She looks toward her dad, and even though his back is to us, there’s a sense of protection emanating from him. He always had this sense of duty and devotion to those who needed it. When we were in school, he volunteered every week to work with kids with disabilities. Grayson formed an entire team of athletes who gave their time to help those who couldn’t play competitively.

He said it was unfair that they had to sit on the sidelines because of something they couldn’t control. He wanted to give them the experience of hearing a crowd cheering for them and the thrill that came with playing a sport.

Amelia goes back to the task but then frowns and asks, “Jessica? Can you put more sand here?” When I reach for the bucket, she stops me. “It has to be very wet sand from the ocean.”

“Okay,” I say with a grin. “I’ll go get the very wet sand.”

I walk over to Grayson, who’s just staring out at the expanse of the ocean.

“Having fun?”

I bend over, scooping the sand into the bucket. “I am. Your daughter is really wonderful.”

He glances over at her. “I don’t know what I would do without her.” There are so many questions I want to ask about her mother, but I’m not sure we’re at that point in this new friendship. “What made you venture down to the ocean?” he asks. “If I remember, you don’t do ocean water.”

I get back up and turn to face him. “I don’t, you can’t see your feet.” I shudder. I can’t stand not seeing what’s lurking around you. “She’s given me very specific instructions on what kind of sand she wants, so I’m here to do her bidding.”

He grins. “She’s very demanding when working on a task.”

“Much like her father.”

“I like to get things done,” he says with amusement.

“You are a task master.”

“We had fun too. It wasn’t always tasks.”

My eyes widen, and I shake my head. “You were not fun. You were a pain in the ass who demanded we do it your way because it was the only way to do it.”

“You’re making me sound like a dictator.” Grayson’s voice is laced with mock indignation.

I cross my arms and give him a wry smile. “You were.”

“That is untrue, and you were just being a baby who didn’t like following perfectly normal directions.”

He’s crazy and completely wrong. “You made Kate Murphy cry because she didn’t use the right paint on the senior rock.”

He huffs and mimics my pose. “It was all laid out, the freaking paint was numbered. If she had just followed what I . . .”

“What you said?” I finish for him.

“She went rogue. I dealt with it.”