Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I bet. These guys don’t look like slouches, and the fact that so many of them have been showing up for this early-morning session proves how dedicated they are to their health.
Harris not included.
Not that I lump him in with these guys; he’s in Star Lake strictly for lumberjacking and whatever postworkout muffins I want to bribe him with. But I know for a fact he works out, considering I was the reason he was bending and twisting last night. Late last night . . . and had I not had this class scheduled—I’d be home, in bed, asleep, too.
Definitely maybe dreaming about his stupid grin . . .
“Do you guys have anything planned for the rest of the day?” I ask, shaking the thought of Harris loose before it takes over, and stand, dusting off my knees. “Knitting, perhaps?”
Quinton cracks his knuckles, stretching lazily. “Ha ha, pretty much.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
Dex yawns as if he’s just waking up. “Maybe I’ll build a sandcastle later. And there’s a pool at the lodge. I might take a nap later.”
“Sounds like a solid itinerary.” I smile. “Do you mind my asking . . . if you have families?” I ask, genuinely curious about what their lives are like. “Kids, girlfriends, stuff like that?”
Dex grins, sand and dirt covering his arms as he props himself on his elbows. “Yeah, I have a girlfriend. Margot—she’s cool about these trips and shit. She knows the deal.”
The deal. I wonder what he means by that but do not pry. “How long have you two been together?”
“Since December,” he replies with a lazy smile. “She’s basically a saint for putting up with me.”
Miles laughs. “That’s putting it lightly. Margot should get a trophy.”
“Ha ha, very funny, dickhead.” Dex throws his towel at him and scrambles to stand. “Shit, that reminds me—we have a date to FaceTime this morning, so I have to hustle.”
The remaining guys begin standing, too, brushing nature off their legs and limbs and collecting their things.
“What about you, Lucy?” Elijah wants to know. “You married or somethin’?”
I shake my head the same way I always do when someone asks this question—it’s a question I get a lot, actually. “Nope. No boyfriend. No husband—just me.” I shrug. “Hey. You don’t have to look shocked. People survive without being in a relationship with someone.”
Elijah grins. “Yeah, but it’s surprising someone hasn’t snatched you up.”
I roll my eyes. “Or maybe I’m too busy being awesome.”
Miles has the nerve to snicker, twirling his black water bottle. “That, or you’re dodging idiots like us.”
Idiots like them? Hardly. A girl would consider herself lucky to be involved with any one of these guys—I mean, granted, they’re a tad pervy but not terrible. Stable jobs, up at dawn? Most of them seem like a good catch.
A soft breeze rustles through my hair, and I close my eyes, letting it cool my flushed cheeks. I open them to the sound of laughter carrying over the boats gently bumping against a nearby pier, and the sound of water lapping against the rocks.
The morning sun glints off the hood of the guys’ truck, and the scent of pine and earth lingers in the air, fresh and clean. Miles slings a towel over his shoulder, no doubt making a wisecrack that has them all doubling over as he tosses their gear into the bed of the truck. Elijah loudly calls shotgun, leaping onto the step with the kind of energy that only comes from a post-yoga high.
I stretch my arms overhead, the warm ache in my muscles a reminder of how long we stayed on the beach, breathing in the fresh air.
In.
Out.
In.
Out . . .
The rhythm of it calms me, but my mind refuses to stay still. I tilt my head back, letting the sun kiss my skin, and flirt with the idea of dating someone who lives in another state entirely—not that anyone is asking me to.
Not yet, anyway.
But that’s how it always starts, isn’t it?
Someone you can’t stop thinking about, conversations that last long past midnight, and suddenly you’re trying to convince yourself that distance is just a number.
Harris lives so far away. Arizona. Seriously? It’s such a far cry from where I am now, and it’s not the physical miles that weigh me down—it’s everything those miles represent. Time zones. Missed calls. Moments I’ll never be a part of.
Could I do it?
Could I be the girl who spends her Friday nights curled up with her phone instead of with him? Could I handle waking up to texts instead of lazy morning kisses? And what if those texts start feeling like a substitute for something I really want but can’t have?
I sigh, rolling my shoulders as seagulls call overhead.
It’s not like Harris has promised me anything, but the way he looks at me . . . it’s enough to make me wonder if he’s thinking about it too.