Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Yep.
He’s officially the rudest, coldest, most reckless man I’ve ever met. Part of me wants to give him a friendly push right into the storm the rest of me is working so hard to keep him from.
Decisions, decisions.
“Whatever.” I try to say it nonchalantly, hating how much anger creeps into my voice. “Pardon me for giving two shits about saving your life.”
The waves slap the shore too close to us again, and I can’t hear all of his response clearly as Molly shakes off the water.
But it sounds like “...you’d do better to care more about your dog. Get her the hell away from the water and stop pecking at strangers who don’t need saving.”
I’m actually speechless as I watch him push away, climbing a ten-foot-tall wave less than a minute after he’s on the water.
It’s not remotely safe.
He’s a ginormous idiot and a half.
Only, I guess I’m the bigger one for standing there and taking his abuse. If he doesn’t give a damn about his safety, why should I?
This man is either wackadoodle or as wildly overconfident as he is short-fused.
Still, I squint at him as he fades into the choppy waves, certain he’s on the verge of needing a rescue any second.
When I’m right, I’ll do him a favor and call it in.
I peel off my windbreaker and throw it around Molly while we watch and wait.
I don’t mind the chill. In fact, it helps cool my blood a little after this massive prick made it boil.
I’m honestly mad that he’s fighting the waves as well as he is.
Slowly, calmly, like he lives for nothing but spitting in the face of danger.
The raw power in his controlled movements feels angry, like someone with something to prove to the universe.
Holy hell, no.
No, this can’t be blind arrogance.
This is more like rage, a fury taken out on the ocean itself because nothing else is strong enough to withstand him.
I watch in irritated awe for a few more minutes with my heart climbing up my throat.
I’m expecting him to weaken any time as his muscles fail him, to show me a satisfying flicker of fear.
Any second now.
...it never happens.
Somehow, this maniac withstands the ocean, climbing over every swell, grinding his way toward Blake Island a few brutal crawling feet at a time.
I already had the Coast Guard’s rescue contact pulled up on my phone, but now I hesitate.
Watching him is hypnotic.
I’ve never seen anyone take on the ocean like he has a personal grudge with Poseidon and he’s determined to win.
And weirdly, he is winning.
To me, nature isn’t something you conquer. It’s part of life and it’s our responsibility to watch over it.
But this man has declared open war on it with every cleave of his paddle.
His naked aggression twists my heart like a limp rag.
Even though the sea keeps trying to swallow him up and serve some humble pie, it’s failing.
My God.
He must be enjoying himself.
I wonder if he knows I’m still standing here like a freezing idiot, watching and trying not to care about his fate.
Why else would someone throw themselves out there?
The adrenaline rush, sure. This area attracts junkies seeking their next high on wild risks.
Crazy, but what do I know?
Once I’m sure he isn’t doomed and he’s rolling up on the island’s shore, I turn away from the man and his weirdly compelling battle—just in time to find Mol trying to eat a whole-ass hermit crab.
“Molly!” I pry her mouth open and dig the poor thing out. At least the shell saved it from her sharp little teeth.
I drop it back in the water, hoping it isn’t too traumatized.
“You can’t do that,” I say, and she wags her tail, staring up at me with wide blue eyes. “Those aren’t the right kind of crabs for dinner.”
Mom, you don’t know how wrong you are. Her goofy dog grin only widens. Crabs are dinner. All the crabs, I imagine her saying.
“You’re the worst. But I love you.”
I glance back at the man on his stupid mission, but he’s finally out of sight.
For a second, I panic, wondering if I should’ve kept watching to make sure he’s all right after all. But then I see his kayak bobbing on the shore, this pale green thing tied down and half-obscured by rolling waves.
Huh.
Okay then.
I guess I need to just accept the fact that he knows what he’s doing and he’s too big an asshole to leave the world so soon.
Totally not what I need on a quiet morning.
I distract myself from the weirdness with thoughts about the weekend.
Maybe I’ll head over to Olympia for another stab at sea otter tracking. They’re so rare and endangered I’ve never spotted them in the wild, but I’d love to.
The Department of Fish and Wildlife is practically begging for civilian reports.
If I get a lucky hit up north, maybe I can help them preserve the species.