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Chapter Two
Boke or Boak: verb, to vomit; noun, an instance or episode of vomiting. Pronounced: Boke, like poke.
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Eden
Where in the land of Mount Olympus, has this Greek god fallen from?
I look up to the slither of sky through the car door. Did he fall out of heaven like a dark angel?
“Tom, our driver, is calling emergency services. We weren’t far behind you on the road. You’re lucky we saw you. You spun out of control superfast,” he says slightly out of breath. “Your car has run deep into the field. We had to run down here to get you. Apart from your nose, where else are you hurt?”
Even the interior light overhead doesn’t hit his melted chocolate eyes. I would like to dip myself in those. Mmm, yeah.
Is there such a thing as fuck-me-now eyes? If so, I think this is what they look like. Not that I would want to, you know, fuck him. Well, maybe just a smidge.
Nope. Stop it, Eden. It’s probably closed up down there, anyway. I’m pretty sure that’s what happens after years of inaction. It’s in the basement of The Scottish Museum, under Vagina Archives.
I don’t know what I’m thinking; there is no way someone like him would be interested in someone like me, anyway.
Hello hotness. Raw sex appeal is in the house.
I read about hot as hell guys like these in my romance books—or porn books, as my friend Beth likes to call them. I never believed men, like this, existed, until now.
Bloody hell, my thoughts are random. It’s possibly the hypnotic citrus scent he’s oozing, or it’s his divine deep tanned coloring that covers his skin that’s messing with my senses. He’s so alluring, I can’t take my eyes off this mysterious guy.
Dumbstruck at trying to make my brain make words, I can’t stop this weird, overwhelming sensation that I know him; however, I’m currently one can short of a six-pack right now; I’m not thinking straight and I feel so sick.
Breathe.
I suck air in and out, drinking in this mysterious guy at the same time.
He’s all in black. Uh-huh. Could be a serial killer. If he is a serial killer, I’m not sure I could take much more tonight to be honest. I’d happily roll over and beg Mr. Fuck-Me-Now-Eyes to take me.
What a way to go. Death by hot guy.
Could be worse.
I’m mesmerized by his size. He fills the doorway of my little vehicle. He must be super tall; he’s crouched way down, but his head still reaches the top of the doorway. How is that possible?. He’s massive.
Stationary, I stare at him because I can’t help myself, as I cradle my elevated hand. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Keep it elevated? The first-aid certificate I hold for my dance studio seems to have been a complete waste of time; I can’t remember a bloody thing.
Bringing me out of my daze, he says, “Hey, you okay?”
“M… my… my hand hurts,” I quietly whine.
“You’re doing the right thing, keep it up. Your nose? Is it sore? It looks sore.” He motions to it with his head, grimacing slightly.
Must look bad. Moving my good hand, I thumb my gold elephant necklace as my lips and chin tremble.
“Hey.” He reaches out and lays his hand on my thigh. “You’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”
A wave of calm blankets around me from his welcomed touch. Ah… he feels like home.
Where did that come from?
I feel like I know him; I'm sure of it. I know those eyes.
Curiously, I lift my good hand up to pat my face gently, exploring where the throbbing is coming from. It feels wet and warm. I lower my hand; dabs of blood cover the pads of my fingers.
“Argh, I’m bleeding. Aw, Jiminy Cricket, it’s all over my Minnie Mouse tee shirt too, it’s ruined. I really liked this shirt.” I feel super light-headed. “I don’t feel so good; I don’t like blood.”
Everything tilts.
I clench my eyes shut as a cold sweat swarms again.
Fan, I need a fan. Or someone to fan me down.
I could handle this stranger next to me fanning me down; oh yes, palm leaf in hand, wafting cool air over me, wearing nothing but a white towel… Yeah, baby, that sounds nice…
His deep soothing voice hits me. “Hey, stay with me, you’re going to be just fine. Look at me.” I turn my head toward him and our eyes meet again. “You like Minnie?” the stranger asks me, pointing at my tee. He’s clearly trying to distract me and keep me calm. Or check out my tits. Maybe both.
“Yeah, she’s one sassy lady; she keeps Mickey on his toes. I’ve always dreamed of going to Florida and meeting her and Mickey. That would be so cool.”
He smiles at that.
I literally have no idea why I’m oversharing.
“What’s your name?” he softly prompts.
“I… I’m…” I stutter, unable to knit my words together.
Never taking his eyes off me, he coaxes me. “It’s okay, take it slow, what’s your name, ma’am?”
“It’s Eden. My name is Eden, and please don’t call me ma’am; that makes me feel like an old woman.”
Smirking, he replies in a cool, steady tone, “Eden, such a beautiful name. A place of paradise. Suits you. My name is Hunter.”
Spellbound, I muster a small laugh. “I don’t think I look like paradise right now.”
Covered in blood, mascara smeared tears running down my face, and God knows what else in the middle of this fruit field, I’m a far cry from paradise.
“Look at Betsy, poor girl. It looks like a strawberry threw up all over her.” I wince as I let out my rambled thoughts.
“Actually, you are true to your name; you are beautiful, Eden. I don’t think any rotten situation could ever camouflage that.”
Eh, sorry, what?
“Who’s Betsy?” he asks nonchalantly, cinching his brows as if his previous comment never left his mouth.
He called me beautiful.
Pressing me, he says, “Eden, baby, who’s Betsy?”
Baby?
“Eh, my car.”
“Phew, thank fuck for that. I thought you had a child or pet in the car with you. One Scottish girl in a field is enough for me for one night, thanks.”
“Just little me.”
“Do you remember my name, Eden?”
“Yeah. Hunter? That’s what you said, didn’t you? Yes, Hunter.” I answer my question, shaking my head. “I feel like I know you. Do I know you?”
He flashes a dazzling white smile. “You might.”
My heart leaps. Roaming my eyes over him as much as I can see in the faint light overhead, he feels like a good guy. He’s shockingly attractive and easy on the eye.
Wide and muscly, he looks ripped. Those lips too, like bouncy castles, very kissable. Yup, I’ve definitely got a concussion. I rub my hand across my forehead.
Hunter chuckles quietly.
“Oh, poop, did I say that out loud?”
He shakes his head.
“If my name means paradise, what does your name mean?” Why the heck am I asking that?
“Simple, it means one who hunts or pursues.”
“Mmm, how apt. Hunting or pursuing Scottish girls in berry fields,” I tease, surprising myself, as I feel the never-ending thrum of pain still running through my hand. Hmm, I still found the effort to joke.
Something lights up inside of me. An odd sensation I’ve not felt in a very long time. Years, in fact, if ever.
It ignites. It’s small. But it’s there. A little glow, a spark.
This feels nice. Unexpected. Warm.
I’m loving this frozen moment in time with him.
He makes me feel safe, and I like the way he called me beautiful.
To the local boys, I’m emotionally unavailable. The local boys stopped flirting and trying to date me a very long time ago. To the tourists and the strangers? Well, I don’t entertain any of them and give that whole piss-off-don’t-even-bother vibe when I go out on a rare occasion. Like Christmas, it’s a once-a-year event.
But this guy, well, he doesn't know me or my history. All my barriers are down with this whole messed-up situation I’ve found myself in too. It’s the banging of my nose that’s causing me to lower them; I’m certain of it.
I feel something.
It makes me feel uneasy.
What is that? Is it guilt?
Guilt for feeling an attraction to another man? To this guy?
Or is it something else? I’m not sure.
It’s been such a long time since I’ve felt anything other than brokenhearted, so my emotional compass is way off course.
I try to hide what’s going on beneath the surface. But my triplet sisters, Ella and Eva, we have this intuitive shared understanding that we can’t quite put our finger on.
We can always detect when something is wrong with one another. My, ‘the show must go on’ veil I’ve put on to the outside world all this time, is just that, a veil to hide everything bubbling away beneath the surface.
But Ella and Eva, they know different, because they feel it. They’ve told me many times. It’s this invisible bond and deep emotional connection that runs between us. We just know. They know.
After all these years, my friends and family keep telling me to move on, but I keep hoping. Hoping he comes back.
Hekeeps me anchored here in Castleview Cove.
I’ll be here when he comes back. If he comes back.
Out of nowhere my stomach lurches.
It’s not from the thoughts of my past.
“I think I’m going to boke,” I mumble.
“Boke? What the hell is boke?” Hunter questions with furrowed brows.
Just as he asks, my body whips forward so fast. I launch my head out the side; my stomach convulses, and I throw up between Hunter’s legs. All over his black boots. Bugger, they look expensive.
I gather myself and wipe my mouth. I’m so embarrassed.
I keep my head down. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I blurt. “It’s Scottish for being sick.”
“Fuck. What?”
As I raise my head, his eyes lock on mine.
“Boke. It’s Scottish for being sick. Do you know you are sexy as hell, like so, just gorgeous? I don’t look the least bit sexy, but you, you have a whole thing going on.”
I think I’m drunk.
Motioning at his big powerful frame, forgetting my newly damaged hand, I clumsily rattle it against the steering wheel, then let out a yelp as crippling pain zaps through my hand.
Sudden exhaustion from everything takes over; the pain is too much, and the last things I remember are baseball cap, deep chocolate eyes, American accent, white smile, Hunter… and everything goes wibbly, then black.
