Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
"More."
"How much more?"
"More," he says.
"So I was right?"
"You want a prize?" he asks.
"Of course."
He chuckles. "I'll buy you a gin tonic."
"They're free."
"Once we land then."
"They're cheaper than a pour-over at Philz most places."
"That's not saying much."
A laugh spills from my lips. "When did you get so fancy?"
"Me? You're the European babe."
Has he ever called me a babe before? My cheeks flush. My chest too. We're not moving toward more platonic subject matter. But then, I guess we won't, given my mission. "These things aren't fancy in Europe. They're normal."
"Your premium tonic water?"
I nod. "And the sangria. Cheap and fantastic."
"What else?"
"So many things." I start listing the perks of life in Barcelona: premium tonic water, four-euro sangria, easy public transit. Then the downsides: total lack of ice, for example—really, did they lose the recipe? But my head keeps going back to his question.
Do you masturbate?
It was a therapy assignment, actually. At first, it felt awkward and strange and dangerous. Which made no sense. How could I feel danger alone in my room?
But it wasn't from someone else.
It was my own head.
And even now—
I worry about the place my thoughts will go.
Even now, after months of practice and therapy, they still go there.
And, somehow, Dare knows.
Maybe not the details but the truth behind them.
I'm struggling, and I have no idea how I'm going to accomplish this goal.
Will I ever trust another man as much as I trust him?
Chapter Eleven
VAL
We chitchat through taxiing. Then I let Dare squeeze my hand, and I distract him through takeoff.
He's a nervous flier. He didn't tell me, but he couldn't hide it when we flew to New York together, senior year of high school—a gift from his dad. I'm pretty sure his dad thought it would help him seal the deal with me, but hey, it was a free trip to the cultural center of the country. I didn't complain. Much.
He was his usual too-cool-for-school self through security and as we shopped for last-minute snacks at the gate. Even as the doors closed and the plane moved.
Then the engines revved for takeoff and he tensed.
He didn't say anything. He didn't have to say anything. I took his hand, squeezed it, and talked about the book I was reading.
He found enough distraction to tease back until we were in the air.
Today, it's the same. Only I ask him questions instead.
"What if I wanted a pinup?" I ask.
"You'd never."
"What if I did?"
"What if?" He looks to the window. Watches the position of the sky shift with a nervous stare.
"What would you recommend?" I need to move his gaze. "Right here." I shift out of my sweater so he can see my shoulder.
Ah, victory. His eyes go to the motion. Then my skin.
The neckline of my dress (not especially low, but, hey, when you have larger breasts, a lot of normal necklines look indecent). My collarbones.
Finally, my shoulder.
My cheeks flush. My chest too.
It's been so long since he's looked at me this way. I'm not sure he's ever looked at me this way.
Definitely not since The Incident.
That changed something. Changed everything.
And this changes everything too. I'm straight-up asking him to view me as a sexual person, to help me find satisfaction.
"What would suit me?" I push the concern aside. Right now, I have to keep him distracted. Everything else is secondary.
"What do you want it to say?" he asks.
"What does yours say?"
"It's a mix of new and old-school pinups are classic, right? The Sailor Jerry is iconic and artists have been riffing off that forever. I'm bringing in that history and making it modern."
"So it's an homage?"
"Yeah, and it's cheeky. Pinups always are. They're not sexy in a Penthouse way."
That suits him. "What about this one?" I trace the tattoo on his forearm. The matching circles, one on each arm, a wave and a bird stretching its wings.
"It's not supposed to mean anything."
"Why did you get it?"
"We talked about it." His eyes return to the window.
"Remind me." I trace the wave.
His attention goes to my touch, so I keep tracing. It's probably too much, but I don't care. I need to help him stay calm.
"I forget," I say.
"You don't."
"Tell me anyway."
"The ocean always felt like a happy place to me," he says. "But there's a power to it too. I guess I got that from you."
"I don't own the concept."
He nods. "And the bird was supposed to be a seagull. Not most people's idea of a majestic animal, but I admire them. They're scrappy. They're fierce. They're in the water and on land."
He smiles. "That would suit you, something with the ocean. And a movie."
"A babe watching a movie on a surfboard?"
"Yeah," he says. "She's sitting on a wave, watching the movie projected into the sky."
"Will all that fit on my shoulder?"
"Yeah." He traces a circle on my upper shoulder. "The moon can be the screen. Then the wave." He traces that too. "The girl. The board."