Chapter 3
Thanks to rush hour traffic, it took almost forty-five minutes to get down to my neighborhood, Pacific Beach, where Neil deposited me at the curb in front of an adorable blue bungalow on Beryl Street. A white picket fence surrounded a small but tidy front garden blooming with ferns and pygmy palms. The front door was stained mahogany, and there were mustard-colored shutters on each of the two wide windows flanking the entrance. It was so beautiful, it deserved to be featured on one of those Instagram accounts highlighting charming cottages and exterior design.
I didn’t live there.
I lived next door, behind a boxy triplex, in a makeshift studio apartment on top of a garage. Technically, I didn’t have my own apartment number, which made me think the whole situation was illegal. But it was insanely cheap, and I wasn’t exactly in the financial position to go looking for another apartment, anyway. So, I didn’t ask too many questions or make too many demands. I just quietly accepted the fact that I couldn’t plug my hairdryer and toaster in at the same time without risking an electrical fire.
Pacific Beach—or PB, as the locals called it—was this peculiar mix of picture-perfect houses and unsanctioned hovels. Natasha said the whole town was a shit show, but I liked the vibrancy and variety. Families lived next door to college kids, beach cruisers parked beside baby strollers, lawns were littered with surfboards and beer pong tables, and half the neighbors were only temporary since every other home was a vacation rental.
Like this adorable blue bungalow, for example. Once I’d caught on to the fact that a new car was parked in the driveway each week, I stalked the listing on Airbnb, where it was touted as a “Stylish Retreat, Short Walk to the Beach!” From the photos, the inside was just as cute as the outside, all exposed beams and distressed floors and big fluffy couches that were perfect for napping in after a long day of lazing under the sun. The host was a company called Surf Vacationz LLC and the weekly fee was more than I made in a month.
It was my dream home, and it was completely out of my reach.
Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly low, I liked to stand on the sidewalk in front of the house, my fingers grazing the top of the picket fence, and pretend it was mine. I’d envision myself sitting on the stoop, sipping an herbaceous cocktail out of a mason jar, or wandering aimlessly through the garden and sniffing the flowers. The thought always brought a smile to my face. Even if it was delusional.
After the misery of this afternoon, I desperately needed a pick-me-up. So once the Lyft drove away, I took my usual spot by the picket fence and indulged in a little curbside home-owning fantasy. This time, I closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to prepare a meal in that immaculate kitchen. Maybe brunch. In real life, I was a terrible cook, but since this was a fantasy, I whipped up my favorite breakfast—perfectly golden coconut-crusted French toast—then sat down at that rustic wood dining nook next to the window and—
“Excuse me?”
Just like that, my daydream was over. When I opened my eyes, though, I saw something even more delectable than that imaginary brunch: a shirtless surfer dude, standing by my side. Droplets of seawater fell from his thick, dark hair, trickling down his chest and pooling in his wet suit, which he’d stripped to the waist. He carried his board effortlessly under one arm, like it weighed nothing.
“Hi.” I’d never seen this guy around before. If I had, I definitely would’ve remembered.
“Hi.” He looked confused now. “I didn’t order any food.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you...” His eyes flicked down to my chest, where the GrubGetter logo sat right above my heart.
“Oh, right. No.”
“No?”
“No.” Humiliating. This was the hottest guy I’d interacted with since Rob left town and I was wearing the filthiest item of clothing in my closet, on one of my worst days in recent memory. Rather than explain that I was off duty, since technically I didn’t know if I’d ever be on duty again, I changed the subject and nodded toward the bungalow. “Are you staying here?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve seen the pictures on Airbnb, it looks really nice inside.”
He studied the front door, as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s not bad. I mostly just like it for the location.”
Pacific Beach was the perfect spot for a surf getaway, and this house was a three-block stroll to the ocean. But if all he was interested in was easy access to the waves, I wondered why he wasn’t staying in one of those cheap hostels right on the sand. Maybe he was splitting the rental with some friends. Or a girlfriend.
“Well, you picked a great neighborhood to visit,” I said, launching into the usual spiel I gave to tourists who caught me ogling this house. “If you’re looking for good Mexican food, you should try Oscar’s on Turquoise Street. They make the best fish tacos. PB Shore Club is a fun place to grab a drink and watch the sunset. And at night, there are tons of bars and clubs and stuff on Garnet Street. It can get a little crazy there, though.”
The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “That’s not really my scene.”
“Me neither. I’ve lived in PB for four years and I’ve only been to Garnet, like, three times.” It was always a bad time, too. Once, at two in the morning, I puked in a planter in the parking lot of a Jack in the Box. That was the first and last time I’d ever had a Jägerbomb.
“Four years, huh?” He ran a hand over his glistening hair and shook the excess water on the sidewalk at his feet. “That’s about when I bought this place.”
“What do you mean?”
Tilting his chin toward the bungalow, he said, “I took it down off Airbnb last week.”
“Oh.” This was Surf Vacationz LLC? He didn’t look much older than me.
“Where do you live?”
“Next door.”
He looked over my shoulder. “In the triplex?”
“Uh...yeah.” No need to get into nitty-gritty details at the moment. Instead, I held out my hand. “I’m Bree.”
“Trey.”
He shook my hand with a firm, respectful grip. It was the handshake of a man who ran an Airbnb business, a gesture that said, Pleased to meet your acquaintance. But his eyes said something else. Something a little more mischievous. They were deep set and dancing, and the way they searched my face made me squirm in a not-uncomfortable way.
I really wished I wasn’t wearing my stained, smelly GrubGetter shirt.
Trey released my hand, but kept his eyes on me. “I should probably go dry off now.”
“Of course.”