“Born there.” Keeping a careful distance, she balanced on one leg for a quick quad stretch. “But I’ve lived here most of my life.”
Which sounded clearly in her coastal Southern drawl.
“I inherited my love for the Mets from my grandfather. New York?” she asked in turn.
“I moved to Brooklyn right after college. Found my place and my ball team. Nice to meet a fellow Mets fan in South Carolina. They’re playing the Mariners tonight. Bassitt against Castillo.”
“I’m looking forward to it. So, you and your family on vacation?”
“No family, just me. Working vacation. Can’t beat the view.” He gestured back. “I’m two back from these big-ass oceanfronts. They call it Riding the Wave.”
She’d check on him with that info, he thought. Just as he wanted her to.
“Ah, Trevor Caine.” He offered a hand.
“Quinn Loper. Enjoy your stay.”
“Oh, I am. Maybe I’ll see you on the run tomorrow.”
She shot a smile over her shoulder as she walked away. “Maybe.”
* * *
He timed it well the next day, and she ran just behind him. He slowed just enough. “Hell of a game,” he called out.
He hadn’t watched it, but he’d gathered all the stats and highlights. “That double play in the bottom of the ninth? Sweet!”
They ran together for a stretch, tossing game tidbits back and forth. This time he slowed to a walk when she did.
“Taking a tip from you,” he told her. “Walking it down. Too much sitting, I guess, and not enough time in the gym.”
“Same for me if I fall off routine. What kind of work do you do?”
She already knew the basics of the identity he’d built, he could tell.
“I’m a writer, working on a novel. He’s said for three years and counting.” Sheepish smile for that one. “Ghostwriting pays the bills while I do.”
“Ghostwriting? Like, you write a book and somebody else puts their name on it?”
“It’s not as simple as that. It’s more somebody needs something they’ve written fixed up, or has an idea, but it needs fleshing out.”
“Books and baseball are my things.”
And he knew that, hence the cap and the cover.
“Who have you written for?”
He gave her a smile and lifted shoulders. “The thing about ghosts is we’re invisible. Can’t say. It’s a contractual deal. I decided to come down here, finish up a project for a client, and give my own some serious time.”
He looked out over the water. “It’s working. I think I can finish the contract book by the end of the week. Then, no excuses, it’s my time, my story.”
He looked back at her. Easy and casual, but let interest show through. “What do you like to read?”
“A good story. Thriller, mystery, romance, horror, fantasy. Just take me away for a while and we’re good.”
“That’s the goal. What do you do when you’re not reading or watching baseball?”
“I run a cleaning company. Beachy Clean takes care of your cottage.”
“Seriously?” He tipped his cap back. “You clean my rental?”
“Not me personally. I run the operation that does.”
Not own it, he noted. Being careful.
“I’m going to start picking up a lot more before the weekly cleaning so I don’t get reported back to you as a slob.”
Her smile came wide and bright.
“The crew’s like ghostwriters. Very discreet. And I’ve got to get to it. Good luck with the writing.”
“Thanks.”
By day four he planned to run together, but she didn’t show. He settled for day five. On day seven, she asked him out for a drink, beating his scheduled ask by two days.
He followed up with an invite to dinner—all casual, friendly, and a friendly good-night kiss before he deliberately missed a day.
“Pulled an all-nighter,” he told her, and put on shining excitement. “It just started to roll, and I couldn’t stop.”
“Your book, right?”
“Yeah, all mine.”
“What’s it about?”
“Can’t say—that’s straight superstition. It’s like if I talk about it, it’ll stop rolling.” He looked up as gulls winged and called overhead. “This was the right time, the right place. If I ever get it finished—and I will—and published—and I will—I’ll send you a copy. I honestly think these morning runs with you got the engine going.”