Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“You should,” he said. “Wear it, I mean. You’ve had it longer than I did now, anyway. Same with the bag and the iPod. They’re pretty much yours.” His dimple made an appearance, and my pulse skittered. “In fact, I’m officially giving it all to you.”
“You don’t want me to ship it?” It was the only reason I’d come up with to ask for his address, since I didn’t think he’d be getting texts over the next year—the length of this deployment.
“No. I kind of like the idea of you wearing it. As long as it isn’t all messed up from the river.” He grimaced. “Is it gross?”
“No.” I laughed. “It’s surprisingly not gross, though the white parts aren’t exactly as bright as they once may have been. But anything else you had in there must have been destroyed, because that’s all that came back.”
“Did you ever get your purse?”
I nodded. “It showed up a month after your bag. I think having my ID in there helped.”
“I would guess so.” He looked back to the book, but his highlighter hovered over the page without moving. “Are you still afraid of flying?” he asked softly. “I’ve always wondered if the crash . . .”
“Screwed me up even more?” I offered, highlighting a particularly racy line.
“I wasn’t going to put it that way, but now that you mention it . . .” He shot me an apologetic look.
“I didn’t fly for eighteen months,” I admitted, skimming the next chapter to get to my favorite parts. “It took a lot of therapy. For that and the nightmares.” A chill tried its best to work its way up my spine despite the climbing heat. “But I have coping mechanisms for both now.”
“Coping mechanisms?”
“Well, yeah. It’s not like I can actually control the panic attacks. We were actually in a plane crash. And sure, we got the best of a worst-case scenario, but I’ll never be able to tell myself that the likelihood is next to zero again, because now the fear is grounded.” My eyes narrowed. “You never had an issue flying after what happened?”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I was put on the next flight out of Saint Louis, so I just . . .” His throat worked as he swallowed. “Flew. I told myself that if the universe wanted me to die in a plane crash, I would have. I understand the nightmares, though. I do the whole ‘You aren’t there anymore; you’re home’ affirmations thing I saw on some therapist’s YouTube.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Some therapist’s YouTube?”
“Having your file marked up by a shrink isn’t exactly good in my line of work.” He highlighted another line and kept going. “I do what I have to in the moment and then I move on. Like you said,” he said, looking over at me. “Coping mechanism, I guess.”
“Is there anything you’re scared of? There has to be something, right?”
“Sure. Becoming anything like my father.” He reached to the right and pulled something out of his backpack. “Gum?”
“No, thanks.” Guess that topic wasn’t up for discussion.
He popped a piece in his mouth, and we spent another hour just like that, swinging on the beach, marking up our favorite books for each other.
By the time we finished, the sun was high in the sky and my skin was sticky with sweat. “Want to get in?” I asked him, nodding toward the beach.
“Sounds good to me.” We put the books in his backpack and walked toward the water, picking out a spot far from anyone else. He pulled out two towels from his bag, and I lifted my brows. “It’s the last of what has to be packed,” he said in answer to my unspoken question.
Then we stripped down. For me, it was a simple matter of shimmying out of my jean shorts and kicking off my sandals.
I tried to keep my eyes off his body as he pulled his shirt over his head. I failed. Miserably. But in my defense, Nathaniel Phelan had been created to be looked at, to be admired, to be flat out drooled over.
His stomach was cut out of an Abercrombie ad, roped with muscles that rippled and flexed, and the diagonal ridges that led to his board shorts had my mouth watering to trace those lines with my tongue. His chest was built, his arms strong, and every inch of his skin that I could see was tanned to a touchable bronze.
“You ready?” he asked, satisfaction curving my smile when he did a double take at me in my bikini. I wasn’t in his level of shape—I had curves that spoke to just how much time I’d spent studying this year—but the way his eyes heated made me feel . . . beautiful.
I took off his hat and shook out my hair. “Ready.”