Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
I return to shore, toe off my flippers, remove my snorkel, and walk through the soft sugary sand on Playa Conchal, a serene stretch of beach on the coast of Costa Rica. I flop into the lounge chair next to Charlie’s, spent, but it’s the good kind of tired. A blissful vacation tired, born from sun and sea and surf. From good food and family and laughter. The last few days of this trip have been fantastic, and I’ve treasured every minute with them. There’s only one thing missing.
But I don’t want to linger on what isn’t here. Costa Rica is heaven, and it is a treat to share it with the people I love.
“I could sleep all afternoon,” I say to Charlie.
“Definitely do it,” he says, but he’s jittery, shaking a knee, stealing peeks from his book back to the hotel, a hundred feet away.
“You okay? You waiting for something?”
“Yeah. I just ordered a drink,” he says.
“Cool.” He’s been drinking virgin piña coladas like he’ll never see another. “I’m going to soak in some sun.”
“You do that,” he says.
I fold my hands across my stomach, close my eyes, and let the tropical sun warm me from head to toe until my body is heavy with drowsy almost-contentment.
The sound of footsteps on the sand barely reach me through my doze. Hmm. Must be the guy bringing Charlie a drink.
Only the footfalls come closer to my lounge.
I open my eyes, squinting in the sun, and . . .
Holy mirage.
I’m still asleep.
This is a dream.
A gorgeous man with blazing brown eyes stands almost in reach, dressed in a white linen shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals. Rafe in beachwear is an unexpected fantasy.
I sit up and rub my eyes, and he’s still there even though Charlie’s disappeared. Rafe takes a step toward me, then another. He’s smiling and carrying a canvas bag, and I’m too overwhelmed to ask what’s in it.
He reaches me, and I jump to my feet so we’re eye to eye. “What are you doing here?” I ask, stunned that he’s not a figment of my imagination.
“I have something for you,” he says, as if that explains everything.
I can barely form words while I process the magnitude of Rafe Rodman here in Costa Rica instead of London. “Something for me?”
“You asked me on social media what was stopping me from making you a bathing suit, and I figured out what it was.”
“And what’s that?”
He points to his chest. “Me. Seems I’m the only one stopping myself from a lot of things.” He takes the canvas bag from under his arm. “So with that out of the way, I ran you up a suit in London so I could bring it here.”
I run my hand over my sea-stiff hair and try to wrap my head around what the fuck is happening in my life. “You came from London to bring me swim trunks?”
His grin is wicked and beautiful. “Yes.”
Reaching into the bag, he takes out a pair of light blue board shorts and hands them to me. “The color of your eyes,” he says, low and sensual, but loving too.
I take them, and this feels so surreal, from the fabric to the shorts to the man. “You came here to give me a bathing suit,” I say again. Because I want this to be so much more than a bathing suit. I see potential, and I hope I’m not imagining things.
Rafe erases the remaining distance between us, reaches for my face, and drags his thumb along my jaw. “Mostly, I came here to tell you that I love you.”
“You do?” My heart stops, then takes off galloping wildly.
He nods, and he looks so different than before. Radiant in a whole new way. Vulnerable and happy. “I love you madly. I fell in love with you during all the time we spent together. The evenings and the phone calls and the conversations. And I was such a fool to try to stay away and such an idiot to let you go. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”
I set the suit on the chair. I’m shaking with happiness, but I don’t want to get hurt again. “Rafe, I can’t handle the back and forth,” I say, laying my heart on the line. He’s got to be all in. “I can’t do a thirty-day arrangement. I love you too, and I want all of you. All the days.”
He grins, wider than the sea behind us. “I want all of you, Gunnar. No limits. No timelines. No stopping.”
This is a dream come true. Except, what if it’s not? “But what about work?”
“But what about you and me? That’s what I’ve been asking myself since I left you. I had to tear myself away from you like I was ripping off a piece of myself. I want an us more than I want the next deal.” He’s full of passion and certainty, and I want to believe he’s thought this through.