Chapter 11 #2
“I only ask because if you make it, and the book gets published, believe me, that’s one of the first questions you’re going to get from just about anyone who reads it.
It’s always some variation of ‘So, is this based on your own life?’ You’d be wise to come up with an answer you’re comfortable with for that question.
” I was buzzing off a delicious combination of mudslide and dopamine, one that evidently made me think I was in the position to give this man worldly publishing advice.
“Thank you for the intel,” he said, graciously, if sober. “I think that’s the first bit of guidance I’ve ever received from an actual author.”
“Anytime,” I replied. “So, tell me. What do you love about writing?”
“Hm. I’d say my favorite part is having some power over a story’s ending.”
“Amen. You can take something that sucked in real life and spin it to turn out happy on the page.”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m trying to do with this story.”
“I do it all the time.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, a hundred percent. I write romance! In my genre, there’s a guarantee from page one that the story will end with a happily-ever-after. But you don’t see me traipsing around with a ring on my finger, do you?”
“Thankfully, no. That would complicate this moment quite a bit, I’d say.”
I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Exactly. Even though I have yet to experience forever-love, I write about it as if someone’s already wifed me up.”
“Wifed you up?”
“Sorry. One of the side effects of teaching high school is being a grown-ass woman who speaks like a teenager sometimes.”
Beckett shook his head. “Don’t apologize.
It’s very cute,” he said. “Anyway, I don’t know if I necessarily need to have a happy ending for this story,” he went on.
He tilted his head to look at me as we strolled side by side.
“I would like one, though, you know?” He was tall enough to block out the sun, and his face fell in shadow by contrast. I could still see the slight upturn in his nose and the squareness of his jaw.
I took a deep breath to will away any primordial (and alcohol-fueled) instinct to kiss him.
“So, are you stuck?” I said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the shape of Beckett’s juicy lower lip. “Trying to make it end happily?”
“I think so,” he said.
“Maybe don’t force it. Just tell the story the way it happened. Get it out, you know? And then see if there’s anything worth salvaging.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Not so much anymore,” I answered honestly. “But that’s what I did when I was just starting out.”
He looked out in the distance and then back at me. “Well, thank you for the words of wisdom. Your turn now. What’s your favorite thing about writing?”
I considered the question. “I think it makes you see the world differently.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, suddenly everything you encounter in real life has the potential to end up in a story. It’s pretty cool, if you think about it.”
Beckett nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “It is kind of crazy. This moment right now even. You could write about it in your next book.”
I couldn’t have suppressed my grin if I tried. I shrugged. “Who knows?” I replied. “Maybe I will.”
“I guess the pressure’s on, then,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“For what?”
“For me to make it as memorable as possible.”
“And how will you do that?” I asked.
He stopped walking and turned to face me. I could see the reflection of my face in his eyes. I tried not to stare too hard, lest I should become acutely aware of the involuntary expression of desire that had taken up residence in my features. “Can you swim?” he asked.
I nodded.
Beckett held his hand out to me, and I slid my fingers through his for the second time in twenty-four hours.
“Come with me,” he said, a boyish smirk playing on his lips.
He strode out into the warm salt water, and I watched his knees disappear into it, then his waist. I felt the water cool my skin, but it was ancillary, background noise compared to the heightened sensation of the fire at my fingertips.
His grip on my palm was gentle enough to slide out of without force but firm enough to make it clear that if he wanted to, he could lift me up effortlessly.
Instead, he pulled me into the calm, cobalt sea to bathe beside him.
All the way up to our shoulders we walked, hand in hand.
Finally, I let go of him so I could lean my head back to soak my hair, and he closed his eyes and ducked under the surface.
When his head reemerged, he used both hands to wipe off his face.
“Is this your first time in the water since being here?” Beckett asked.
I nodded as I bit my lip, tasting the brine on my tongue.
He looked up to the sky.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Almost,” he said. He lowered his eyes to meet mine and stepped in closer.
The water dripped from his eyelashes. A large hand slid onto my waist, then around to my lower back, pulling me in until there were mere inches between Beckett’s torso and mine.
“I’d like to kiss you. Would that be okay? ” he asked in a throaty tone.
The question gave me unspoken permission to place my hands on his skin in return.
I closed my eyes, relishing the sensation of his back muscles under the pads of my fingers.
I felt my head bob up and down and the sensory overload of the water, Beckett’s hands simultaneously pulling me all the way in to close the gap between our submerged bathing suits and running up my back to snake their way through the wet mop of hair at the nape of my neck.
His lips met mine, the sun beat down, and I felt electricity light up my insides so intensely that I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d become bioluminescent.
Beckett’s mouth moved with expert precision, opening and closing in time with mine, his curious tongue dancing with my own.
I melted into him, the moment, the perfect music we made in that water that only our hearts could hear.
Finally, our eyes opened slowly and he licked my upper lip with a grin.
“There,” he said.
“Hm?” I asked, dizzy and confused.
“I gave you something to write about.”
“Like a gift,” I said.
“Mm.” He leaned backward into the water. “I hope it was good enough.”
“I guess time will tell,” I replied. “I might need you to do it again, though. You know. So it stays with me all the way back to New York.”
“Anything for the craft.”
“Shake on it?” I asked, holding out my hand.
He took it, pulled me in again, and said, “Nah. We can do better than that.” Then he kissed me with the heat of a thousand suns.