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Ivy
I’dsuddenlydiscoveredthe joy of lounging about in a deck chair, staring at nothing but the deep blue sea. The clean air.
The warm breeze. It was bliss and just what my jaded spirit craved. After a day and night at sea, life felt great. A cocktail would have made it that much better, like that dollop of cream on an already delicious dessert. But there was none of that. Just juices made from some prehistoric berry and wheatgrass purified by a Himalayan holy man.
Swaggering toward me, Chase carried a book under his arm. Sunglasses hid those teasing eyes. One small mercy. I went to butter around him. I wished I could control my bodily responses to this man.
He pulled up a deck chair next to mine and I glared back as though he had some virulent disease that required massive social distancing. Only in this case, symptoms ranged from a burning face to a swollen clit.
He splayed his hands. “What?”
“You’re sitting there?” I asked.
“Why not?” He shrugged. “It’s a nice spot. The breeze is gentler on this side.”
I couldn’t resist checking out his book: Lee Child’s Killing Floor.
“I didn’t know you read.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” He smirked. “I’ve been able to from the age of five, I believe.”
“Ha ha ha.” I slanted my head. “You told me you didn’t read books.”
He shrugged. “Well, a person can change, can’t they?”
“I guess.”
“Have you had your special brew concocted?” he asked.
“I had a meeting with a shaman. But I’m probably not going to take it.”
“So did he sprinkle holy water on you and stare deeply into your eyes?” he asked, with his tongue digging into his cheek. Mockery to Chase was what naked gowns were to red carpet princesses. Provocative and sure to catch one’s attention.
“Remind me why you’re here again?” I asked.
“Because I was invited. I’m working on a campaign.” He removed his shades and stared into my eyes. His smirk had faded. “The only real reason, however, is to beg for your forgiveness.”
“Beg?” I tilted my head.
“Begging’s not my favorite pastime. But you’re worth it. Even if it means me acting like some simpering baboon. I’ll do what you ask. I’ll sit through hundreds of rewatches of Notting Hill or The Notebook.”
“The Notebook is deep,” I argued.
“Star Wars is deep.”
“You’re such a boy.” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re serious?”
“You bet. I wanted to join the Jedi movement.”
I laughed. “I don’t even know what that is?”
“It’s like the introverted love child of Scientology. Only it doesn’t proselytize or invite you to network with Hollywood stars.”
I shook my head and laughed. I’d missed this.
I missed us.
“Perhaps you can give a workshop on it here?” I suggested, realizing how stupid our conversation was getting.
