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She lets out a happy sigh. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
I picture us stepping off the plane in Thailand, cracking up over how I botch the language, sleeping together every night. It’s easy to picture these scenes, because I don’t have to wonder about Naomi James any longer. I know who she is and that we’re better together. We’ll keep pushing each other and testing our limits. I look forward to her dragging me further out of my comfort zone.
All I have to do is continue proving she did right by choosing me.
On that front, I say, “My other stipulation is if there’s any driving of any sort, in any type of motorized vehicle, you’re the passenger.”
She balks at me. “If you drive, we’ll need to extend the trip another year. Turtles move faster than you in a car.”
“If you drive, we’ll end up in a Thai jail.”
She takes my hand and leads me toward the seats. “Fine. I’ll accept your stipulations, but I have one of my own.” Once we’re seated, she leans into my side. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to enter any women’s lingerie shops. Lord knows what depravity you’ll get up to.”
I laugh. She kisses my neck.
Yeah, this will be one hell of a trip.
* * *
If you miss Avett and Naomi already, you can catch up with them in50 WAYS TO WIN BACK YOUR LOVER, Book 1 in the Bower Boys series. You won’t believe what they’re up to in three years! Even better, you’ll find out why E’s family vanished and get to watch him desperately try to win back his lost love, Delilah Moon (who might seriously shoot him in the nuts).
Start reading 50 WAYS TO WIN BACK YOUR LOVER now!
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50 WAYS TO WIN BACK YOUR LOVER
CHAPTER ONE
Despite what some people think, I’m not dead. I haven’t been stranded on a desert island these past ten years. I didn’t secretly join the priesthood or get stuck in one of those escape rooms. Nope. I’m here. Out in the world and alive.
At least I was alive, until the loudspeaker at the terminal gate crackled to life and uttered two words, one name—thename that has the power to cut me down at my knees: Delilah Moon.
Now? I’m definitely dying. Or is this a mini stroke?
My brain’s gone on the fritz, unable to form a coherent thought other thanDelilah Moon, Delilah Moon, Delilah Moon.I’m pretty sure if I move, my rubbery legs will fold, sending my frozen face on a collision course with the half-crushed Dorito on the retro carpet.
Delilah Lost-Love-of-My-Life Moon.
I scrutinize the departure area like a sniper who’s inhaled a case of Red Bull: furtive reconnaissance with a frantic edge. Kids sit slouched, half sliding off their faux-leather seats, faces plastered to their phones. The adults aren’t much better, thumbing their devices, eyes dilated in their Cell Trances. My brother Lennon is thankfully still off perusing the terminal’s stores. If any of my brothers heard that name, they’d shout a list of reasons why I have to hide from Delilah Moon—if this istheDelilah Moon—and remind me we aren’t allowed to talk to anyone from our pasts.
Heart racing, I lean toward the elderly woman beside me. “Did they just say the name Delilah Moon?”
She glances at the departure counter, magazine crinkling in her grip. “I believe they did. It’s a lovely name, isn’t it?”
It isn’t lovely. It’s downrightangelic, but that name cannot be here. “Maybe they said Eliza Woon. It was tough to hear clearly.”
“No.” The man next to her leans forward, shaking his bald head at me. “Definitely Delilah. It made me think of dahlias, my wife’s favorite flower.” He winks at her.
A sudden flash hits me: Chasing a shrieking Delilah through the wildflowers on her property. Laughter, sun, carefree bliss. Scooping her up and tugging her down, her fingers threading into my hair, our lips connecting under a canopy of daisies and scarlet flax.
My stroke intensifies, but I still don’t see her. Not one hint of the breathtaking woman who undeniably owned my heart. And my pulse? Still running a three-minute mile.
Unsure what to do, I reach for my sketchbook—any possible distraction—and proceed to cut my finger on a page. Because, of course. Blood beads along my skin. I suck on it, attempting to control my hamster-wheel thoughts.It’s not her, right? It can’t be her. Nope. No way. Definitely not her. Life wouldn’t be this cruel.
By the time I glance up again, it’s clear Life enjoys kicking me in the nuts.
My first and only love is hurrying up to the departure counter. Her curly brown hair is longer than I remember, her hips rounder, her body fuller.Lush.The girl I knew has transformed into a woman, and instantly, my eyes burn. I stand up. Sit down. I’m a malfunctioning jack-in-the-box. Which kind of sums up my current self, forever confined and controlled, forced to embody a different name and altered existence, because ... are you ready for this kicker?
