He grinned. Whoever she was, he liked her. All five foot three and almost a half inches of her. Luke was about to ask for her name when a screech assaulted his ears. They both winced. The winged menace had returned. He glanced up, bracing for another poop bomb, and realized his notebook was still in the asshole’s beak. What the hell was the bird planning to do with it? Write a manifesto?

“Now do you want my help?” the woman asked.

Luke spread his arms as if to say Be my guest.

Jutting her chin in a silent Okay, buddy, watch me, she stepped forward and pulled a bag of crackers from her pocket. Shaking the bag, the woman waited until she’d caught the bird’s attention.

Luke watched as the airborne weasel circled back.

Once the seagull was close, she tossed the contents of the bag, scattering crackers across the beach. Squawking in excitement, the bird dove, the book dropping from its mouth and landing with a plop in the sand, forgotten as its abductor foraged for the crackers. In a whoosh, several other seagulls joined the fray, beaks snapping in a snacking frenzy.

Luke took advantage of the distraction to scoop up his notebook. He tucked it in his back pocket. “Come on.” He reached for her hand and pulled her toward the path. “Now’s our chance to escape.”

“What about your shirt?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Leave it,” he said, again preoccupied by the sensation of her hand in his. “I’ll come back and burn it later.”

She laughed.

The bright sound caught him off guard, and he stumbled, sneakers slipping over the sand and pebbles.

Her fingers tightened, warm and soft where they curled against his palm, as she helped him keep his balance.

“Thank you,” he muttered, wondering how else he could embarrass himself in the next thirty seconds.

“You weren’t walking with your eyes closed again, were you?”

“No, I…” he stopped.

She was smiling at him.

That smile. Luke’s train of thought derailed, attention rerouting to her mouth. It was a lush mouth, full lips promising to be as warm and soft as everything else.

“Now who’s ogling?”

“Huh?” Luke blinked.

“You’re staring at my mouth.”

“I’m not staring.”

Slowly, she licked her lips.

Luke fought the urge to lick his own lips. Or worse, chase the path her tongue just took with his. “Fine.” He forced his gaze back to hers. “I’m staring.”

At his confession, her smile widened, pulling him in.

He leaned closer.

“Jules!” The voice, deep yet feminine, bounded across the beach, loud enough to rise above the screeching seagulls and crashing waves.

Luke froze. He was bent over his notebook savior, mouth hovering a breath away from hers. If he were an inch shorter, or if she were an inch taller …

She stepped back, and he realized she must have been standing on her tiptoes. As he’d been leaning into her, she’d been leaning into him. They’d been about to kiss. And he didn’t even know her na—