Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
As for River? He’s gone. He says he’ll be back, but should I believe him? I trust him to help me with my problem, and I adore him for it, but I may just have to face the possibility that he doesn’t feel what I do.
That he’s not in love with me.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter as I slide some strawberry-colored gloss over my lips.
I’m not even slightly hungry, but I could certainly use a drink. Perhaps one of those Island Mirage things that Katie made Misty and me during the cook-off. They were absolutely scrummy.
I give myself a once-over in the mirror.
I don’t normally wear white with my fair skin and light hair, but I’m feeling it this evening.
I give my cheeks a quick pinch when a knock sounds on the door. I walk from the bedroom into the living area and open the door.
“Wow.” Sebastian’s baritone is smooth as silk. “You look beautiful, Emily. Radiant, even. I’d say you look like an angel, but I think we both know better.”
I give my hair a toss. “True enough. Last I checked, angels didn’t have killer heels and a talent for stirring up trouble.” I take his outstretched arm and let him lead me out of the suite and down the stairs.
He looks good in jeans, flip-flops, and a black button-down, his long hair pulled back in a low ponytail. He smells even better—like the outdoors, the beach, and a touch of coconut.
And good Lord, I forgot how gorgeous and mesmerizing his eyes are. They’re the color of fine cognac.
“So, you’re stuck with me this evening.” He smiles as we walk out the back doors toward the path leading to the beach.
I smile coyly. “I wouldn’t call it a hardship. Would you?”
“Not at all. I’ve been waiting for a while to continue what we started.”
His words hit me in the gut. That night, I would’ve let him fuck me raw, but now I’m in love with someone else.
Still...the idea isn’t meritless.
We walk together, our fingers touching a bit every now and then, until we come to the beach. He kicks off his flip-flops, and I remove my sandals. In the distance I see the table set for us. Next to one chair is an acoustic guitar.
“Are you going to serenade me?” I ask.
He pulls out my chair for me. “If you’d like.”
“I’d like,” I say.
A server appears with a bottle of Dom. “Champagne?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply.
He nods and fills my flute.
“Mr. Tate?”
“I’ll have a bourbon, I think. Pappy’s.”
“Of course. I’ll bring it right away.”
In the meantime, Sebastian takes a sip of his water while I twirl the champagne in my flute, watching the erotic dance of the bubbles.
Sebastian picks up the guitar. “I’ve been working on something new,” he says. “It’s a rock ballad.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He strums a few chords, and I tilt my head. They sound almost melancholy, like they’re carrying the weight of something unsaid, something heavy. The notes linger, pulling at my chest, each one echoing with a sadness he doesn’t need to explain. It’s not just music—it’s emotion, raw and stripped bare. Kind of like “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton.
Then he begins singing.
“We were chasing dreams like fire in the wind,
Swore we’d never let the story end.
But life’s a road that twists and turns,
And sometimes you crash, and sometimes you burn.
But I’ll always hold on tight to the way it used to be,
When we were young and wild and free.”
“That’s beautiful,” I say softly.
“That’s the refrain. I’m still working on the verses. But here’s what I’ve got so far.”
“We were just boys in a small-town haze,
Runnin’ wild through the long summer days,
Four of us strong, with the world at our feet,
Fighting for a future that felt so sweet.”
His voice cracks a bit on the last line.
Again, I say, “That’s beautiful.” Then, “Tell me about the song, Sebastian. It’s about you, River, Brett, and Alex, obviously.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice raspy. “But there’s one thing I should change.”
“What’s that?”
He doesn’t reply right away. Then, “There are things we don’t talk about. There are things I don’t let myself think about. But being here, all of us together, has brought our past back.”
“So you’ve been writing songs about the past?”
He nods. “I have. And it’s not something I write about.” He shakes his head. “That’s not true. It is something I write about. I just don’t publish those songs. I don’t sing them in public. They exist only in my head.”
“Why? I’d think—”
“Because,” he interrupts me, “it’s too painful.”
“Why?” I ask again boldly.
Again, for a moment he doesn’t reply.
I stay quiet, letting him think about what—if anything—he wants to say to me.
“The song is a lie, Emily.”
“How is it a lie?”
“Because I say, ‘Four of us strong, with the world at our feet.’”