Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“You’re a Kate Bush fan?” I blink at him as “Running Up That Hill” booms from the speakers just a short distance away.
“I’m an atmosphere fan.” He holds up a silent finger, his voice a whisper. “Pretty lights. Calm beats. Cold beer. Gorgeous company.”
I look away too quickly, blushing for what must be the twentieth time since I met him.
Smooth, Delia.
My eyes wander over the party scene. Only a few couples are still swaying drunkenly around the fire, fumbling into the sand underfoot with barking laughter. I’m sure Marnie and Tangerine Man are long gone.
“I didn’t get your name,” he says, standing up and—if I’m not just imagining it—darting his eyes across my top.
I try to keep my face from turning into a Roma tomato.
“Cordelia. But everybody calls me Delia for short.”
“Fuck, for real? There’s a name I’ve never heard outside the Johnny Cash song.” He smiles. “It’s a pretty name. It suits you, your highness. I wonder, though, does Princess Delia dance dirty with strange men who won’t say what they do for a living?”
What the what?
Is he seriously asking me to dance?
The eager look he gives me over the rim of his tall glass says yes.
Wow. Nobody’s done that since high school prom, and the skinny boy in thick black frames I danced with then had nothing on this ocean god.
Honestly, his tight-lipped mystery should bother me more. He even jokes about how he’s holding his cards so close to his chest.
What does he do for work?
It must be a military thing, I’m sure. This city is crawling with secret agent men built like arrows, even after San Francisco downsized its naval presence a long time ago.
He gestures at the open fire nearby, polishing off his drink.
“Well, Delia?” he urges, holding my eyes. “What do you say?”
Before I can unglue my tongue, he pounds his empty glass down on the counter with a loud clink! and grabs my hand.
“Um...I don’t know. I’m not much of a dancer and...you won’t even tell me your name?” I whisper.
“Come on. This is supposed to be a party and you should look like you’re having fun.” He pulls me along, leading me away with one arm slung over mine, shepherding me across the sand to an empty spot with mellow flames contained in rocks and string lights glowing overhead like fireflies.
“My name’s Chris,” he whispers hotly in my ear.
Chris.
My footsteps slow until I’m not moving.
It fits him, I guess.
The kind of hard, single syllable name worthy of bearing whatever big bad mystery he’s hiding. Probably a hard life, a secret life...a lonely one, maybe?
I don’t have time to dwell on it.
Chris has me yelling the instant he throws me over his shoulder. He hoists me up and swings me around for a frantic second before he pushes my bare feet back into the sand with ease.
Right where he wants me.
“Get out of your head, princess, and try to keep up,” he says, lacing his thick fingers through mine. “Surely you’ve done a slow dance on the beach before?”
“Duh!” I lie.
And I think he knows it, too, because he’s smirking fit to kill during the next sixty seconds with my feet tripping all over his.
But eventually, I find my groove.
It’s easier to keep up when he does most of the work, holding me tight, slowly leading us in winding circles.
When his eyes sharpen too much like broken sea glass, I look away, eyeing our shadows spinning on the beach.
Oh, but the way he holds me...there’s no escaping that.
I honestly don’t want to.
This man makes what should be an awkward, odd night dance with a stranger man feel weirdly natural.
“Too fast for you? Too rough?” he asks, whirling me in a slow spin with his hot breath in my ear.
God.
I’m not even sure what this feeling is.
Pulsing is the best word that comes to mind, except it’s my entire body. I can feel my happy heartbeat in my toes.
My brows knit together.
“Delia?” he whispers.
“Keep going,” I tell him, trying to unravel why I feel so conflicted.
Everything about him feels glorious, his strong hands burning in mine. But every moment together is also a reminder.
That stupid summer pact, still taunting me.
We dance on for another wild minute. I actually crack a smile and laugh when he swings me out before reeling me back in again.
But he must see the restlessness in my eyes, the sadness, the worry.
“Princess, what’s wrong? Bad memories?”
“No, it’s just...” I trail off, stumbling over my next step.
That’s when I feel the tear rolling down my cheek like a hot knife.
Oh.
Oh, crud.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, ripping away from him and almost tripping on the sand. “It’s not you, Chris. You’ve been great. I just...I have a lot on my plate right now. And it’s late and I should go.”
But before I can dart away into the darkness, he catches me around the waist.