Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Because it wasn’t for sale. Besides, I like this house…well, the possibilities, anyway.” It was twenty-five hundred square feet, had been in my price range, and felt like I did—weathered, beaten, and broken in ways that needed more than just a coat of paint.
It was a kindred spirit.
“Well, I know what I’m checking out next. The beach!” Sam headed toward the northernmost staircase off the back deck.
We followed her through the sandy yard, past the gate, and up the wood-planked path that led over the dune.
“You’ll have to shovel the rest of this out,” Mia said, pointing to the sand-covered path as we crested the small hill. “The wind picks up the sand from the beach and leaves it right here. Hence the dune. But it protects the house.”
“Got it.” I made a mental note, and we hiked down the first five feet, then slid the remaining ten or so of the dune until we reached the beach. I gathered my flip-flops in one hand and surveyed the beach. Other than a few families farther up the coast, it was deserted. “It’s so quiet.”
“Just the way we like it,” Mia noted with a grin as we walked toward the water. “It’ll pick up in a couple weeks for spring break, and we’re slammed in the summer, but once the tourists leave, it will pretty much look like this.”
“It’s peaceful,” Sam remarked.
Peace? I hadn’t felt anything close to that emotion in the last couple of years. I wasn’t even sure it existed in my reality. But the water, the sand, and the crisp breeze were soothing. That was enough.
The sand grew firm and damp the farther we walked, and I paused, watching the ocean rush up to meet my toes and then overtake them. The water was deliciously cool, and it wasn’t long before I sank slightly, sand eventually covering my feet.
Color flashed next to my toes. When the next wave retreated, I scooped a small handful of wet sand and held my fingers slightly apart as the water returned, letting the sand strain through the gaps to reveal a slightly rounded, quarter-sized piece of frosted blue glass.
“What is…” Sam shielded her eyes from the midday sun as she gawked at something in the water. “Whoa.”
I mimicked her pose and saw a man coming out of the ocean a dozen yards away.
Mercy.
He was… Well, for a lit major, I was completely, ironically speechless. Water sluiced down the cut lines of his muscles like he was some kind of ocean deity as he walked out of the surf, the black swim trunks contrasting his tan skin like the black tattoo that ran down his side.
His abs had abs.
He rubbed his hands over a thick head of light brown hair, rolled his broad shoulders, and then jogged down the beach, straight toward us.
“Oh. My. God.” Mia drawled out every word. “Is he real? Am I dreaming, or do insanely hot men just appear from the water around here?”
“I don’t even know,” Sam answered as he got closer.
The wind whipped my long hair across my face, and I quickly fisted the unruly brown locks and the rebellious hem of my dress as he nearly reached us.
Sweet Lord, he was a scorcher if I’d ever seen one. Strong nose, carved chin, full, chiseled lips with a Captain America edge that made me want to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. It was like God himself had crammed everything I found attractive into one man and dropped him into the ocean by my house.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he said with a slight smile, his breathing as even as his pace.
Ocean-blue eyes. Of course. Just a shade darker than the glass I held in my hand. They locked with mine, widening for a second before he passed and continued his run down the beach.
“No southern accent,” I said once I’d found my vocal cords. “Must be a tourist.”
“Seriously, I’m going to visit you every weekend if this is how the island treats you.” Mia walked toward the water and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Chris Hemsworth, please! Or I’ll settle for Liam!”
“Seriously, Mia. The ocean doesn’t take requests.” Sam rolled her eyes. “Not that we don’t have a habit of meeting boys at the beach in our little group. What was it Paisley called Jagger?”
“Mr. California,” I answered, remembering the day she’d met him on the coast of Florida almost four years ago. But their story has a happy ending.
My eyes followed the retreating form of our jogger.
“Ah, that’s right. That one doesn’t feel like a California, though,” she mused.
“More like Mr. Carolina,” I offered.
“Ahh, Carolina.” The girls sighed in tandem.
He continued down the shore, and relief replaced the butterflies that had assaulted my stomach. As long as men like that didn’t pop out of the ocean every day, I was in the clear.