You could have knocked me over with a feather when I first saw Amelia today. She looked impossibly pretty. All I could think about was how I wanted to rip that dress off of her mouth-watering body. I knew I wanted to kiss her. The light going out in the garage was just a lucky coincidence. And now I want to kiss her again.
I lick my lips and savor her scent that still lingers on my mouth. She tastes like lilacs and honey and warm sunshine. I love the feel of her soft curves and smooth skin against my own. I want to taste more of her.
I can tell that she is watching me closely, just as I am also very conscious of her presence. That’s the funny thing about kisses. Once it happens, you wonder if there will be another one. And then another one. And then you wonder how far the two of you will go.
The pressure in the front of my jeans is getting uncomfortable.
I clear my throat and pretend to check our GPS location. “Just to get some lunch.” I pause and throw her a quick look. “There’s a special little place I know,” I clear my throat and add as I sear the image of her in the yellow dress with the sky and the ocean behind her in my mind. The sunlight highlights the gold in her skin and her dark tresses are lush and windblown.
She shifts in the passenger seat and gives the back seat a questioning look. We are in my silver convertible and black trash bags fill up the backseat.
“Why did you bring the bags? Are we stopping by the dump on the way back?” She breaks the momentary silence.
“No, you were right. Some of it is still good. I want to put it to good use.”
I know that only raises more questions in her head, but I won't explain any further.
We pull up to the side of the road. An old wooden sign marks the old shop. “Pete and Walt’s Dive and Bait Shop.”
“Where are we?” She scans her surroundings without reaching for her seatbelt buckle. There isn’t a restaurant or even a taco stand in view.
I fight back a grin as I hop out of the car. “Come, I’ll treat you to the best lobster rolls on this side of the Mississippi.” I walk to her side of the car and open her door.
“Fletch! Is that you? Oh my goodness,” Aunt Beattie calls to us and laughs as if we had planned this with her and we are all in on some kind of great joke. She looks just the same as when I last saw her, lively and ruddy-faced. Standing by a plastic tub of soapy water, she wipes her hands on a rag, then she gives me a big, tight hug. She smells faintly of saltwater and bleach. “Pete! Pete!” She calls into the empty shop behind her. “Fletcher is here!”
Uncle Pete saunters out in his classic jeans and old fleece, with an empty pipe hanging at the corner of his lips. He used to smoke cigars until Aunt Beattie made him quit, so now he just sucks on an empty pipe constantly.
“Fletch! How are you?” His voice booms and arrives at your ears before he does. For a quick flash, I almost mistake him for my dad. They looked about the same, medium height with salt-and-pepper beards and dressed alike. They were best friends and business partners.
“Oh, we didn’t even know you were in town. Why didn’t you call?”
“Sorry, I should have called. I’ve been busy cleaning out my parents’ house. I have some of his old gear here that I thought you’d want. Also, I was wondering if we can trouble Aunt Beattie for a couple of her famous lobster rolls.”
“That’s no problem. You’re welcome anytime!” Aunt Beattie licks her thumb and rubs away at some invisible smudge on my cheek.
That’s when she sees Amelia, who has been half-hiding behind me and fighting back a smile as she watches Aunt Beattie grooming me in a motherly way.
“Well, well. Who is this?” Aunt Beattie puts her hands to her waist and cocks her head to the side. “Girlfriend of yours? Is that right, sweetheart?”
To my dismay, Amelia frantically shakes her head and explains, “I work for Fle—umm, Mr. Payne.” I stare at her until she turns even redder. Is that what she thinks of me? Mr. Payne?
Aunt Beattie raises an eyebrow and gives Uncle Pete and me a look that says, “I don’t believe a word this girl says.” “Well, a friend of Fletcher’s is a friend of ours. Come inside and I’ll make you some lunch, darlings.” She hooks her arm through Amelia’s and leads the girl into the house. Uncle Pete helps me carry the old diving equipment from the backseat of the car into the shop.
The place is just as I remembered. It was an old fisherman’s house that my father and Uncle Pete converted into a commercial space. There is a shop area in the front, filled with equipment and shelves. Plenty of open spaces for demonstrations for putting on the gears for students and potential buyers. More equipment and supplies are stored in the backroom.
“Your Aunt Beattie and I live upstairs now. No point in paying mortgages on two places and saves me the commute,” Uncle Pete says and laughs. He has a bad leg and struggles a bit up the dark narrow staircase. We follow him. The house is about a hundred years old, with good bones and smells faintly of wood polish and memories.
There is a small one-bedroom apartment upstairs with an open space for both the kitchen and the
