Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
I like… her. A lot. Too much. And there’s a part of me who would do anything to keep her with me forever. Even though I just met her.
It’s illogical, right?
But logic stopped mattering the second she laughed in the creek.
Salem shifts slightly, tilting her face up toward mine, eyes heavy with sleep. “Ozzy,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
Her lips part like she’s going to say something important. Then she just sighs and murmurs, “Thanks.”
My throat tightens. I smooth my hand over her arm. “Always.”
Salem’s eyes flutter closed again, the tension easing out of her body. And I sit there, holding her, watching the stupid movie play in the background, thinking about skateboards and roller skates and the fact that happiness is apparently something you can deliver in a box.
And that I’ll do it again.
Over and over.
As many times as she needs.
ELEVEN
SALEM
If you ever want to truly humble a confident man, put him in roller skates and give him a mission. Ozzy Oliver has taken down bad guys. Broken into compounds. Outrun armed men. Probably glared someone into confessing. But four wheels under each foot?
His villain origin story.
We’re in the back of Rainmaker where the pavement opens up into that little service strip—our makeshift training ground. Ozzy’s in black shorts and a t-shirt, wearing skates that look like they’ve been waiting their whole life to embarrass him. His mohawk is up, his posture is serious, and his face is set like he’s about to interrogate the ground.
I tighten my laces and try not to laugh. I fail. A snort escapes me.
Ozzy’s eyes cut to mine. “Don’t.”
I lift my hands innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” he accuses.
“I’m thinking a lot of things,” I admit.
His stare drops to my mouth—just for a second. Then he clears his throat and pushes off. His skates roll forward. So does his body. Too forward. His arms shoot out to the sides like he’s trying to catch an airplane.
“Bend your knees!” I call.
“I AM!” he shouts, bending nothing. He wobbles, panics, and clutches the air.
“Stop fighting it!” I laugh.
“I’m not fighting it,” he says, voice strained. “I’m negotiating.”
“Negotiate with your knees,” I tell him, skating closer. “Loosen up.”
Ozzy’s expression is pure betrayal. “This is not loosening up. This is—” He sways. His eyes widen. He grabs my shoulders.
I catch him automatically, our bodies bumping in a way that makes my breath hitch. Warmth meets warmth. His hands grip my arms. My fingers curl around his waist for stability. For one heartbeat, the lesson disappears. It’s just Ozzy. Close. Solid. Smelling like soap and clean cotton and something that makes my stomach flip.
His gaze locks on mine. Heat crackles. Then he says, dead serious, “If I die, tell Arrow I went out heroically.”
I blink. Then burst out laughing, the tension shattering.
Ozzy exhales like he’s been released from a spell. “Okay. Laugh at me. That’s fine.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” I say, still giggling. “I’m laughing with you.”
“Sure,” he mutters.
I reach up and tap his chest. “You’re doing great.”
He lifts a brow. “Liar.”
“I’m a clipboard warrior,” I remind him. “I don’t lie.”
Ozzy’s mouth twitches. “That’s… not a rule.”
“It is now,” I declare.
We try again. This time, he makes it halfway down the strip without grabbing me like I’m a life raft. It’s progress. Barely. We skate, wobble, laugh, and “take breaks” that are suspiciously just excuses for Ozzy to lean on the fence and stare at me like he’s trying to memorize my face for later.
I pretend not to notice. I can’t pretend not to feel it, though—the restless hum under my skin. It’s there. It’s subtle. I swear it makes my chest warm with hope. With desire. I like the way he stares at me.
I push off, skating in a slow circle, breathing in the cool air, letting the movement steady my thoughts. Then I roll back toward Ozzy, stopping in front of him carefully. “Ozzy,” I say.
He straightens immediately, attention snapping to me. “Yeah?”
“Can we go somewhere?” I ask, voice softer than I mean. “Just… not here. I’m getting a little restless.”
Ozzy’s eyes search my face like he’s checking for panic signals, trauma triggers, danger.
I shake my head quickly. “I’m okay. I just… I want to see people. Normal people. A street. A shop. Something that isn’t… hiding.”
Ozzy exhales slowly. Then he nods. “Okay.”
Just like that. No argument. No lecture.
“Where?” he asks.
I shrug. “Anywhere. Is there a town nearby?”
Ozzy glances toward the tree line. “Magnolia Ridge is about twenty-five minutes out.”
The name makes something flutter in my stomach—like I’ve heard it in passing, like it’s a place that exists in the universe of normalcy.
“What’s it like?” I ask.
Ozzy’s mouth curves. “Small. Cute. Main street vibes. Shops. Coffee. Bookstore.”
My eyes widen. “Bookstore?”
Ozzy’s grin deepens. “Yeah.”
My excitement hits too fast, too bright. It almost scares me. But I nod anyway, trying not to look like a kid offered candy. “I want to go,” I say.