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)
"Five-hundredth."
I flip him off.
He laughs and leads me across another street.
"What isn't to love? Sabrina is a hopeless romantic," I say.
"And you relate to this how?"
I appreciate her passion. "She stays true to herself."
"And you get to see the heartless, evil brother won over by her charms?"
I clear my throat.
"Your secret wish?"
Not exactly. Not anymore. But right after the divorce? I wanted, so badly, for someone to rescue me from my own ugly thoughts. To show me the magic in the world solely by existing as themselves.
"And Sabrina is the ugly duckling—"
"Oh, yeah, Audrey Hepburn is hideous." Is Sabrina the original let's pretend a gorgeous actress is ugly because she wears her hair in a ponytail movie or were there earlier incarnations?
"And she comes back from Europe a sophisticated babe."
"She was always a babe."
"But she didn't have the style." His eyes flit to my chest.
My swimsuit, I guess. I did go to Europe and come back with a more sophisticated look. Well, maybe not sophisticated, exactly, but stylish and sexy. The bikini is an especially sexy pick. I usually prefer much less revealing attire.
This is part of my healing. Dressing in clothes that make me feel good. Clothes that show off my body.
But I don't want to talk about that. Not really.
Why is he staring?
Is it that surprising I'm capable of wearing a triangle top to the beach?
Sure, it's rather skimpy, but that's the life of the well-endowed woman. Unless we buy a sixty-dollar bra-sized swimsuit, we're showing a lot of boob. And even then, we're showing a decent amount of boob.
Dare doesn't comment on my chest. He rubs my upper arm with his hand. "You're shivering."
Am I?
He shakes his head and pulls his sweatshirt over his head. "Here."
"Really, Dare—"
"I'm not gonna wear it. You might as well." He hands me the sweatshirt.
"I'll just hold it then."
"Uh-huh."
For three blocks, he calls my bluff. When we get to Ocean Avenue, I give in. I slip into the sweatshirt. I let the soft fabric envelop my body. I let the familiar scent fill my nostrils.
Cotton and laundry detergent and Dare.
The scent of him isn't sexual, but it's visceral all the same. Safety, home, love. All straight into my body.
I move closer.
We walk in time, talking about nothing as we find the bridge over PCH, walk the beachfront sidewalk, brave the sand.
We slow as we approach the water.
He shoots me an are you sure about this look?
I return my own of course, don't be ridiculous.
Our routine. Whenever we do this.
I slip out of his sweatshirt. Then my shorts and shoes.
He kicks off his sandals.
I take his hand.
And, together, we run into the Pacific.
Without the heat of the sun, the water is freezing, but that feels good too.
Familiar and safe and dangerous all at once.
A ceremony with my best friend. Maybe my last ceremony with my best friend if this screws everything up.
I soak in every drop of salt water. The sound of the waves crashing on the beach, the reflection of the moon, the deep midnight blue hue of the ocean.
The feeling of cold water enveloping me.
The Pacific in all its glory. Peaceful at a glance (that's what pacific means, after all), but ready to unleash a torrent of power.
And the people who underestimate its force—
Well, we all know how those stories end.
Dare has to drag me out of the water.
We both forgot to bring towels, so we fight over who gets his sweatshirt (I lose and take it, of course), and we run back toward home.
I let the sounds of the ocean fill my head. I channel every drop of its power.
And then, right as we pass the still-empty Third Street Promenade, I say it, "I have to ask a favor."
Chapter Five
DARE
Fuck me.
Right now.
Let's go back to your place, strip in the shower, do it against the tile wall?
Ridiculous on every level. On levels invisible to the human eye and inaudible to the human ear. And, yeah, I'm pretty sure the science doesn't check out there, but the point stands.
There's no way Val is about to say I realized I'm madly in love with you. Let's go back to your place and celebrate by removing the rest of our clothes.
My reasoning evaporates as Val's eyes meet mine. There's intent in her dark eyes. Enough to overshadow her nerves. Almost.
"I, uh…" She plays with the fabric of my sweatshirt. "I want Philz and they won't let you in without a shirt, so I need you to put this on." She pulls off the sweatshirt.
My eyes go to her chest reflexively.
When did she develop those? Sure, I remember the rise of Val's, uh, peaks, but she never looked like this.
She's a centerfold. She's a million times more gorgeous than a centerfold. She's not a manufactured image of the ideal blonde bimbo (I can say it because I'm a bimbo too). She's real.