Love, Lattes and Mutants. Sandra Cox

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      I stop, muttering sea curses under my breath. He and his sister so unnerve me.

      I hunch into my shapeless shirt. I’ve had way too much human interaction today. It’s giving me a headache, all sorts of uncomfortable feelings surface. I desire peace and the sea to counter the raw and edgy.

      I shift toward him. “What do you want, Tyler?” I muster what patience I have left. It’s time for me to patrol the waters.

      He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. His expression amused. “You’re an intriguing little thing. I’ve never had this effect on a girl before.”

      Little thing? Maybe to someone six-two.

      No one has ever bothered to look beyond my nerdy surface. Now, in a short period of time, both he and his sister are probing.

      I know why Holly is. My lack of interest in her brother fascinates her. And I think I know why Tyler is interested, too. It’s my own damn fault. I was careless about my voice and it’s come back to bite me.

      A light breeze ruffles his thick tawny hair. High cheekbones emphasize chiseled bone structure. My gaze drifts to a very kissable mouth before I jerk it back to those oceanic blue eyes that give me a drowning sensation.

      His expression goes from amused to thoughtful. “I was wondering if you’d like to go on my boat Saturday.”

      “You have a boat?” The boy continues to surprise me.

      “Yeah. My mom said if she didn’t know better she’d swear she and dad spawned a fish.” His eyes crinkle with laughter, inviting me to share in the joke.

      Mine narrow. The comment hits too close to home.

      “Why?” I fist my hands on my hips. “Why do you want to take me on your boat? Is this some sort of joke or locker room bet?”

      He frowns, as if taken aback. Definitely not used to hearing no from females, especially dowdy ones.

      Recovering, he drawls, “I have a theory I’m trying to prove.”

      “Which is?” I narrow my eyes and angle away from him.

      “That a girl lurks beneath that getup.” He reaches for my glasses.

      I slap his fingers hard enough to make him back up and shake his hand.

      “Ouch. Why’d you do that?”

      “The sun hurts my eyes.”

      “It’s behind a cloud.” He points out the obvious.

      “You have every other girl in school, isn’t that enough?” I storm, panting.

      “Apparently not.”

      Chapter 3

      I hurry to my truck with more speed than grace. Big, rusty and ten years old, it doesn’t elicit any vehicle lust among the other students. It’s a gas-guzzler, but it serves its purpose for trips down the coast. Hunching over the wheel, I mutter as I drive. “It was the voice.” Mortification assails me. I’ve never slipped up since I started the charade four years ago, when I went through puberty. That’s when my voice and eye color changed. Who’d have thought dolphin and human DNA would mix to give me the voice of a sea siren? The blowhole on my back I’d been born with. Luckily, from a distance it looks like a birthmark.

      Lowering my voice from its normal melodic tone to a deeper alto is second nature to me, or was till I looked into a pair of sea-blue eyes.

      Grinding my teeth at my loss of control, I rip off the offending barrette. My hair flies around my shoulders as I shake it free. Tension rips through me. I’ve spent too much time on land breathing in smog-filled air. I desperately need the soothing waves of the sea, the song of the whales and the swaying, jewel-like glitter of coral on the ocean floor.

      I’m on my way home before I remember Gramps mentioning yesterday he was almost out of oatmeal. I do a U-turn, stop at the local grocery store, and then head home again.

      Finally. I turn off the paved lane onto a dirt road. At the top is a cliff with the best view in California.

      Eight minutes later, I kill the motor and just sit there, my arms resting on the steering wheel.

      I toss my glasses on the seat, the better to enjoy the view. They are oversized, pink tinted, and do a good job of hiding my unusual turquoise eyes. The problem is they distort my vision.

      Waves lap below. I’ve gotten home later than usual. Lights across the bay have already begun to glisten like stars. My taut muscles loosen. I will never lose my fascination for the ocean. It’s my existence. I can’t imagine living anywhere but here.

      I take one last look at the isolated outcrop we live on before getting out of the truck and entering the cottage. The aromas of spaghetti and garlic bread waft around me, tickling my senses. My mouth waters.

      Gramps stands at the stove in jeans and a plaid shirt, a plain white apron wrapped around his lean middle, stirring a pot.

      A wave of love engulfs me. This man is my family. He looks like an aging tree, tall and stooped with a shock of white hair. He worked the coast as a salmon fisherman until the salmon were nearly decimated from overfishing. Now he takes the occasional tourist junket out. With its location, Gramps could sell our cottage and live the rest of his life like a king, but not only does he love it, the location is paramount to me.

      I come up behind him and hug his ropy waist. “Sorry I wasn’t home to take care of supper.” I lay my cheek against his back.

      “What, you think I can’t cook?” It’s a standing joke between us. Cooking isn’t either of our fortes but Gramps is far better than I am. He glances at the clock. Five o’clock. Suppertime at the Dunn household. “Sit down and eat before you dart out to save the world.”

      I know better than to argue, especially the way my stomach is growling. “I’ll set the table.”

      I hum as I put out plain white plates on the little table. The kitchen is homey, all pine and yellow paint, with white curtains at the window. Encompassed in the warmth of the room, I momentarily forget my need for the sea.

      Gramps pauses to listen, a look of pleasure on his face. I have no need to disguise my voice here.

      I fill our glasses with iced tea. Moments later we eat, my fork loaded with slippery pasta. I break a piece of hot bread apart. Steam, tinged with the aroma of herbs, rises and tickles my nose. I shift and glance up.

      Gramps pauses; his gnarled hand circles his iced tea glass. “You look so much like your mother,” he says softly.

      “Tell me again, how you found her,” I urge. I’ve heard the story a hundred times, but since I’ve lost her, I never tire of it. She and my dad were killed in a car wreck when I was four. There’s some mystery surrounding their death. Dad was speeding and took a curve too fast. Gramps maintains he would have never driven that fast with my mom in the car without a darn good reason.

      I miss my parents. It breaks my heart that my memories of them are fading. My clearest recollection СКАЧАТЬ