Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Cool grit slinking between my toes effortlessly ignites ease throughout my system.
Convinces my shoulders to unhinge themselves from where they’ve become attached to my ears.
Sweet talks my spine into melting like an ice cream sundae left on the pier in the middle of summer.
Comfort curls against my arches each step and peace I’ve only known from the sounds of waves crashing croons to me every stride, insisting everything is fine.
Will be fine.
Balanced.
Complete.
That’s probably the thing I love about water the most.
It doesn’t simply cleanse.
It recalibrates.
Restores.
And as much as I hate to admit it – also will never admit it out loud – having both men constantly in my life is beginning to bring me a similar serenity.
I wanna get used to it.
But I don’t.
Pretty sure I shouldn’t.
Our stroll along the water starts in silence yet doesn’t remain that way for long due to curiosity getting the better of me.
Asking Garcia about the dish he whipped up leads to talking a little bit about his family, something I quickly realize we rarely discuss. The conversation doesn’t take long to curl towards his sibling – who he is apparently pretty close to, which explains why she comes up often in casual conversation – and places they meet regularly for lunch or dinner. Hearing him talk so fondly and openly and warmly – like he isn’t in front of a judge or jury or gallery – has a soft voice in the caverns of my mind whispering to keep going.
Keep him chatting.
Chill and vulnerable.
“Okay,” I flick a loose strand away from my forehead, “what’s the fanciest food you’ve ever eaten?”
A deep breath of contemplation precedes one hand sliding into his pocket. “That’s a good question.”
“I would never ask a bad one.”
“Just do bad things?”
“Precisely.”
Another round of small chortles is exchanged prior to him answering, “I guess…I would have to say…either Foie Gras or Jamon Iberico.” Our gazes momentarily connect during our turn to head back the way we came. “Both were served at work events I attended.”
“For the rich and famous, I presume.”
“Wealthy clients aren’t the only ones I serve; however, I do take their cases to aid in serving the ones that have significantly less like my best friend and his family – pre married life.”
“Nolan.”
“Sí.”
“Who is married to Kipp and Bunny?”
He lets the corner of his lips kick upward. “You do listen.”
“Always.” Leaning in a little closer occurs in between statements. “It’s the caring that’s wishy washy, not my hearing, counselor.”
“Sabes que odio que me llames así.”
“I do know you hate it when I call you that…that’s why I do it.”
“Of course it is, Princess.” The glare he’s thrown is accompanied by me purposely kicking a bit of sand at his pantleg. “Your turn.”
Quirking a quick eyebrow in his direction is all that’s done.
“What’s the strangest seafood dish you’ve ever had?”
“Either marmitako – which is fish stew made on the fishing vessel – or Tiradito – raw bluefin tuna thinly sliced with leche de tigre sauce – and a boiled sweet potato.”
“The latter is quite expensive.”
“It was,” I adjust the grip on my sandals, “but I’m worth it.”
“More.”
The flirtatious response receives a sweet, bashful beam that I do my best to bury.
“Yo vi eso.”
“You saw nothing.”
“I saw you smile.”
“First your memory, now your vision, Grandpa?” Playful tsking sounds escape. “I can only imagine your hearing is next.”
“Por qué?” He mirthfully hums. “Why do you give me so much shit?”
“Why do you give me so much shit?”
“Why do you answer a question with a question?”
“Why do you refuse to answer questions but expect everyone else to answer them?” I sassily counter.
“Why do you hate me?”
“Why do you hate the idea of us?”
“Why do you?”
This time my steps falter forcing me to look up and find his stare. “It isn’t the idea of ‘us’ that I hate, Garcia. It’s having an anchor.”
“Staying in one place.”
“Being weighed down in the wrong place.”
At that, his frame slides in front of mine to block further movement. “Is with me the wrong place?”
“Yes.”
His mouth bobbing in perplexity precedes him asking, “Is with Zero the wrong place?”
“Yes.”
“Is…with…us…both…the right one?”
Against my own volition I whisper, “That definitely feels more like a dock than an anchor.”
Garcia unexpectedly leans closer.
Uses two fingers to grab my chin.
Steal my breath.
“Then dock with us, Princess.”
“Not what that means,” impishly fills the small space.
Garcia releases a slightly irked sigh at the same time his hand falls back to his side. “You know what I mean.”
“I know you like to give me shit.”
“Because you like to give me shit.”
“Because you need someone whose balls are as big as yours…which are pretty fucking big…and I would know since I’ve had them in my mouth,” a devilish smirk can’t be stopped, “Master.”
An undeniably brutish grunt escapes alongside him pulling me closer by a handful of my ass. “You want them there again?”