Beach Season by Lisa Jackson

cute.”
    I tried to stamp down a rising red tide of jealousy.
    “She was smart.”
    The red tide rose.
    “She was fun and loyal.”
    The red tide was now frothing.
    “She would have made a great mother.”
    Now the red tide was arching over my head in wave form, ready to make an ugly crash. I had no right to be jealous, but I was.
    “And I would have been bored to death.”
    The red tide receded, pulling back down into a puddle. I almost gasped for breath. “Why?”
    “I left when I was eighteen for college and I’ve worked and traveled between places for years. Quite frankly, I’d like to settle down in one place, have a home.” He smiled at me. “Maybe the beach. Or Portland. Anyhow, as you know, there’s a whole world out here and she wasn’t interested in it and didn’t want to see it. Her conversation was limited to what she loved best. She could talk about her family, her horses, and how she was a rodeo queen. That was about it. I knew what we wanted out of life was completely different and we broke up. She’s married to an ex-rodeo cowboy, has lots of horses, and six kids. She’s a kind woman.”
    “But not for you.”
    “That’s right.”
    He sung part of a song about a perfect woman, but he couldn’t marry her, he had to open the door and run, the world was there to live in, not hide from. The chorus was about mountaintops, rushing rivers, and adventures. “I know that song! It’s called ‘Running for the Rivers’ by Jordy Daniels. He won an award for that.”
    “Yep, you’re right.”
    “Sure fits your situation, doesn’t it?”
    “Yes, it did.”
    “Do you like country music?”
    “I love it, listen to it all the time. Do you know this song?” He hummed a few bars, then sang the words.
    “Yes! That’s ‘Tough Caroline Baker,’ about a woman who slugs it out in bars to cover a hurting heart. I love that one, too.”
    “And this song ...” His voice rose, strong and deep.
    I laughed and sang along with him about the cheating boyfriend who was locked up in jail for running naked through the streets, his girlfriend threatening to shoot him from behind and “blast his butt to Jupiter.”
    “That is one of my all-time favorite songs.”
    “Mine, too. So, lovely June, you know I am a rancher.”
    “I know, cowboy. And by the way, you make the most excellent French toast.”
    “Thank you. My granddad taught me. But I have another job, too.”
    “Let me guess.” I tapped my forehead. “You’re a cowboy clothes model.”
    “Not even close, but thank you.”
    “You’re a secret high heel shoe designer.”
    “I wear cowboy boots and beach sandals. That’s about all I know about shoes.”
    “Hmmm ...” I studied him. “You’re a kindergarten teacher.”
    He simply laughed at that one, then hummed a few bars of another country song.
    “That’s ‘Cowboy Lady.’ ” I sang the next two verses, about a lady that was tougher than men and no man could catch her, she rode hard and long, her heart broken way back when.
    “So, June, when I’m not out on my ranch, or hanging out at the beach with a girl who wears lace, I write country songs.”
    I stopped. “You do?”
    “Yep.”
    “For fun, right? You make up your own songs?”
    “I do make up my own songs.”
    “Ah. Sing me one.”
    “I did. I sang you a few.”
    I put my fork down, hard as it was to stop eating that scrumptious French toast with powdered sugar. “I am not understanding this.”
    “The songs I sang you, I wrote.”
    More confusion. “But those songs are sung by huge country stars.”
    “I guess they want to sing my words.”
    I couldn’t get a grip on this one. “Are you kidding?”
    “Nope. I’m not.”
    Seeing my shock, he stood up and brought over his laptop. He typed in his name and millions of hits came up, along with photos of him.
    Reece O’Brien was a famous country music songwriter.
    “You didn’t Google me, did you?” he asked.
    Oh. My. Golly. There he was. “No, I