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“Me either,” he admits as his own sparkler blazes to life.
“Our family used to do this every Fourth of July. I used to love to write my name when I was little,” I tell him, moving my hand and spelling AJ.
“That’s not fair. Your name is shorter than mine.”
“I used to spell my full name,” I whisper.
“What’s your full name?” His voice dips low to mirror my own.
“Alison. Alison Jane. I stopped going by it when my mom died.” I didn’t mean to say the words; they just tumbled out before I could stop them. But now that I’ve admitted it, I somehow feel lighter. It’s as if confessing that secret to Sawyer has lifted a weight off my chest.
“I’m sorry you lost your mom,” he says as my sparkler dies.
I shrug my shoulders, even though I’m sure he can’t see me. “It was a long time ago.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean the loss hurts any less.”
“True.” I take a deep breath and keep going. “She used to call me Alison Jane, and somehow, when she died, I just hated the sound of it. My grandparents will still call me by my full name at times, but for the most part, everyone calls me AJ. It’s how I prefer it. Even my dad started calling me AJ when I requested it.” Again, I shrug my shoulders.
“AJ suits you,” he says, as he links his fingers with mine, the wires of our sparklers forgotten in the sand. “But Alison is a beautiful name.”
Glancing his way, the moon reflects brightly off his blue eyes turning them into dark sapphires. “I like it when you say my name.” I’m already leaning his way and resting my head on his shoulder.
“I’d happily say it again.” His words shake me to my very core almost as much as my reply.
“You could call me Alison. If you want.”
We sit together, watching the waves crash against the shore, snuggled under a blanket that smells like him. It’s funny how content I feel. After years of kissing frogs and dating toads, it’s hard to believe that I might have actually found one of the good ones. I was starting to think they were already snatched up. Lord knows my sisters had each found a diamond amongst the pile of turds.
After another twenty minutes, Sawyer starts to gather our things. I grab my shoes and the blankets while he carries the cooler, bag, and picnic basket. The sand feels cool between my toes, which may actually be one of the best feelings in the world.
“So that’s your house?” I ask, gazing up at the very large house with massive windows facing the Bay.
“That’s it. I’d give you a tour, but I’m not sure I’d let you leave once I got you inside,” he says bluntly. “Besides, I think home tours are reserved for the second date.”
When we reach his car, he sets all of the items he’s carrying down beside the garage door and takes the blankets from my arms. “So, you’re saying there’s going to be a second date?” I ask.
Sawyer stops in front of me. He’s so much taller and broader than my smaller five-foot, seven-inch body. “Well, I’m hoping,” he answers, leading me to the passenger side of his car. “And it’s not just a second date I’m hoping for, Alison, but a third and fourth and fifth, too. In fact, I plan to have all of your dates booked up until you get tired of me.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible. I’m positive this comes as no surprise to you, Mr. Randall, but you’re pretty charming and irresistible.”
“I am?” he asks, his white teeth shining brightly in the night.
“You know you are. Women swallow their tongues when you walk by. I’ve witnessed no less than three married teachers, as well as every single hormonal teenaged female student in the school practically lose their minds when you enter the room. I should be embarrassed for the state of the female population.”
“Well, not that all of that doesn’t sound fascinating, I’m actually only interested in the reaction of one particular woman.”
“That’s easy. She turns into a teenage girl when you’re near too.”
That makes him laugh. “I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not, but I prefer women over teenage girls. In fact, I have a type,” he tells me as he holds open the door and I slide in.
When he slips into the driver’s seat, I ask, “And this type. Do I want to know? Wait. Let me guess. Blonde, blue eyes, double Ds and an IQ two points higher than her bust size?”
“Wow, you just described my ex-wife,” he grumbles, starting the car and backing down the lane. “Though, I wouldn’t exactly say that’s my type. Before I entered The Big Show, I dated a woman in college who was going to school to be an archeologist. She had the big glasses and everything.”
“Well, if perky double Ds and bleach-bottle blonde hair isn’t your type, what is?” I ask as we pull out onto the road.
“Funny you should ask,” he says, reaching over and taking my hand with his. “I prefer brunette, over blonde. Green eyes, sassy tongue, about yay-high,” he says, indicating with his hand where my head hits on his chest when we stand. “Oh, and someone who vomits on my shoes. I really dig that,” he sasses and squeezes my hand.
