Today was a very good day—because Livvy realized she didn’t want to die.

As the startling thought took hold, a long-forgotten feeling settled in her chest. She searched her memories for the last time she felt this way, but every time the far reaches of her mind touched it, the reason vanished.

Then it came to her. Contentment. She was content. But as quickly as she recognized the miraculous feeling, it was replaced by feelings of guilt. Was this the beginning of the end? Would her memories of Mark and Daniel start to float away like driftwood on the tide, becoming smaller and smaller until they disappeared completely?

A tightening sensation clamped around her heart. Her mouth dried up, and she absentmindedly pinched the skin at the base of her throat. She couldn’t allow that to happen. They were a part of her—the best part. She could not, would not, let them simply fade from her memories.

She shoved her sunglasses on top of her head and reached into her bag. Her fingers closed around her journal, and she lifted out the worn, brown leather book and opened it towards the back.

She read through page after page, checking out the numbers in the top right margins—lots of twos, threes, and a couple of fours. She had to flip through several sheets of paper before she found a seven. She checked the date and saw that it was three months ago.

Despite her panic, change was coming. Today was definitely an eight, or maybe a nine. But was she really ready to move on with her life? Could she leave the nightmare of what had happened two years ago, allow herself to live, and maybe, one day, be happy again?

She pressed the pen to the paper. Carefully she drew 8/9 followed by today’s date. Her therapist thought that it was a good idea to score her moods, to help her identify when to reach for guidance so things didn’t get out of hand.

She raked the tip of her forefinger over the faint pinkish lines on her left wrist. For some reason, the scars on that wrist were healing faster than the ones on her right. In fact, one or two had turned silvery white, a sure sign that her skin was healing even if her heart still had some serious catching up to do.

“Hey, beautiful. Usual?”

Livvy dropped her sunglasses back in place and smiled at the barman. “You read my mind, Sam.”

Two minutes later, a virgin berry cocktail was set down in front of her, condensation dripping down the sides of the glass. Livvy sipped her drink through a straw as she watched the skillful Californian surfers ride the crest of the waves. Their long, sun-bleached hair flowed behind them as they weaved their way to shore before heading back out into the Pacific Ocean once more.

She bent her head and began writing, the nib of the pen making scratching noises on the paper as she recorded her road to recovery. Well, maybe it was too early to use the word recovery, but at least she no longer walked around like a zombie—a beating heart without a soul.

A shadow fell across the page, and someone cleared his throat. She glanced up to stare into the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. They sparkled in the sunlight, glimmering shards of emerald buried in a face so handsome that it couldn’t be real. Except it was, and so was he.

“Is this seat taken?” He spoke with a drawl, and although she didn’t quite have American accents down pat yet, she would guess that he was from somewhere in the southern states—Texas, maybe.

“Um, no. Help yourself.” She waved her hand at the chair but couldn’t help glancing down the long bar at eight other empty chairs.

He smirked. “Yeah, you’d think I would, right? But as you’re sittin’ in my chair, the best I can do is park my ass next door.”

Livvy inwardly groaned. Great. A cocky egomaniac—just what I don’t need. She narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw. “Your chair? Sorry, I must have missed your name on it when I sat down.”

“Maybe you didn’t look hard enough, darlin’,” he murmured, staring at her with an intensity and overfamiliarity that set her teeth on edge.

She resisted the urge to stand up and look at the bloody seat in case his name actually was on it. Instead she gave a nonchalant shrug. “You can sit there”—she pointed at the seat beside her—“or in any of these other empty chairs.” Hopefully he’ll choose the latter.

His eyes twinkled with mischief. “I could just remove you.”

Livvy’s heart stuttered. The thought of having another man’s hands on her, even in a completely nonsexual way, made her hyperventilate. “Just try it,” she muttered, turning her back to him. She needed this guy to get the message. She wasn’t interested in conversation—or banter.

She buried her head in her journal, and he… well, he chuckled. Then the chair next to hers scraped along the floor. Damn it. He was going to sit there. Livvy sensed his eyes on her, and her body responded in a way that someone who looked like he did was most likely well accustomed to. Her pulse increased, a slight flush crept over her chest and worked its way up her neck, and her skin was heated not from the sun but from him. She stared at the blank page, willing her pen to move and write any old thing, but it stubbornly refused to make a single mark.

“Well, well, if it ain’t Gabe Mitchell. Good to see you, man.” Sam leaned over the bar, and the two men shook hands. “Usual?”

“Yeah.”

Livvy furtively watched Gabe as he dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. Tanned hands gave way to strong, muscled forearms. Livvy’s stomach fluttered in appreciation, accompanied by a tightness across her chest that she recognized as guilt. She rubbed her forehead as a headache began to form behind her eyes.

After Sam set a beer in front of him and swiped the money, Gabe picked up the glass and took a long drink then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

With his thirst quenched, his attention once again turned to Livvy. “So, darlin’, you know my name. What’s yours?”

Livvy put away her journal and drained the last of her drink before pushing her glass across the bar. Keeping her gaze as steady as she could, she looked Gabe straight in the eye. “Number one, I am not your darling,” she said in her best clipped English. “Number two, I have no intention of telling you my name, as what good would it do when we are never going to see each other again? And number three, I’m leaving now, so you can have your precious seat back.”

She scrambled down from the high-backed chair with what she hoped was a modicum of grace, threw some money on the bar, and with her shoulders set back, she stalked towards her car. She had no idea why he’d irked her so much, but in a way, she reveled in the anger. It was good to feel again, even if her therapist would probably tell her to focus on more positive emotions.

She climbed into her car and drove out of the parking lot. As she reached the road, she couldn’t resist glancing back towards Sam’s. She expected to see him enjoying his beer and the ocean view. Instead, she found him staring at her, his eyes piercing, his lips curved upward into a small smile.

At his scrutiny, heat rushed into her face, and her heartbeat kicked into overdrive. She quickly turned away from his stare and hit the gas pedal. Only once she’d put some distance between herself and the bar did her breathing return to normal.

But the anxiousness churning in her gut, mingled with a long-forgotten tingle of excitement that began in her toes and slowly crept upward, was far from normal. She could sense change was in the air. Had it arrived with Gabe Mitchell?