for the bright lights of Southern California to attend college at San Diego State.
Compared to the Iowa farm country I was born and raised in, California was glitzy and glamour-filled, and needless to say, it wowed me.
Sadly, it’s probably because of that wide-eyed wonder that I fell so easily in love with frat boy Raleigh Reynolds. He was clean-cut, well-liked, from a well-off family, and he treated me like I was something special. Amid a crowd of perfect bodies and plastic surgery, I was absolutely thrilled that someone like him could think I—the small-town girl from Iowa—stood out.
One month after meeting Raleigh at a party during my junior year of college, we started dating, and to be honest, I thought I’d date him for the rest of my life. I thought we’d get married and have kids and be the perfect California couple with big dreams and a house in Malibu.
I glance at myself in the mirror again and shake my head. My God, what a naïve little girl I was.
I swipe at the crease of my eye shadow and check the corner of my mouth for excess lipstick. Everything is in order, but I still pull out my eyebrow pencil and do a couple extra strokes at the apex of the arch of my brow.
The clock glares in the dim morning light, clicking over to another minute of time, and I swallow wordlessly.
It’s time to face the bachelor music.
With a pop of my door handle, I step out of my car quickly, and along with the door, I shut any chance of checking my makeup another needless time behind me. I tug at the hem of my black blazer, trying to get it to settle onto my shoulders in a way that feels remotely comfortable.
The morning air is heavy, almost misty, and I can’t remember the last time I was awake this early. Actually, that’s not true. I do remember the last time—I remember it vividly, in fact. It’s just that I choose not to relive the horrid memory that served as a big fat catalyst for my world imploding.
Graceful as can be, I trip as I take my first step onto the sand on Coronado Beach, but I catch myself without taking a tumble. It’s not crowded, though there are several more people than I would have expected, seeing as the sun is barely even peeking above the horizon.
A contingent of Navy T-shirt-wearing men jog by, and not a single one of them looks up at me. I choose to believe it’s their dedication to their duty and not the extra pounds I’ve put on recently that make me invisible.
I almost roll my ankle again, and I curse under my breath to make myself feel better. Stooping low, I take off what my dad likes to refer to as my “man heels” in favor of bare feet. They’re normally my most sensible “I’m still trying to look professional but not get blisters” shoes—hence the less-than-flattering nickname from my dad—but apparently a heel of any kind in soft sand is a death sentence.
I scan the waterline for a man of Jake Brent’s description—tall, athletic, muscular—but all I see are military men and large, rolling waves. To be fair, a good number of them are of both good height and physical condition, but none of them seems like the man I’m looking for.
There’s something about Jake Brent that makes me feel like I’ll know him when I see him. It’s not cosmic destiny or anything—it’s just access to information.
In addition to the personal ad entrants submitted for the contest, they also had to provide a brief physical description. For whatever reason, the paper’s legal team insisted on it, but for the most part, they all read the same way to me—average male.
This one, though—it had something else—rigorous details that people often don’t notice about themselves.
Tall, lean-muscle athletic body type, black hair, bright blue-green eyes rimmed with laugh lines, and a tattoo-sleeved arm that tells the story of my life.
I still remember the way it brought my mind to a halt when I read it.
Trudging farther into the sand, I make my way down the beach until I’m even with the Hotel Del, the landmark Jake Brent’s daughter referenced when explaining where I’d be able to find her dad.
Ha. “Landmark referenced.” More like the hint she dropped on my doorstep right before she ran. It was the ultimate ding-dong ditch of explanatory phone calls.