The Sand Bar Misstep

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Mason Martin sat at his computer, rapt. He didn’t normally do anything like this, as he’d spent at least seventy percent of his life under the brutal Texas sun, on his father’s ranch. Then his.

Now someone else’s, as he’d finally sold Fox Hill Ranch a few months ago. He’d already made the move across the ocean, and he’d been in Getaway Bay for nine months now. Dating here was just as hard as it had been in the wilds of Texas.

Probably harder, as he sported quite the farmer’s tan despite his efforts to even out his skin tone on the beaches here. Not only that, but a man in a cowboy hat here seemed to draw all the wrong kinds of attention.

So with some of the billions he’d received from the sale of his generational land, he’d bought an island. Long Bar Island, to be exact, and it was basically a patch of sand and trees and vegetation that got submerged in the late autumn and winter months.

But in the summer, it was glorious, with that sparkling teal water he’d seen in movies. No running water, but he had a yacht he could equip with everything he needed to survive for a while.

Three months, to be exact.

Are you from the island?

A message from the woman who’d started the conversation finally popped up, and Mason’s fingers trembled slightly. At least he hoped she was a woman. He knew the dangers of online chatting better than most, and he had no idea who was really on the other side of this conversation.

No, he typed out. I’m from Texas.

Texas?

He almost rolled his eyes. This woman was probably some over-suntanned blonde who was more interested in his island than she was in him.

“She’s the only one who’s messaged,” he told himself as he typed out another response.

Yes, Texas. I was born and raised there. I’ve been in Getaway Bay for just over nine months.

What do you do here?

What did he do here? He had no idea how to answer that question. He didn’t have to work. He’d done a few odd jobs for the cattle ranch on the west side of the island. He’d helped with a construction project for a wedding planning business.

Not much, he typed out, staring at the words. Could he really send those? Surely what he did for a living wasn’t up for debate, not if he was really going to go out to his island for three months and hope to fall in love.

Foolishness squirreled through him, and he leaned away from the computer without sending his message.

I work at a boutique downtown, she said in her next text. It’s not much, but I like it. And I get a discount on clothes.

Mason smiled at the words, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted a high-maintenance woman who wanted to shop all the time.

“You don’t know anything about her,” he muttered to himself. He had a tendency to make quick judgements and even quicker decisions. This exercise was supposed to help with both of those things.

And it’s more than an exercise, he reminded himself as he started erasing what he’d typed so he could say something else. He really did want to fall in love. Find someone to share his life with. He’d been so lonely at the ranch, and he’d felt good about coming to Getaway Bay, sure his life would change for the better.

But it had just been the same, with a different view in the morning.

Mason wasn’t sure what to do about that, but he wasn’t going to sit in his high-rise apartment building and watch people sunbathe on the sand below. Not anymore.

He wanted a woman to love? He could find one. His Internet ad had been generating a lot of buzz, especially about who he was and what he looked like. In fact, he’d lunched next to two women talking about him and his ad that very day.

I’m retired, he typed. So I have plenty of free time.

You retired at age thirty-five?

I sold my ranch in Texas to come here. Mason figured he could get some things out of the way up front. That way, if this woman wasn’t going to work out, he could move on to the next.

If there was a next, which so far, there wasn’t. What’s your name? he asked.

Starfish! Her next message made him frown and smile at the same time, and that was pretty hard to do.

“Starfish?” he asked the empty apartment. He hated being alone, and he severely regretted leaving his corgis behind in Three Rivers. But he hadn’t thought the ranch dogs would like the beach. In hindsight, he realized he should’ve brought them, as there were plenty of canines playing catch in the sand most of the time.

I can’t believe I didn’t tell you my name. It’s Ivy McLaughlin. I’m 31, and I work at a boutique, and I have three sisters.

Mason didn’t want to ask for a picture, but well, he wanted to see what she looked like. A rectangle popped up, and a moment later, a beautiful blonde appeared.

That’s me at my sister’s wedding last year.

Ivy was utterly gorgeous—and exactly the kind of woman Mason had dated before. He knew he shouldn’t compare her to his last serious girlfriend, but he couldn’t help it. This Ivy even looked a little bit like Anne-Marie.

His heart twisted in his chest. That woman had stolen enough from him, and he wasn’t going to give her another second of his time. Another ounce of thought.

So, he typed. What do you think of my plan?

I’m a little fuzzy on the details.

It’s simple, he wrote. I own the island. I own a yacht with all the supplies. We sail out there—it’s two hours away—and we live there for three months. See if we can get along. Help each other survive. Share our lives.

He almost sighed, but he held himself together. Yes, he was a big, rough-and-tumble cowboy. But he was also just a man, and a very lonely one at that.

Do you have any family?

His fingers hurt almost as much as his head. He didn’t want to play get-to-know-you over the computer. He could do that on the Getaway Bay Singles app if he wanted to. He didn’t want to.

His impatience with the conversation surged, and he backed away from the computer. His temper wasn’t the longest fuse he possessed, and he figured he could take a break for a minute.

That minute became an hour, and then the next day, and he still hadn’t answered Ivy. She hadn’t messaged him again either, and Mason checked his ad to make sure it was still up.

It was, and the hits on it had doubled. And yet, no one else had messaged. Why not? Was there literally no one on the island of Getaway Bay willing to try this experiment with him?

He’d heard the word crazy get thrown around down in the lines for smoothies and under the trees at the taco joint.

Another day passed, and still nothing. He could go out to the island alone. Take down his ad. Lick his wounds. Sell everything he’d bought here in Getaway Bay and move on.

The grocery delivery guy had just left when his computer made a noise like a ruler tapping a desk.

He hurried over to the desk to find a message from Ivy. His heart fell a little bit, though he wasn’t sure why. Mason? Are you still here?

Yes.

I’m in if the offer still stands. When do we leave?

Mason looked to the stack of bottled water on his kitchen counter. How fast can you be ready?

Depends on the packing list.

I’ll bring everything we need. His fingers flew over the keyboard now, excitement building in his chest. Food, water, supplies. We’ll have my yacht too. You just need clothes and toiletries for three months.

Will we be doing laundry?

Sure. He looked at the cursor, just blinking so merrily on the screen. By hand.

I can be ready whenever.

Let’s say Monday, he typed. That was four days from now. Then she could say goodbye. Have a chance to buy anything she needed. The timeline also gave her time to back out, and Mason wasn’t sure if he wanted her to or not.

She seemed nice, and she was beautiful. It just seemed so strange that no one else—not one single other person—had messaged him. Not even to see what he looked like.

Out of the forty thousand hits his ad had, he’d expected more than one brave soul to contact him.

Meet at the dock at ten?

See you then, she messaged, a row of smiley faces following the words.

Mason leaned away from the computer, hoping he wasn’t getting pranked. But he didn’t have a clue who would want to play a trick on him. His two older brothers ran the other half of the family ranching empire—a second, much larger ranch just north of Hill Country. He’d taken on the smaller—but still impressive—ranch in Three Rivers, up in the Texas Panhandle.

Their father had died four years ago, and their mother had chosen to live at Ramble Ridge with Elliott and Donald. They were both married. They both had children. They got along great, and Mason did too.

But he was the sore thumb, the one that stuck out, the one that didn’t conform.

He’d tried. Honestly, he had.

He knew he wasn’t perfect, but who was?

“Monday,” he said to himself, and he suddenly had so very much to do to be ready to launch for Long Bar Island in just four days.