Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I reached for his hand and kissed it. “You’re right. But it’s okay to be together too, and since we’re here, we might as well give the ghosts something to talk about.”
He eyed me with mock suspicion. “You’re not thinking of doing anything that might compromise our reputations, are you?”
I nodded as I slanted my mouth over his. We made out in the ruins of what was probably once a beautiful garden, lazily gliding our tongues and sighing into the connection.
Maybe this was all for fun, and maybe we were never supposed to mean anything special. I could live with that. I wanted adventure and a reset from my messy life. Love was the furthest thing from my mind. But God, the pull was magnetic.
My erratic heartbeat, constant dopey smile, and the strong sensation of wanting to be as close as physically possible to him were sure signs I’d caught some inconvenient feelings. I could tell myself all day long to let it go, but it wasn’t that simple. I was hooked. It didn’t matter that Graham was never going to reciprocate.
Funny enough, I recognized a kindred spirit. Graham wasn’t as cold or heartless as he claimed to be. He was…careful, maybe overly so, but that was okay. I wouldn’t ask for the moon. I knew our time was running out.
I could be happy with a weekend in Cornwall and the knowledge that for a short time, I was someone special to him.
15
GRAHAM
Cornwall was located on the exact opposite end of the country from Sunderland. So far that it had seemed like an exotic holiday spot to my younger self.
I’d had a mate in school whose aunt and uncle had taken him camping in their caravan for a week in Newquay, where he’d surfed the Atlantic Ocean and explored old pirates’ caves. I remembered being equal parts jealous and fascinated by his stories. Sure, some hardy types surfed in the North Sea too, but I didn’t give a fuck about surfing. I liked the idea of getting away more.
At forty-six, I’d traveled the world. I’d been to Bangkok, Bali, Australia, India, Argentina, Brazil, all over Europe, and I’d seen quite a bit of the US and Canada too. But this was my first trip to Cornwall, and it was as beautiful as I’d heard with its treacherous cliffsides and breathtaking coastlines. I couldn’t help thinking it was even more enchanting with Raine.
He was practically brimming over with enthusiasm about…everything. The sky had never looked so blue, the clouds were perfection, and had I ever had a better scone in my life? I didn’t care for scones at all, but I agreed with him because…he was fucking mesmerizing. Wide-eyed and boyishly curious one minute, serious and studious the next.
I thought about talking him into staying in bed all weekend, but Raine had a long list of sights he wanted to see and I didn’t want him to leave feeling disappointed. So, I went with the flow. Whatever he wanted was his.
We took a day trip to Tintagel, the alleged birthplace of King Arthur, and hiked the craggy footpaths, pausing on the wind-whipped rocky ledges to admire the vistas. Raine insisted on selfies on the treacherous-looking bridge perched above the sea and asked a fellow tourist to take one of us in front of the ghostly Gallo statue on the headland. We ate Cornish pasties in town and of course, they were the best thing he’d ever eaten.
Next, we headed north to Boscastle, a small coastal village with cute shops and huge jutting rocks that stood like sentries at the mouth of the sea. We sat on a huge stone slab, sipped tea from to-go cups whilst reminiscing about movies we’d loved as children. The thought of young Raine with knobby knees, bright eyes, and a million questions on the tip of his tongue made me smile.
The following day, we drove to Falmouth and visited the bay where King Henry VIII was said to have visited five hundred years ago. We ate fish and chips, and engaged in friendly debates with natives about the proper order of clotted cream or jam on a scone.
That night, we froze our asses off on stone benches at Minack, an open-air theatre built into the cliffside, sipping hot chocolate by the gallons while watching an obscure Shakespeare play. The cold should have made me grumpy. Instead, it was a night I knew I’d never forget—the sunset painted the sky in ethereal pinks and oranges, the warmth of Raine’s body curled up close to me, and the feeling of being at the very edge of the earth.
We’d navigated winding narrow country lanes for miles in the pitch dark that night, holding hands and listening to sappy love songs. And honestly, it was impossibly…romantic.
I didn’t like romance, but Raine did. And while it would have been easy enough to squelch anything that might be misconstrued as being more than it was, I didn’t dare disturb this bubble. It was fragile yet hopeful too somehow, if that made any sense.