Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
I smack his chest as I climb up. “You don’t put a bun in their oven. That’s how!”
His laughter follows me across the street as I duck into the nearest restaurant to use their restrooms. I push open the door and step into the cubicle, my bladder screaming at me.
I swear to shit, I almost ‘ahh’ as I pee.
It feels that damn good.
I finish my business and wash my hands. When I walk back out into the bar area of the restaurant, I hear his name—on the lips of another girl.
Everything in me tells me to keep walking.
Almost everything.
There’s that one percent, that tiny niggle in the back of my mind, that tells me to stop. That one percent is made up purely of addiction, of pure need.
I take a seat at the bar and ask for a glass of still water. Bottled so I don’t look like a total dick. Who asks for tap water, really?
I sip and listen in on their conversation. Like the complete fucking loser I am.
Because his name is my drug. I hear it and I have to have it. I have to know. Every little thing. It doesn’t matter if it hurts. I need to know.
So I listen, blocking out all other sounds. I listen to them say how ridiculously hot he is. “Have you seen his pictures? Amazing. Wow. Have you seen him through that camera? What a babe. Did you see his modeling pics?”
Wait. What? Modeling?
“Have you seen that chick he’s with?” I listen to them describing me as his latest weekend fling. Someone he’ll throw to the side when he’s done. “Because have you seen that model he’s shooting tomorrow?”
“Holy shit. It’s only Carmen Dallas, the hottest thing this side of America.”
My stomach twists because I know her name. Who doesn’t? Who remotely connected to the modeling world doesn’t know her name? Long, perfectly black hair that curves at her waist. Big baby blues that captivate every man within in a ten-mile radius. Curves that could make a mafia boss cry.
I swallow. The heavy lump in my throat is too much—way too much. If he’d told me if it was her, Carmen Dallas, I would have refused this trip. But would that have made it better? No.
No. It would have made it worse. But can I go to the shoot tomorrow knowing that it’s her? Knowing that he’s staring at America’s sexiest woman for a number of hours through his lens?
No. I can’t be here, but I can’t not be here.
I feel sick. For once, it’s not a baby sick. It’s a nervous, heart-wrenching kind of sick. And I need to run somewhere, anywhere. To breathe.
I push my empty glass across the bar and push out of the restaurant. I run across the road to the beach and feel the sand through my bare feet, soft and hot, spilling between my toes. And I keep running. I run until the sand turns wet and hard and cold water crawls over my feet.
I stop at the water’s edge, far enough into the sea that my feet are always covered but farther away enough that it can only reach my ankles with a wave. I wrap my arms around my waist and breathe in the salty sea air, taking solace in the silence.
Taking the peace of the beach as insanity reigns inside.
Tyler’s hands slide down my arms to rest over mine at my waist. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “It was just hot in there. I needed air.”
He runs his fingers along my forearms, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Okay.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can hear it in his voice. But of course he wouldn’t believe me—if I can’t convince myself of a lie, I can’t expect anyone else to be convinced either.
“When is your shoot tomorrow?” I swallow, hoping he can’t hear the gulp.
“Ten a.m. Are you coming?”
I hesitate just long enough.
“You can come later,” he says softly. “Or I’ll meet you after.”
I nod and look down. The white foam capping the waves swirls around my ankles with each push of the water. Each one is certain yet unsteady, their force known but their direction wavering.
I feel like the waves. In this moment, I am a wave, crashing repeatedly. I’m powerful and strong, but I don’t know where I’m going. My path is so uncertain with so many choices.
My fingers twitch under Tyler’s.
We are the waves. Our love is the force, the crash, and our relationship the slow crawl up the sand, the one with no direction.
Because we have no direction.
Our love is leading us blindly into an ending that might not be all that happy.
My heart twists with that thought. And the doubt—always the doubt. Nudging at the corners of my mind despite fighting it away. I know it’s irrational and it’s wrong, but I can’t hold it at bay.