The Moment of Letting Go - J. A. Redmerski Page 0,11

as if making a very serious point. “People come here on vacation to destress, not to create more of it.”

I kind of feel bad for dragging my issues over here from the mainland, like I’ve brought the plague with me.

Finally I look at him with a steadier gaze. “I know,” I say with regret, “but I’m not here on vacation.”

“Well, that’s your first mistake.” He points his index finger upward.

“An unavoidable mistake,” I say. “It’s my job.”

“Ah.” His head tilts back slightly, his lips parting. It’s as if he just realized something. “Well, that explains it, then,” he says with what seems like relief.

“Explains what?”

“Why you were hanging around that crazy chick yesterday.”

I remember him seeing Veronica talking to me on the beach right after she stormed away from him. But I take immediate offense to his choice of words.

“Well, that’s a little rude, don’t you think?” I cross my arms, letting my fingers drape over my biceps. “Not to mention whatever it was you said to her yesterday.”

He laughs lightly and then looks at me with raised eyebrows, but he doesn’t say anything in his defense. I’m not sure what to make of it, but I don’t like the arrogant vibes he’s putting off, and that’s a shame because I was beginning to like his company.

Then something dawns on me.

“It, uh … well, whatever you said to her, she probably asked for it, right?” I wince a little, feeling like an idiot.

He shrugs his shoulders, his muscled arms hanging freely down at his sides, the white T-shirt stark against his bronzed skin.

A breeze blows by, pushing the fabric of my loose, flowing skirt embarrassingly between my legs.

“I’m sorry,” I say, ignoring my skirt altogether. “I should’ve known.”

I stumble again—stupid shoes.

“I barely know her,” I go on, pointing at him briefly, “but what little I do know doesn’t help her case any.”

He chuckles and then crouches down in front of me.

Surprised by the sudden movement, for a second I can’t move anything but my eyes, which follow him. His fingers lightly touch my foot as he unzips the tiny zipper at the back of my sandal, collapsing the other hand around my ankle and then easing my foot out. There’s that fluttering in my stomach again; my skin breaks out in chills—I hope he doesn’t notice. Baffled by this otherwise intimate gesture, I still can’t do much but stare down at the top of his golden-brown head, my lips parted and my eyebrows scrunching up in my forehead. When I don’t protest, he takes off the other shoe, and before long I’m standing on the sand in my bare feet. He pushes himself back into a stand two inches taller than me and places my sandals into my hand, hanging them on my fingers by the thin straps.

I stare at him in bewilderment, swallowing nervously.

“Umm, so what exactly did happen yesterday?” I ask, feeling the need to change the subject—not because I was offended by what he did … No, I certainly wasn’t offended.

It was something else.

“Luke Everett,” he says, holding out a hand to me.

I glance down at his hand and back up at his gorgeous sculpted face and deep hazel eyes, undecided what’s confusing me more: the way he’s smiling at me or the way he keeps avoiding my questions.

“My name is Luke,” he repeats, urging me to shake his hand the charming smile never faltering. “We should get that much out of the way, I think.”

Reluctantly I place my hand into his, and in an instant I feel a sense of security.

“Sienna Murphy.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sienna,” he says while still holding my hand.

Finally he lets go.

“To answer your question,” he says, “she came over to talk to me, and when she asked me to show her how to surf, I told her—as I would any other customer—that I was already booked for the day and that she’d have to set up an appointment.” He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “She didn’t like that much.”

I make a face just thinking about it.

“I saw you talking to her yesterday,” he goes on. “That worried me a little. Thankfully you’re nothing like her—that would’ve been a disappointment.”

Luke sits down on the sand, drawing his knees up and resting his forearms atop them.

“You teach surfing?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. I’m not a pro, but I know my way around the waves enough to offer lessons.” He points in the direction of the hotel. “I work part-time for the