Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“Maybe,” I say with a smirk. “But I’m thinking you need a distraction too. Something besides tinkering with crystals all day.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “It’s not tinkering. I’m crafting. It’s a science.”
“Whatever you say, Einstein.”
She rolls her eyes but laughs. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Before we leave, I step closer, meeting her gaze seriously. “Stay close to me. It’s probably nothing, but I’m not taking any chances with you.”
She nods, her expression softening as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay, Ranger. I promise I won’t wander off.”
The boardwalk isn’t far, just a ten-minute walk along the soft, packed sand. The breeze off the Atlantic is cool and salty, tugging at Tory’s hair as we make our way there. She keeps pace with me, the sound of the waves filling the comfortable silence between us.
“See?” I say, gesturing ahead as the wooden slats of the boardwalk come into view. “Not too far.”
“Convenient,” she replies, looking around as if taking in every detail. Her voice carries a lightness that makes me glad we came. “You know, I haven’t been to a beachside boardwalk since I was a kid.”
“Then it’s long overdue.”
The boardwalk is already buzzing with life when we arrive. People mill about, strolling with ice cream cones or stopping to browse the small booths of the craft fair. Colorful stalls line the edges, displaying handmade goods—paintings, candles, scarves, and jewelry. Tory’s face lights up, and I swear she looks like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Come on,” she says, tugging on my sleeve before realizing what she’s done. She drops her hand quickly, cheeks flushing. “Uh, I mean… let’s look around.”
I chuckle, letting her take the lead. “You’re the boss.”
She stops at a booth where a woman is selling handmade jewelry—delicate pieces made from sea glass and driftwood, strung together in intricate patterns. Tory’s eyes practically sparkle as she runs her fingers over a sea glass pendant.
“These are beautiful,” she murmurs, clearly impressed.
The vendor, a woman in her fifties with short gray hair, smiles warmly. “Thank you, dear. I make every piece by hand. Been doing it for over twenty years.”
“That’s incredible,” Tory says. “I’ve been making jewelry, too, but I’ve never thought about selling it.”
“You should,” the woman replies, her tone encouraging. “It’s a labor of love, but it’s worth it. People will pay for something that’s made with care.”
I chime in, crossing my arms as I glance at Tory. “She’s being modest. She’s got a knack for it. I’ve seen her pieces—they’re amazing.”
Tory shoots me a look, equal parts surprised and flustered. “You’ve barely seen my stuff!”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” I reply, smirking. “You could make a killing if you wanted to.”
The vendor nods in agreement. “He’s right. Start with a stall at a market like this, and go from there.”
Tory smiles shyly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Maybe someday.”
We move on, and as we walk, I notice Tory glancing over at me every now and then, her expression thoughtful.
“What?” I ask finally, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re… supportive,” she says, like she’s surprised by it. “I didn’t expect that.”
I scoff lightly. “What, you think I’m just a muscle-bound meathead?”
“No,” she says quickly, then adds with a teasing grin, “but you do have a lot of muscles.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help laughing. “Glad you noticed. Makes every push up worth it.”
We keep walking, stopping occasionally to look at booths or grab something to eat. I buy her a lemonade from a stand and try to steal a sip of it when she’s not looking, earning myself a playful glare.
“Hey!” she protests, snatching the cup back.
I smirk. “Tastes better when it’s stolen.”
“Neanderthal,” she mutters under her breath, but she’s smiling as she takes a sip.
Somewhere between the lemonade and a guy playing acoustic guitar near the edge of the boardwalk, her hand brushes against mine. It’s unintentional—at first—but neither of us pulls away. I glance down at her, and she looks up at me, wide-eyed and blushing.
“Here,” I say quietly, slipping my hand into hers. It’s small and warm in my palm, and it feels so right I can’t believe I haven’t done it sooner. “Easier to keep track of you this way.”
She doesn’t argue, though the blush creeps up her cheeks, and I know she’s trying not to smile.
“Sure,” she says softly. “For safety.”
“Exactly,” I reply, grinning as we keep walking, hand in hand.
And for the first time in years, I feel like I’m not just guarding someone—I’m living.
Chapter 8
Tory
The little diner sits at the end of the boardwalk, tucked between a surf shop and a bait-and-tackle store. It’s the kind of place with neon signs buzzing in the window, scuffed linoleum floors, and the smell of sizzling bacon lingering in the air no matter what time of day it is. In other words, it’s perfect.