Chapter Thirteen
OWEN
When Layla sees my rental van, she laughs. “This is yours? I thought it was Miles’. Did you bring a band and all their equipment, then secret them in the basement or something?”
Such a ridiculous question needs no response.
I open the passenger door, and she climbs in. Climb is the appropriate word to describe what she has to do to get into the van. It’s high off the ground.
She looks to the back. “You could fit all twenty-four of my Vocal Jammers into this beast.”
“There are only fifteen seatbelts.”
“They’re middle schoolers. We’d manage.”
I shut the door and walk around the front. When I get behind the wheel, there’s a twinkle in Layla’s eyes.
She unbuckles her seatbelt and moves between the two front bucket seats to climb into the back. “If there are any hills or speed bumps, don’t slow down. I’ll be judging you on how high I bounce.”
In the rearview mirror, I watch her progress to the last row. “You’re seriously going to leave me up here alone?”
“Of course. You’re my chauffeur, so don’t make me dock your pay.”
“I’m getting paid?”
“In candy canes.”
“Obviously.”
Once she’s seated and has her seatbelt buckled, I turn the ignition and pull around the fountain.
I don’t take the direct route to Long Sands Beach. If Layla wants thrills, then I know exactly where to go: my favorite biking hill as a teen. I got some serious air back in the day.
It isn’t a steep incline, but as we near the top, I gun it and go over the crest at sixty miles an hour. The only thing that stops Layla from hitting her head on the roof is her seatbelt. Even in the front, I get the swoopy feeling in my gut. I slow down to the recommended thirty-five miles an hour as the road flattens out.
Layla laughs so hard tears run down her cheeks. “That was awesome. Much better than I expected from the town of York. Eight out of ten.”
I glare at her in the rearview mirror. “That was perfect execution. How did I not earn a perfect score?”
“I need to give you something to work toward.”
Time for another detour, this time to the park. I pull into the loop that surrounds the grassy stretches and the playground.
“This isn’t the beach,” Layla says, looking around at the houses on all sides .
I don’t bother answering, but go over the first speed bump at eighteen miles an hour. Layla once again catches air before her seatbelt brings her down.
The next speed bump is a hundred yards away. We go over ten in the next two minutes as I drive around the park. Layla’s in the air more than the seat, and she can hardly breathe from laughing. It’s worth wrecking the van’s suspension. I’ll happily pay the rental company whatever it costs to replace.
By the time we exit the park, her head is on the back of the seat and she’s huffing in air.
“Okay, okay,” she gasps. “Ten out of ten. I definitely recommend your chauffeur services.”
“We can go around again if you’re not sure.”
“I’m sure. In fact, twelve out of ten. I’ll tell all my friends.”
“I expect to be well paid.”
“Noted.”
When we get to Long Sands Beach, I pull up to the curb to park. From the sidewalk, it’s two steps to the sand. The beach is a mile and a half long, but it’s only one hundred feet wide. This early on a winter morning, there aren’t any people out.
I open the passenger sliding door for Layla. She hops out and pats her stomach.
“I feel like I’ve already had my workout. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in a long time.”
“If you’re not up for a run, I can always take you back to the cabin.”
“Not if you can’t catch me.” She runs into the sand, her arms stretched out from her sides. She doesn’t make it far before she stops to take off her shoes and socks .
I come up beside her. “Do I need to remind you it’s winter? You’re going to catch a cold.”
It’s much chillier and windier on the beach than I expected. I’m regretting not taking her running through the tree lined neighborhood where houses act as wind barriers. I prefer cold weather to hot, but this is downright frigid.
“It’s worth it,” Layla responds. “I love running barefoot on the beach. And this way I won’t get sand in my socks. Come on. Take your shoes off.”
“It’s winter,” I reiterate.
She shrugs, her lips pursed in a way that makes me think she’s trying not to laugh. “I didn’t take you for a wimp.”
That’s a taunt I can’t ignore. I toe off my shoes and socks and Layla gives a cheer and jazz hands.
The tide is coming in so we run close to the surf where the sand is hard from waves. I’m a gentleman and run between her and the water. She is not a lady and keeps nudging me closer to the surf. At times the water comes up the shore farther than I expect and gets the side of my feet. It’s freezing and I can’t help but yelp.
Layla laughs.
“That’s not funny,” I say. “It’s cold.”
“It can be cold and funny.” She raises her arms and waves at the sky. “Besides, who says I’m laughing at you? The sun is up, and it’s a beautiful morning. It’s the eve of my favorite day of the year.”
I could get addicted to her enthusiasm for life. It reminds me of when she plays the piano for the residents at Brock Pine. Her love of music is contagious, just like her joy at being alive this morning. A few icy waves will not sweep away the grin that takes up residence on my face .
When we reach the end of the beach where the sand gives way to rock, we turn and head back the way we came. I move once again closer to the water, as if it’s a road and I’m a barrier between her and oncoming traffic. She speeds up to pass me and swaps me places.
Fine by me. Brady said that a gentleman listens to a lady. My toes are frozen anyway.
At the last half-mile, she runs purposefully through the surf until the hem of her running pants are wet. She doesn’t care about the cold which makes me feel like a pansy for complaining earlier.
As we near our starting point, Layla reaches over and tickles my side. She gets me at my most ticklish spot and it’s enough of a shock to knock me off balance as I try to escape. I stumble forward, catch myself for a second, only to land wrong and fall to my side just a wave comes, getting me wet up to my waist. I squeal. Yes, squeal. Not a good moment for me.
Layla runs backward as she moves farther down the beach, laughing. This time, her laughter is definitely directed at me.
It doesn’t take me long to catch up, and when Layla understands my intent, she faces forward and picks up speed. My legs are longer, and I pass her. I sweep my leg into the coming wave and splash her with ocean water.
She shrieks, but apparently she isn’t one to back down from a fight. She kicks water at me, but stumbles. I catch her with a hand before she tumbles into the ocean. Instead of thanking me for the save, she leverages against me to jump with both feet, splashing water up to my chest .
“You did not just do that.” It comes out weak because I’m shivering.
The only response I get is more laughter. I’ve been holding back, but no longer. I hoist her over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and step deeper into the ocean. It takes only a second for her to figure out my plan.
“I’m sorry!” she screams. “I’m sorry! I’ll stop. Don’t drop me!”
I gasp as the next wave hits above my knees. “You’ll stop what?”
“Laughing at you.” She’s still laughing, so I know that isn’t a realistic promise.
“Nope.”
I take another step. She pounds my back with her fists and kicks her legs, but not hard enough to mean business.
“I won’t splash you with water anymore!” she squawks.
“Promise?”
“Yes!”
I lean over the smallest bit, and her body slips an inch. Her hands grab onto the back of my jacket. She screams while still laughing. I think I’ve scared her enough and walk out of the water. I don’t put her down until we reach our shoes and the water is too far away for her to splash me.
I place her feet on the ground. When I stand straight, we’re less than a foot apart. Her laughter quiets as her eyes meet mine. She doesn’t move back. In fact, she steps an inch closer and lays a hand flat against my chest. Heat suffuses through my body at her touch. Her hand rises and falls with each breath I drag through my lungs.
The connection I feel with Layla snaps taut, like it did last night in the hallway. I like her–no, “like” is a weak word. I absolutely, completely adore her. Not kissing her is torture. I don’t know how it’s possible, but not touching her today is even harder than it was yesterday. I want to wrap my arms around her waist. Kiss her temples, his cheeks, her neck. Her lips.
What I can’t resist doing is lifting my hand and running my thumb along her cheekbone. Her skin is soft. She closes her eyes and leans into my touch, her breathing just as ragged as mine, and that isn’t because we ran three miles. It’s our closeness. Mere inches separate our bodies.
We belong together. Spencer cannot be part of her story. He would never put up with her splashing him with salty, cold ocean water. Watching a musical is a waste of time in his book. He barely carved out twenty minutes last night to sing a few carols while she played.
Like a news ticker on the bottom of a TV screen, questions cycle through my brain.
Do you laugh with Spencer like you do with me? Does he crave your company like I do? Does he understand what a treasure you are? Will you break up with him so I can date you?
I manage not to voice the questions out loud. It might make her move away from me, and I like the feel of her hand on my chest and the way she stands close enough for me to catch her lavender scent. I remain as still as possible.
Maybe Layla sees the questions in my head reflected in my eyes, because she steps away, her hand falling from my chest.
She picks up her shoes and runs toward the van without a word.
I stay where I am to recover my equilibrium. Difficult after what happened. It’s the closest we’ve ever stood, and I can’t blame my shivering completely on the cold. I’ve never had this physical response from only touching a woman’s cheek. But this is Layla; she isn’t just any woman.
I look out over the ocean. I’ve always loved visiting this beach. Spencer and I rode our bikes here almost every day that first summer I stayed. I miss the friendship we once shared, but we’re not kids anymore. I don’t respect the choices he’s made, and he definitely doesn’t respect mine.
If Layla marries Spencer like he plans, they’ll both be miserable. Spencer will come to resent Layla for the drain on his time. She’ll lose the spark of joy that is innately part of who she is.
I won’t let that happen. I can’t.
I’m going to romance her away from my cousin.
The moment I decide to pursue Layla is the moment I declare war on Spencer. Maybe it’s the wrong decision and I should let things stay as they are, but if the right thing to do is to watch Layla lose her joy, then I’d rather not do the right thing.
Operation-Persuade-Layla-She’s-Making-a-Huge-Mistake has begun.
Title in progress, but the mission starts now.