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“I wonder how this boat got here.” Abby softly fingers the peeling paint on the no-longer-satin-smooth hull. I want to grab her hand to stop her from destroying the paint job I had obsessed over for days as a kid, but I don’t. Compulsively, I squeeze my fist. Touching her will only make me fall apart faster. It is one thing to talk about my parents’ deaths, because it is something I’ve had plenty of practice discussing, but this is opening the wound wide and searing it with a hot poker and salt water.
“A storm.” That’s only a partial truth. The boat is here because it’s where the tide washed me up after I had taken it out in an unexpected storm—the same one that my mom was driving in when she drove to get help finding me after a childish runaway attempt over some stupid topic I barely recall the details of. I was an idiot teenager thinking I knew everything, so much for being invincible and indestructible. I learned later that a drunk driver had forced her car off the slick road. If only I hadn’t thrown my tantrum, if I hadn’t left with the weather turning, she wouldn’t have gone looking for me in her car. My guilt compounded over each facet.
I had designed and built this boat. It was my first and almost last. Thankfully, my dad sent me to one of those survivalist boot camps for awful kids, or I’d have come out ten times more screwed up, trying to burn every boat I encountered in my adolescent angst. I owed this town my gratitude for not giving up on my when I was such a shit back then. My old therapist would say it’s the reason I come back every summer. It’s still painful to think about, so I sit here back to back with Abby and say nothing as I try to control my breathing so I don’t fall apart.
Tendrils of her hair dance gently against my skin with the breeze. The pale blonde strands caress my arm, snaking over them contrasting with my deep tan as it blows around me. They tangle like a snare I don’t completely want to escape, which isn’t something I want to tell a girl I just met three weeks ago.
“It sounds like it was really bad. I’m sorry,” she whispers softly. The bubble in my throat feels like it wants to burst open. I don’t think Abby knows what she’s apologizing for—does anybody, really? It’s the nicest, most real condolence anyone has ever expressed to me before and she doesn’t even know she’s giving it. I focus on the sensory things around me to ground myself in the moment. Other long-gone apologies filter through my head, and it’s probably why I hang around town each summer helping everyone I know, like a penance, when I could be running my boat-building company in Seattle, making gobs of worthless money.
“Roman?” Abby’s hand reaches for mine, gently rubbing her thumb over the soft spot between fingers and thumb in the silence. Our eyes connect and I feel closer to her than I have to anyone else in the past few years. Her eyes are a deep, clear blue and a little glassy. She looks like she’s going to burst into tears and cry for me when my own tears don’t come. I take a deep, shuddering breath ready to choke on my next words when she crawls over to me unexpectedly.
“Abby?” She uses her free hand to pull my head close to hers and our foreheads touch with shaky breaths. Confused, I wrap my arms around her and watch her eyes close, robbing me of the blue orbs. I don’t want to shut my eyes because I’m afraid I’ll miss something. It’s a perfect fit. We’re a perfect fit, and the irony is not lost on me. I want this girl. Shitty timing and boyfriend drama or not, I want her still, expensive baggage and all.
Tilting my chin, my lips touch hers briefly. The brush against their soft texture ignites a slow burn, like the sunshine at our backs. I taste a salty tear that’s slipped down her cheek, and soft lips hover over mine until I nip her top lip and another fat tear escapes from her lashes.
“Don’t cry for me,” I whisper brokenly.
She surrenders or takes over—frankly, I don’t think it matters, nor do I care. Our lips crush together this time like waves battering a ship at sea, ravaging at first before subsiding to gentler lapping waves. I can’t tell where we begin or end. Her fingers scrape the back of my head and pull me closer. Abby kisses me deeply. Her tongue playing with mine, dancing back and forth. I suck it back into my mouth and hear her moan sweetly as fingernails graze the back of my neck greedy.
Abby clutches my shoulders, and I don’t know how to get any closer to her. If I could lay her down over the boat I would, but an old boat with peeling paint, leaving possible splinters and tetanus infections, doesn’t appeal to me, despite the attraction.
“God, Abby, I want this.” Clutching her head in my hands, pulling her closer, I let my fingers tangle in silky hair. My thumbs graze her over ears, and I feel small hoop earrings in her earlobes. I see her shy smile, and it brings me right back to the moment, the sun, the heat of her arousal between our jeans, and sweat slicking our skin. I no longer care where we are. Leaning back on the boat, I take her with me. Fine, she can be on top, so long as this doesn’t end. We won’t be having sex on the beach, but we can have the next best thing. I pull her up my boat and she shimmies with my lead, her legs now over my hips and cradling my own. I push my hips to meet hers smoothly and she responds with the sweetest little mewl.
“Roman?” Abby pulls back, a question flashes across her face, and I regretfully let her go to sit up again, my hands trail down her bare arms to soothe her.
“Abby?” More than anything, I need to know where her head is at, but I’m afraid to hear her answer.
Chapter Six
ABIGAIL
What the hell was that, Abigail Holliday? Internally shaking my head, I don’t know what compelled me to kiss Roman. What happened to thinking he was the most aggravating man I’ve known for the last three weeks? Roman’s soft lips and shaky words pierce me. Not like ‘I feel sorry for him’ kind of right, even though my tears keep falling. We’ve spent almost every encounter fighting and bickering, but letting that all go after last night seems right. I don’t know if I’m ready to hear another sad story, but I didn’t want Roman to hesitate telling me something important. There must be more to the boat incident when he stopped telling me. I can’t explain wanting to know Roman now more than ever or to cease sidestepping our attraction to each other.
I’ve never seen myself as the type of girl so carefree she’d be sprawled out on top of guy on a public beach. I pull away out of self-consciousness and the voice of my father’s expectations echoing in my head. Both of us continue breathing harshly. It’s hard to fight this lure, even with the ‘green light’ from Lucas and his definition of being on a break for the summer. Shame fills me because I want to give this a chance with Roman, but I need to address the situation with Lucas first. It would be the right thing to do, and if Abigail Holliday does anything, it’s the right thing...
Silently walking back down the beach toward the cottage, Roman grabs my hand. Smiling kind of stupidly, we avoid looking at each other, letting our feet drag in the sand somewhat. We don’t speak a word, but I know we’ll have to talk about this, the kiss and what comes next I suppose. I don’t even know how we went from wanting to slice each other verbally to ravage each other with our lips hungrily.
Roman pulls my hand gently, forcing us to stop. Our feet sink into hot sand and between our toes. “You know, Abby, I’d really like to…” I don’t get to hear what Roman says, because I’m distracted by a dog barking and someone yelling my name. Wincing, I look toward the voice, my face in the glaring sun blinding me.
“Abigail! Abigail!” The figure is still a little bit away, standing on the dune nex
t to the cottage. He’s wearing long white linen pants and a matching shirt; his sunglasses obscure his face, but I already know who it is. Dread and disbelief fill me. Of all the damn times for Lucas to come crawling back, it just had to be now, didn’t it? Just when I felt the courage to kick him out of my life.
“Lucas?” I call back with shock, questioning the fact he’s here at all. “Lucas!” I shout again before looking back at Roman, whose face has gone blank and unreadable.
I pull my hand from Roman’s, who tugs me back gently, as if to say don’t go. I’m torn and I look one more time at Lucas before I pull my hand free of Roman’s, unsure of what I want.
Is it possible he really doesn’t want to throw everything away? Do I want to throw three years of my life away on someone I barely know? Jogging up the beach leaves me huffing and out of breath. I turn around to Roman, mouthing ‘I’m sorry’ in the distance before I halfheartedly close the space finding myself in Lucas Crowley’s arms.
Meeting on the steep dune, Lucas stands there waiting for me, finally grabbing my hand to help me up the last few feet. “Abigail, I was worried. You never responded to my message, so I drove up here to check on you.” He smoothly rubs his hands down my arms in a hold I don’t feel comfortable in. A small shake on his part startles me to look at his face.
Things I never noticed before stand out. Small changes, but changes nonetheless. His dark hair is slicked back; this is a new style for him since working at the firm with my dad. I’m not really sure I like it, and I don’t think it completely suits him, either. He reminds me of those commercials with slimy lawyers chasing ambulances, willing to sue anyone for a quick buck.
“Fourteen hours is a long drive,” I mutter, and I don’t have a clue what point I’m trying to make, because for some reason I feel like I’ve just been caught doing something I shouldn’t. “I didn’t get your message,” I say, reaching for my purse, looking for my phone. Sure enough, there’s a message—but it’s already been read. My eyes shoot toward the beach where Roman is coming up in slow measured steps through the sand.
Gently clipping me on the chin with his fist, Lucas mutters to me, “You naughty girl. And here I was stuck in a car with no driver for all that time.” He laughs, tugging me toward the cottage, trying to hug me. The PDA is something else that’s new but doesn’t feel genuine. He would have never this before in in good old LA. Could he have changed after all? My head is spinning and I don’t know if I’m coming or going as I’m caught up in Lucas’ clever web. He’s being strangely possessive while directing me away from the beach.
“Lucas, wait. Stop. Roman was just…” I disentangle myself from Lucas as Roman jogs up to us. He’s standing there arms crossed and frowning with a hardness he didn’t have moments ago, and I know it’s my fault for putting it there after our conversation on the beach and running toward Lucas.
