Excerpt 1:
“Mormor?” I mouth to her. Numbness spreads inside of my shoulders, and I let my arms fall to my sides.

“Did you say something?” Kurt asks.

“Oh, I asked if you needed more.” Think, think. What is she even doing? “Sugar. Do you need more sugar?”

“Nah, I prefer black coffee.” He leans to catch my gaze. “How did you sleep?”

“Pretty well.” Can he not see the massive distraction wandering around us?

His eyes trace up and down my face, which is fair considering I’ve already memorized the sculpted lines of his.

Ignore her. She’s not real. “You know how it is when you sleep in a new bed, it takes a lot to find the right position.” I cringe at the poor phrasing.

“We can get you a new mattress.” He laughs. “Consider me an extra set of hands.”

“For breaking in mattresses?” Nope, that’s not what he meant, and yet it flew from my mouth.

“I didn’t mean…” Kurt fidgets with his mug and can’t seem to hide the shades of pink in his cheeks. “Your cousin said you could use some help with the house.” He clears his throat. “Unless this wasn’t about repairs.”

“The little I know about my family, I wouldn’t put it past her.” I take a sip of the icy drink. “Don’t worry. I don’t throw myself at strangers.”

He chokes on a sip and blinks in response.

Bail out, I need to bail out. “Any help you can give with the house is much appreciated.”

The woman is still looking straight at me. She sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes before pulling the newspaper closer to cover her face. Mormor? But it can’t be. Mormor is dead. The air is playing tricks on me.

 

Excerpt 2:
Mormor blocks the path. “Dear, you hate blood. Let him be.”

I continue forward through her. 

“Well, now, that’s plain rude,” Mormor says.

I walk over and Svea’s already bandaged Kurt’s finger. A pile of alcohol swabs, tape, scissors, and an empty shot glass rest in Caspian’s oversized hands.

“Are you okay? That had to hurt.” A stupid statement based on the grimace on his face.

“I’m fine.” He eyes his bass, “I probably have to put her away for tonight.” He frowns. “The show, however, will go on.”

Oh no, he’s sad. “Is there anything I can get for ya?” Why do I want to help? 

The sheer annoyance on Mormor’s face as she hovers over him is a pleasant outcome.

“I’m good. Svea took good care of my hand.” He glances at Svea and mouths the words thank you. “I could use another water if it isn’t too much trouble. We’re starting soon.” He hands me two drinks from his tray. “You and Svea taking two of these would also help me out. If I drink all these—I’ll never find my way home.”

Mormor shakes her head vigorously.

I side-eye Mormor mid-swig of beer, letting the froth take over my mouth. “Of course.” The eyebrow waggle in her direction may be one step too far. I’ll pay for that defiance later.

“I’m so sorry about this. I’ve never seen anything like this happen before. I was hoping we could chat.” The overhead music stops and the lights shift. “How’s your list?”

“I’m checking it twice.” What did I say? Seriously? Who am I, Santa? The ability to reverse time to redo an answer is a skill I long for. I haven’t really written one. Or even, ready to tackle, would’ve been fine. 

I lower my gaze and work my way back to the counter to order his waters. Move, people. My elbows push out to clear a path through the patrons to the table with Svea as the next set kicks off. Mormor stands between Svea and me. She’s smiling and has her hand on each of our backs, and yet each time she looks at the band, disapproval oozes from her pulled-back shoulders. I take a sip of the ale and slide the other glass in front of Mormor to Svea.

“Well, how do you like that,” Kurt holds his bandaged finger up. “If ya told me my playin’ was that bad tonight, I would have stopped.” He puffs out his lip and shows the crowd his shiny band-aid. “It was you, wasn’t it, Cas?” He smiles and narrows his eyes at Caspian, drawing a laugh from the crowd.

“Guilty.” Caspian shrugs. “We both know who the better singer is.”

“Of course,” Kurt says. “Too bad we couldn’t afford one.”

The fiddle and banjo kick in to punctuate his joke. 

“We love you guys,” a man’s voice from the back of the room shouts.

“We love you too!” The band holds their hands in a heart shape up high, their instruments raised at odd angles. 

“Play something,” another man shouts from near the bar.

Kurt nods. “Enough of this feely-feely stuff.” He takes a long deep breath and then belts a note grand enough to fill the room, shooting warm vibrations through my arms and chest. Holy crap. What even was that? Again, hit the note again. And again.

The music shifts to pop songs done in bluegrass style. Svea grabs my hands and squeezes before she pulls me to dance in a circle around the barrel with Montana. The room is alive again—washing peace over my nerves.

“We will discuss this later.” Mormor huffs, makes her way through the crowd careful not to touch anyone, and slips out the open door.

 

Excerpt 3:
Kurt comes darting around Cas and Svea, kicking sand behind him with each pounding foot. I turn my head and raise my arm to block the sand spraying up in the air from his knee slide to the blanket. My eyes steady on Yale dragging a stumbling Erik lot and taking his keys. Good. Two less people to worry about.

“Hey, you good?” Kurt asks.

The mess that is Erik is ejected from the beach and taken out to the parking lot. Yale shoves him into a cab. I turn back to Kurt and find his face a few inches from my own. My cheeks warm as I feel his gaze on my cheek. I lean back on my hands, creating a little extra space.

“Yeah, he didn’t bite me.” Thank goodness.

“You are being a little too nice about this,” Kurt says. “Anyway, Yale sent Erik home to sober up. He can be a real dick.”

“Oh good, this wasn’t special for me.” I rub my hand across my forearm and watch his eyes absorb the stars. “He was almost normal at Svea’s.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow and takes a cloth from his pocket. He waits for the water to rush up to the edge of the boundary line to dampen the linen handkerchief. With the gentlest of touches, he dabs the salty water on my cheek to further scrub off Erik’s DNA.

“Thanks. Aren’t you guys supposed to be playing?” I take the handkerchief and scrub harder at my cheek.

“A friend needed help,” he says. “And another one looked upset.”

“You are friends with Erik?” Dumbfounded doesn’t even begin to properly express my inability to comprehend a friendship between these two.

He shrugs and sits on the sand next to the blanket.

A quick look around reveals Svea waving her fingers at me with a big grin while Cas wraps his arms around her. The two turn and look out at the ocean.

Kurt gestures to the cloth. “Can I sit on the blanket?” 

“Absolutely, but we may need to move back.” The edge of a wave graces our toes.

“Nah, we’ve got plenty of time till the tide gets higher.” He’s quite sure of himself. The heat from his bare arm radiates through my sweatshirt while he repositions his legs in the sand.

“This is nice,” he says. “Nice to actually sit and enjoy instead of entertain.”

His presence is a little too comforting. After the last blanket visitor, I should keep my guard up, but he’s so gentle and warm. The strong wind smacks at my damp face, and I shiver.

“How rude of me,” he says, removing the sweatshirt from his shoulders. “Take this. You can layer it.”

He loops the sweatshirt up over my back and hesitates for a second. I inadvertently lock eyes with him. I should look away. His gaze makes me want to make good-bad decisions, and the flecks of rainbow within them seem to make time stand still.

He leans forward and pulls the sweatshirt higher on my shoulders. His cheek graces mine, and he hesitates. His hot breath sends warm tingles across my chest and down my arms, while a petulant curl falls to the front of his forehead from beneath his bowler cap. A gentle lean forward would contribute the last ten percent needed to test how soft his lips are. A tiny lean—but if I’m reading this moment wrong, I’m no different from Erik.

A gust of wind rushes between us, blowing his cap backward. He hugs his sweatshirt against my back to keep it from flying away. I peek through flying sand to the bar where cups and bottles fly across the beach. A giant wave, much too high for a gentle entrance of the tide change, crashes over our bodies, forcing us apart. The water recedes, along with all the feelings of heat or any type of imagined chemistry that was brewing. The cold air pushes through my drenched clothes, and my teeth chatter. A smaller wave comes forward and slaps at only my feet.

“Man, what was that?” Kurt yells against the wind. “Someone’s mad.” He gestures out to the sea.

I sit up and pull bits of seaweed off my soaking wet jeans. Kurt reaches across to my head and pulls off more flecks of what I really hope is seaweed or sand. Between laughing so hard and the sharp sting of the blowing salt, I shed tears.

Svea stands over me and blocks the path to the stars. In the scheme of unfair—I am a haggard, shivering wet mess and she has not a drop of water on her.

“How did that even happen?” She drapes a spare blanket over my numb shoulders. “Do you want some water?” 

I glare at her.

“The drinking kind,” she says, unable to stifle her laughter.

“Stronger. I need a stronger drink than water.” Kurt spits sand from his mouth back onto the beach.