her home to meet the family and then yanking the rug out from under her when I told her it wasn’t working. She was a nice woman. For someone else, not me.

“I guess we could have stayed in touch a little better,” I say. “Maybe instead of trusting the family to tell us things, we should have actually talked to each other.” I step a little closer. “And not just this year. In general. When did we stop being so close?”

After my mom married my stepdad, Camden, the two of us moved to North Carolina to be with him since he couldn’t leave his hockey team. I was ten at the time, and moving felt like an adventure. And that’s exactly what it turned out to be. I started playing hockey, experienced my first white Christmas, discovered the magic of apple cider donuts.

But some integral part of me always ached for the beach, so I was happy to be back on Oakley for holidays and the summer months when we lived on the island full time.

Izzy was always waiting for me when we pulled into town, and for the first few years after I moved, we picked up right where we left off like no time had passed.

When we were both old enough to have phones, we started texting each other. Mostly gifs and emojis and silly selfies back and forth. Rarely anything serious or deep, though I think I knew I could talk to her if I needed anything. I hope she felt the same. But somewhere along the way, even our fun exchanges stopped.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I wonder about the role our family played. They were pretty incessant when we were together, dropping not-so-subtle hints about Izzy having a crush on me or saying what a cute couple we’d make. They kept it up all the way through college, even if, by then, it was just elbowing each other and exchanging hopeful looks whenever Izzy and I were talking.

Which only made me want to stand farther away.

It’s not that I didn’t think Izzy was beautiful. She was. Plus, she had this spark that made her different. Something magnetic. Izzy glowed with a warmth that spread to anyone lucky enough to be in her circle.

It intimidated me if I’m being honest. I wasn’t some loser nerd, exactly, especially with the confidence and social skills I gained from playing hockey. The sport went a long way to balance out my hyper-focused academic side.

But hockey could only do so much.

When girls were interested in me, and they often were because I was an athlete, it rarely lasted once they realized how long I could talk about the merits of Excel spreadsheets.

Izzy never seemed to mind my nerdy interests or the rabbit holes I sometimes dove down, but I didn’t like the pressure from our well-meaning (but intent on meddling) family. Plus, we lived in different states and wouldn’t attend the same universities. There was nothing logical about a relationship with Izzy, and I was, at least in my younger years, highly motivated by logic.

But all that went out the window when I saw Natasha next to Izzy. The three of us were sitting around the fire pit out at Hunter and Merritt’s and started talking about Harriett’s deli in downtown Oakley. She’d just had a sandwich-naming competition, and the entries were hilarious and small-town in the best possible way. Izzy was animated and interested and totally engaged, and Natasha looked at me like I was an alien from outer space. Apparently, she only liked New York Liam.

Seeing her see Oakley, which is such a huge part of who I am, changed everything.

Not to mention Izzy. Sitting beside Natasha. Pulling me into the warmth of her glow. Making me feel seen more than anyone else ever does.

And that’s just it. It’s always been that way with Izzy. I’d just never recognized it for what it was. I recognized it then, though. And I’ve been thinking about her differently ever since.

“I don’t know,” Izzy finally whispers, pulling me back to our conversation. “I wish we stayed in touch.”

“We can start now,” I say, studying her face. “If you want. And it’s kind of nice being slightly out of reach of the overbearing, nosy people we love.”

She grins at this. “They really are nosy, aren’t they? I still can’t believe none of them told me you and Natasha broke up. It’s weird.”

This is not the question I want to answer right now, though I’ve had a few similar questions myself since I ran into Izzy yesterday. I’d rather know how Izzy feels about me breaking up with Natasha. And why the news made her practically sprint out of the restaurant.

It’s all I can do not to demand an answer.

But this feels like the beginning of a fresh start, maybe one leading in a new direction, and I don’t want to push too hard too fast.

“Maybe life is just busy for everyone?”

“Yeah, maybe,” she says. A thousand questions flitting around behind her deep brown eyes. “Was it—are you okay? After the breakup?”

“Definitely,” I say. “She wasn’t right for me. I never should have brought her home.”

I’m not entirely sure that’s true, as bringing Natasha to Oakley was what made me certain we weren’t a good fit. But I want to make sure Izzy doesn’t think I have any lingering feelings or regrets about the relationship.

“Wait—is the reason you’ve been so guarded around me because you thought I was with Natasha?”

Izzy hesitates, then nods. “I’ve been trying to keep a respectful distance. I thought you were in a relationship.”

And here I’ve been hoping for the opposite. No wonder she’s been so tense around me. At least now we’ve cleared the dead air.

I tug on her—or, I guess, my —sleeve. “Come on. Let’s get out of the cold and get some food.”

Izzy was right—Riley’s sweet potato fries are arguably marriage material. It also has both a solid cheeseburger and a steak salad that checks all the boxes I need to eat and not feel like I want to die in the morning. I have a feeling I’m going to be frequenting the place a lot—and not just because it’s around the corner from Izzy’s apartment. That’s just a perk.

Conversation is easy between us. We talk about college stories and our favorite shows, and Izzy asks if I’m still as much into dinosaurs as I used to be.

We don’t talk about anything too serious, not venturing into feelings or relationship territory at all, but Izzy is smiling a lot. Touching my arm as we talk. And on our way into the restaurant, she held onto my hand a little longer than necessary when I helped her around a puddle, her fingers wrapped in mine until we were all the way inside.

It’s a vast improvement from the way she treated me at work all day, keeping me at arms’ length, steering the conversation away whenever things felt too familiar.

With every passing minute, the hope in my chest grows brighter and brighter.

“So this company you’ve started,” Izzy says over the last bite of her dessert. We’ve basically closed down the restaurant, the waitstaff already cleaning up tables around us, but I don’t care. I’ll leave an enormous tip if it means getting to sit here like this, Izzy’s eyes on me and only me. “It’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

“It’s getting there,” I say. “Though company sounds like a big word because right now, it’s really just me. I have a few subcontractors helping with tech support, but otherwise, I’m a one-man show.”

“Don’t downplay what you’re doing,” she says with a shake of her head. “Doing all of this on your own actually makes it more impressive. Though I’m guessing with the contract you signed with the Whitmire Group, you’ll need to hire some help sooner than later.”

“I hope so. Customer service. Tech support. Not to mention the tax accountants who will keep the software up to date. It’s a long list.”

“It’ll be amazing,” she says. “You’ll get it all done.”

I hear the pride in her words, see it in her eyes, and it makes warmth spread through my chest and up to my cheeks.

“So talk me through how you got from an accounting degree to writing software. I mean, I know your brain is amazing, but …”

I shrug, suddenly feeling a little sheepish. “I mean, it’s accounting software, so I still put the degree to good use . I took some coding classes on the side just for fun and found it really interesting, so when I realized there was a gap in the market, I thought maybe I could fill it.” I hold her gaze for a long moment. “Actually, do you remember the summer we watched the turtles hatch out on Oakley?”

Her expression brightens. “Yes! It was amazing.”

It was the summer before my senior year, and we were in Oakley for the entire month of August. Izzy had found multiple nests along the shore behind her house, and she was basically living on the beach, wanting to be there when the babies finally hatched and made their long journey out to the ocean.

She called me at 3:45 in the morning, whispering excitedly through the phone to let me know the hatching had started and I better hurry if I wanted to see any of it. I borrowed Mom’s car and drove out to Hunter’s place. I spent the next three hours sitting on the beach with Izzy, still as a statue, while dozens of tiny turtles crept toward the water in the moonlight, the last ones making it just before the hot sun rose in the summer sky.

“You went on and on that morning, talking about growing up and starting your own nonprofit, going back to Oakley to take care of the turtles. You wanted to keep development in check so they would always have beaches to come back to.”

“Oh my gosh. I can’t believe you remember that,” she says.

“The day before, you’d had a long conversation with Merritt about everything you’d need to know to run your own nonprofit, and you couldn’t stop grumbling about it.”

“That’s right!” she says, her expression growing animated. “Because I loved the idea of doing good, but not so much the grants or bookkeeping or staffing.”

“You just wanted to save the turtles,” I say with a smile.

“I did. Still do, actually. Or, not just the turtles. I’m spending a lot more time thinking about humans these days.”

Izzy looks like she wants to say more but needs a little prompting, so I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Do you have any specific areas of interest?”

“I’ve been thinking about how many women are out there, especially single moms, who don’t have the kind of support you and I had with family. Savannah has some neat programs providing shelter or food or clothing, but nothing dealing with the whole situation. I’d love to start something to help women learn and develop the necessary skill sets and qualifications to rise above the poverty line, even if they’re doing double duty as moms. So, it would need to also help with kids and education to break the cycle.”

She stops suddenly, cheeks flushing a little like she just realized how much she said in almost one breath.

But there’s no need to be self-conscious. Watching Izzy talk about something so passionately unlocks something inside me. I love that she hasn’t given up on her dream. I also love that she’s working, trying to learn, when I know for a fact Uncle Ben, who owns Oakley Island and a million other properties all over the world, would invest in whatever she asked him to invest in, same as he did with me. He’s the main investor behind Make Change, something I only agreed to after Uncle Jake, a lawyer, assured me over and over again the agreement was fair and equitable and competitive and not just Benedict doing a favor for his nephew.

Izzy could start tomorrow if she wanted, and Ben would give her all the help she asked for. Our whole family would. Benedict is the one with ridiculous amounts of money and a big heart, but the whole crew would support Izzy’s endeavors, start to finish.

“Anyway,” she says. “That’s a long-term dream. I hoped my job at The Whitmire Group would do a little more to prepare me, but so far, I’m just kind of an office bot, living out my days in a cube. Working with you has been the highlight of my job so far, if that tells you anything.”

“Is that because of the work?” I ask, heart thumping as I follow a flirty, risky line of questioning. “Or the company?”

Izzy’s mouth drops like she can’t believe I just asked that either, but she quickly recovers with a smile I can feel all the way in the soles of my feet.

“I guess you’ll have to wait until your evaluation to find out.”

“Oh, I’m going to have an evaluation now?”

“It’s policy. Any outside contractors get evaluated by those working closely with them. For quality control purposes.”

Though I’m positive Izzy is making this up on the fly, she’s pretty convincing. “Well, then. Guess I better be on my best behavior.”

The waiter interrupts with our bill, the forced smile on his face saying he’d really love for us to wrap this up and leave so he can clean up his last table. I quickly pull out my credit card. Izzy looks like she’s going to protest, and I shake my head. “I’ve got it, Iz.”

“Thank you,” she says. “But wait—I got a little sidetracked. What do the turtles and my nonprofit dreams have to do with your business?”

“It was actually that conversation about the turtles that planted the seeds for Make Change.”

Her eyebrows go up. “For real?”

I nod. “A lot of people who have the passion to start a nonprofit don’t always have a brain for numbers. Make Change is meant for them. To make the bookkeeping side as accessible and user friendly as possible.”

Izzy grins at me, but once again, our waiter returns with impeccable timing to return my card. I slide my wallet into my pocket, then stand, holding out a hand to Izzy. She takes it, and I gently tug her to her feet. I’d love to link our fingers together, to walk out of this restaurant feeling like this was a real date. But I don’t know where her head’s at, so I let her hand drop as we walk toward the door.

“So,” she says, “you’re saying you wrote an entire accounting software because you have zero confidence in my ability to understand numbers?”

I pause. “What? No! That’s not…” My words trail off when I see her grin.

“I’m kidding,” she says, her voice soft. “That’s actually really amazing. I honestly can’t believe you even remember that conversation.”

What I don’t tell her is that lately, I’ve been replaying a lot of our old conversations. Ever since last Christmas, it’s hard not to look back and wonder what opportunities I missed.

What if I hadn’t been so logical? What if I didn’t worry about the distance and had let myself really consider Izzy as more than a close friend?

What if I’d kept in touch better?

“I can practically hear your big brain thinking,” Izzy says, nudging my shoulder as we reach my car. “What’s going on in there?”

I can’t tell her. Not yet. Though we have tons of shared history, if I have any hope of something romantic, it will mean building something new. And I want it to have a sure, strong foundation. Rushing things or confessing how much I’d like to kiss her right now would not be in line with that.

Also, we’re in a parking lot, and I’m pretty sure I just saw a rat dart behind a building. Not the place for a confession of feelings or a first kiss.

“You know, just the usual—thinking about spreadsheets.”

Izzy grins as I open the door for her, and it lights up her whole face, tugging at an invisible string attached directly to my heart. “Not entomology or a side-by-side comparison of torque in American-made cars?”

“Oh my gosh. How do you remember all that?”

“It’s hard to forget when you spent entire summers talking about whatever snagged your interest. Bugs, cars ...” I groan again, but Izzy snags my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Don’t groan. I loved that version of you. I hope some of him is still in here somewhere.” She reaches over and pats my chest, leaving her hand pressed against my shirt.

Her words are nothing but kind, and they’re doing strange things to my heart. At times, I feel self-conscious remembering who I was when I was younger. Or more like, who I was pre-Camden.

When he and Mom got together, something shifted in me. I didn’t lose the serious, intense part of me that fixated on topics until I researched them to exhaustion. Or my love of talking about said topics ad nauseam. But having Camden’s quiet, steady influence shaped me in ways I’m still thanking him for.

Izzy’s touch must be infusing me with an uncharacteristic boldness because I lean forward until our foreheads are only inches apart. “Just so you know,” I say, my voice low and rough. “I still obsess over things. I’ve just gotten better at keeping it to myself.”

“You can always talk to me,” Izzy says, her hushed voice a mirror of mine. “What are you obsessing over now?”

You , I don’t say, though a part of me wonders what that one word would do to her expression.

Would it make the corners of her lips tilt up in a smile, or would her mouth drop open in shock?

Would her brown eyes widen or go hazy and dark?

It’s too much for now, but I decide to take a risk and push the envelope a little. “Put a pin in this discussion,” I tell her. “And we’ll talk about it the next time we have dinner.”

“Next time, huh?” she asks, looking amused. “You really were serious about reconnecting.”

And with an intensity I didn’t intend but absolutely feel, I say, “You have no idea how serious.”

But she will. Soon.