Spring Tide (Coastal University Book 1)

My nerves are shot.

I’m meeting Harper and her dad for dinner tonight. He’s chosen some upscale restaurant near the water, one of those places where they don’t bother to list their prices. His treat, Harper reassured me. While I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of him paying, there’s not a shot in hell I’d be able to afford it myself.

Money’s tight, as always. I managed to scrape up the funds for Bentley, but I’ve been living off bags of rice and dried beans ever since.

I’m also worried about making a good first impression tonight. It takes me quite a bit of time to warm up to people and for them to warm up to me in return. I know we’ve already done our initial introductions, but I was flustered beyond belief then. Now, I have no reasonable excuse for being my usual clueless self.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been on the verge of panic for the last few weeks.

My concern for my little brother is growing by the day. Harper’s been helping me stay calm since we talked things over, sending me daily affirmations and working hard to distract me. It all helps, but the tension won’t resolve until I confront the issue head-on.

Luckily, Taylor and I have already concocted a foolproof action plan. We’re going to wait until Elio’s trapped at home during Thanksgiving break. It gives us the opportunity to host a mini-intervention after dinner, especially since he’s not likely to miss out on his favorite meal of the year.

Until then, I’m attempting to clear all thoughts of the situation from my mind. It’s a problem for another day. Right now, my brain needs to fully focus on my girlfriend, her father, and how to discreetly find the cheapest meal on an unmarked menu.

Blowing out a breath, I take one last look in the mirror before ducking out of the house. I dressed in the same dorky button-up and trousers that Taylor picked out months ago. I may not feel like myself, but at least I look somewhat presentable, I guess.

Honestly, I never usually think about what I’m wearing or how it might look on me, but what I do know is that Harper called me handsome the last time I wore this. That’s reason enough to throw it on a second time.

By the time I pull up to the restaurant, Harper has sent me a text saying they’ve already been seated. Thankfully, I’m not technically late, but it did take me a few extra minutes to avoid the valet out front.

While a hostess leads me to their table, I stuff my hands into my pockets and tap one thumb against my thigh. Three beats on, three beats off—it’s a rhythmic trick to get me to calm the fuck down.

It doesn’t work.

“Hey!” Harper’s chipper voice greets me as I sidle up to the pair of them.

She stands, pulling me in for a hug, placing a chaste kiss to my cheek. I free my hands from my pockets—eyes quickly trailing over her gorgeous frame—before turning to shake her dad’s hand across the table.

“Mr. St. James—”Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

“Christopher,” he says with a smile, cutting me off.

“Christopher, sir, thank you for inviting me to join you.”

“Sure thing.” He nods, taking a long sip from his glass. It appears to be whiskey served in a thick Glencairn, neat, and there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s top-shelf. “My little girl speaks highly of you.”

“I consider myself very lucky to have her.”

“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve met a boyfriend of my daughter’s.” He nudges Harper, tipping his glass toward me in a faux toast. “Honestly, I thought she was into girls.”

Out of my peripheral vision, Harper’s eyes go wide.

“Ah.” I clear my throat, attempting to keep the bitterness from my voice. “I hear you can like both.”

“Yeah, Dad, come on.” Harper’s voice is pleading, but it still carries the same light, airy tone as usual. She’s not irritated with him for his comment, even though she probably should be. “We’ve been over this a million times.”

“Oh, I know.” He laughs, taking another drawn-out sip. “I just thought you preferred them, that’s all. You change your mind with the seasons, anyway. Well, actually, a little more frequently than that, right?”

Harper’s smile slowly fades, one corner of her mouth tipping into a frown. “Not really.”

“Oh, sorry, honey.” There’s a casual wave of one hand, immediately dismissing her. “You know I’m just messing around. Your mother and I always liked that about you—your ability to flit from one thing to the next.”

“I mean, I’ve had the same career aspirations since Uncle Allan took me to that Carolina baseball game. I was only, like, sixteen at the time.” She looks straight at me while she explains, like the prospect of convincing her dad is already a lost cause. “I watched Darnell Williams get wheeled out on a stretcher, and I’ve been gunning for sports medicine ever since.”

“Of course, sweetie.” He smiles, wide and unassuming. “And you have plenty of time to change your mind if you like. You’re only twenty-one, after all.”

She closes her eyes for what must only be a few quick seconds. Still, I swear I can almost see her float outside of herself. When she comes back, she gives her dad a soft smile and says, “I probably won’t, though,” in the smallest voice I’ve ever heard from her.

“With all due respect, sir, Harper’s one of the most dedicated students I know.”

“Right.” He laughs again. This time, it grates on my fucking patience. “And when I was her age, I was dedicated to many things that have nothing to do with my career. Namely, partying and girls.”

I clench my fists, suddenly sick of biting my tongue. “Sorry, but—”

“Dad, let’s just change the subject.” Harper cuts me off before I can make an actual mess of everything. “Shall we?”

She places a warm, comforting palm against my thigh, and I pat the top of her hand under the table. It barely takes the edge off. My girlfriend may be good at letting things go, but it’s certainly not my specialty.

We spend the rest of the night drinking, eating, and carefully avoiding controversial topics. There are plenty of good moments, sure, but her dad continues to make little digs no matter the subject—poking fun at her dating history, her chosen career field, and even her personality as a whole.

Near the tail end of our meal, while waiting for the check, my frustration hits an all-time high.

Harper has just finished recounting a funny anecdote from her childhood, the joy and the laughter bouncing off her in waves. Despite my irritation at the third member of our party, it even generates a chuckle or two from me.

“Harper, honey,” her dad quietly chastises her, his tight smile filled with condescension. “Everyone’s staring at ya.”

“Oh, sorry.” Her laughter dims as she glances around the room, ensuring that she hasn’t caused an actual disruption. There are a few guests looking at our table, of course, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. In fact, they’re probably only looking because she’s fucking beautiful and happy, and they wish they could be sitting with her instead of their boring-ass partners. “I didn’t realize I was being so loud.”

“You weren’t, baby. You’re fine,” I say, staring pointedly at her dad.

“You’re right. You’re right.” He immediately plays it off, taking note of the pissed-off look on my face. “No big deal.”

Goddammit.

I understand exactly where Harper was coming from now that I’ve seen it firsthand. A hundredfold. From my vantage point, it almost seems like she’s a joke to her father. And sadly, I don’t think she’s able to see the true extent of the situation.

She loves him too much to assume the worst.

Thirty minutes later, Harper and I find ourselves walking down the street toward my car. I parked a few blocks away from the restaurant, while Harper’s dad picked her up from her apartment. It didn’t take much convincing for him to let me drive her home after dinner. In fact, he already had plans to head back to the city tonight.

I’m sure cutting off the detour saved him a few precious minutes.

As we settle into our seats, there’s an eerie silence that washes over us. I can tell she feels uncomfortable, but I’m not sure how to tactfully broach the subject.

“Harper, look—”

She shakes her head, plastering a flimsy paper smile on her face. “You don’t have to say it.”

“Are you sure?” I sigh, long and heavy. “Because I feel like I have to say it.”

“I mean, you can if you really want to.”

“Your dad’s a jerk.” I reach an arm over the center console, shaping my fingers around her thigh. “You’re fucking perfect, okay?”

“I know I told you he doesn’t take me seriously, but he’s not usually that bad. I promise.” She laces the tips of her fingers through the gaps in mine. “Something was just off with him tonight. I think maybe he was trying to act cool around you for whatever reason.”

“Why on earth would he want to do that?” I scoff. “Actually, better question, why would he ever think treating you like shit would impress me?”

“He wasn’t treating me like shit. He was just being clueless.”

“If that’s what you want to believe.”

She blinks over at me, wide eyes shining with forgiveness. “I choose to give him the benefit of the doubt. I know my dad loves me. Sometimes the things we say come out the wrong way . . . despite our intentions.”

Again, Harper proves herself to be too damn good for this messed-up world. She’s the most nonjudgmental person I’ve ever met. To be honest, it seems to bring her a helluva lot more joy and happiness than the rest of us.

“I suppose you’re right.”

She turns her phony smile up a few notches, cheeks tightening as it fades into something genuine. “I’m fine, really.”

“Okay . . .”

She traces an X over her chest and says, “Cross my heart.”

I drop the subject, mentally searching for some way to change the night’s course. Harper—my confident, sweet, and carefree girl—deserves something to take her mind off the disappointment.

“You know, I think I have a few bucks in my cup holder.” I move my hand from her thigh, rifling through the change until I come up with enough for a large cone. “I could swing by that place you like? Pick up some chocolate ice cream with gummy bears.”

A soft pink stains her cheeks. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did. Who could forget something so disgusting?”

Her jaw drops in a playful scoff, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re just mad that you’re boring.”

I pocket my change and return my hand to its rightful place atop her thigh. “Sure am.”

On our drive over to the Golden Cone, Harper sifts through my glove compartment in search of a pen. She pulls my hand onto her lap, doodling some flower pattern on the back of my wrist. When we coast up to a stop sign, she flips my hand and scribbles her first initial on my upturned palm. There—right at the base of my thumb—is a capital H with a loopy little heart above the center.

It’s silly, inconsequential really, but for some reason, it still makes my pulse hum heavy in my chest.

Moments later, while we wait at the drive-through window, I grab her hand and scribble a tiny cursive L in the same place. There’s a weight in the pit of my stomach now, a desperate, aching need to make her just as absurdly happy as she makes me.

It may be an impossible feat, but I’m sure as hell going to try my fucking best.