Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 125121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Course it’s not! My brain summoned an image of Adonis in a tailcoat, top hat, and cane. I’d fallen for Lucien too hard, because there was nothing about that fantasy that wasn’t right in every way.
I shook myself, expelling a sharp breath. It was okay to have a crush, but it was even better to have a good relationship with my professor and fiancé’s brother.
There can’t be a me and Adonis. After today, I don’t know if there can be a me and Victor while I’m with the Rogues. I feel like I’m losing all of my guys. I can’t lose all my friends too.
It wasn’t long before pavement gave way to dirt road. I sat up straight, raising my brows at the cozy-looking beach house. Blue paint and white shutters made it stand out from the white, white, white homes dotting the coast.
He pulled off the side of the road and parked. “Come on. We’ll walk down.”
“Okay.”
Adonis waited for me on the path. Together, we climbed down the mound where grass turned into sand. The whole of the ocean heaved and rolled before us—calming that energy almost instantly.
Somewhere along the way I kicked off my shoes, leaving them where they fell. Adonis slowed down but I didn’t. Sea-foam washed over my toes—cool, refreshing, and eager to take me back to its home. I glanced up and found Adonis beside me. Hands in his pockets, he gazed out over the water, feeling the same calm that I did. I knew it.
“Thank you.”
He nodded. “This is where I come to when it gets too much. I passed out drunk in that very spot the night Catalina ended our engagement.” Adonis winced. “Why do I tell you things like that?”
A smile tugged at my lips. “I told you. I’m easy to talk to. No one can help it.” I peered over my shoulder. “How long can we stay? Will the owner of that house chase us off?”
“Not likely since I’m the owner of that house.”
“You brought me to your place?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
“I brought you to the beach,” he corrected, a tad quickly. “I figured you wouldn’t want to be surrounded by sunburnt, screeching tourists. This patch of beach is private and mine. We’ll stay out here until you’re ready to go.”
“All right. Sounds perfect.”
“We don’t have to talk.”
“You might let too much slip if we do.”
He chuckled. “I might.”
We lapsed into a comfortable silence as we walked along the shore, watching our toes turn to prunes. All the things I didn’t want to think about—Mom, Victor, Giovanni, Truth or Dare Club—ran through my mind too fast for me to catch one problem and come up with a solution. Truth is I didn’t try too hard. When you’re dead last in the race, at some point you just stop running.
“I like your tattoos,” I murmured, breaking into the lull of the ocean. “Edgar Allan Poe?”
“Sadly, I am that cliché.”
I laughed. “It’s not cliché if you truly love his work. Everyone thinks Van Gogh is my favorite artist because I’m too lazy to look up anyone else, but there’s a story in his work. Through ridicule, poverty, and loneliness, he never gave up on painting. I can’t imagine loving anything that much.” A smile tugged my lips. “Yes, that’s what Van Gogh paints. Love.”
“Hmm. I never thought of it like that. You see the world in a unique way, Luna.”
“I do?”
“Oh yes. I could tell that from your first paper.”
I cocked a brow as we turned, heading back toward his place. “You hated that paper.”
“I hated that you were hiding that unique perspective under tired metaphors and lazy comparisons. Where everyone else sees a mentally ill man who never saw success in his lifetime, you see a love story. Edgar Allan Poe is my favorite writer because he didn’t fear the macabre and twisted tales that plagued his mind. He shared them. He made the world see what he saw, and as a result, he invented a new genre.
“The world needs the stories that only you can tell. Doesn’t have to be through writing. Can be painting, music, film, photography, drama. It can be the way you know just the right thing to say to someone drowning in their sorrows.”
I bit my lip—afraid I’d say the absolute wrong thing and stop what was happening.
“There is something you love that much. Don’t hide from it because you’re convinced the future ahead of you isn’t worth a damn. Doing that would be a tragedy worse than if the world never got Van Gogh or Poe.”
“Okay,” I said, kicking my feet through clumpy sand and sea-foam. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We lapsed into silence again. Without a word to each other, we drifted from shore at the same time, claiming a spot on the beach. Stretching out, heated sand cradled my back as the sun warmed my skin.