Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“You think it’s still safe?” he asks, shaking it so hard the cardboard bulges.
“It’s technically food,” I say. “That’s all you can ask out here.”
He grins, then stashes it back on the shelf. “Pancakes or death. Dealer’s choice.”
We make up the bed in the only bedroom—one of those foam-topped deals, more hammock than mattress—and spread our stuff around like a territorial claim. There’s no cell service, no WiFi, not even a TV; just a battered stack of New Yorkers and a chess set with three extra queens. I’m giddy. The world could end and we wouldn’t know for days.
The sun is still high, so we change into swimsuits and walk barefoot down to the dock. The boards are so hot I have to jog, but the lake is a fridge—ice shock, then a numbness that peels away every other sensation. I dive first, then surface and flip my hair back like I’m in a shampoo ad. Liam follows, wading in slow, arms raised in a parodic panic, then lobs a wave at me that nearly drowns my sinuses.
We float on our backs, watching the sky change colors by imperceptible degrees, and he tells me about the book he’s supposed to be writing. The publisher wants more sex, less philosophy. He thinks it’s a metaphor for his life.
“Maybe you should write under a pseudonym,” I suggest. “Then you could say anything.”
He smirks, “I already say what I want.”
We drift until the water chills us, then climb out and sit on the end of the dock, feet dangling. He opens a bottle of cheap wine with a shoe and a stick (city skills don’t matter here), and we drink straight from the neck, sharing it back and forth. It tastes like sour cherries and wood smoke.
He watches a loon land on the water, wings splayed, a little awkward. “I think they mate for life,” he says.
I snort. “Only because they never see any other loons.”
He laughs, but then gets quiet. “What would you do if you could do anything, anywhere? No limits.”
It’s one of those questions that used to fill me with dread. Now, I just let the silence be.
“Write, I guess. Or teach. Or write about teaching.” I think about it. “But honestly, just this. I’d be happy if the world was just this.”
My handsome boyfriend leans over, kisses my cheek, then my jaw. “Good answer.”
We watch the sky go gold, then lavender. Somewhere behind us, a squirrel shrieks at another squirrel, but out here, there’s room for even their pettiness. When the sun sinks, we wander up to the cabin, shivering from the wet.
He builds a fire—old pro, one match, no starter fluid. I make a meal out of crackers and deli cheese. We eat on the rug in front of the hearth, both of us cross-legged, knees touching. The wine is gone, but the heat from the flames is enough.
He pulls me into his lap, arms strong around my waist. I press my forehead to his, and we just breathe, sharing the space.
After a long while, he says, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” It’s not cheesy. It’s a fact.
“Even better than winning the poetry fellowship?” I tease.
He smiles, kisses my lips. “You have no idea.”
We move to the futon, not because we’re tired, but because the rug is bristly and the wine is making me floppy. The fire throws orange shapes on the walls. He touches my cheek, traces my jaw, runs a knuckle down my throat to the collarbone. I shiver, but not from cold.
“I want to take my time,” he says, and for the first time, I believe him.
He pulls my shirt over my head, then cups my face in both hands and kisses me so softly it aches. His touch is reverent, not like a worshiper, but like an astronomer who’s found a new star.
I undress him slow, wanting to remember every detail—his skin mapped with freckles, the muscle under his softness, the scar on his thigh he never talks about. I bury my face in his chest, breathe in the salt of his sweat and the smoke from the fire. He presses his lips to my temple and just holds me.
His hands move lower, palms wide and sure. I’m already wet—maybe I’ve been wet all day, the anticipation bubbling under every word, every look. He teases the waistband of my bikini bottoms, then tugs them down, discards them in a gentle, amused way that makes me laugh. I let him look. I let him see.
He slides his fingers between my legs, then pauses, asking for permission without words. I give it. He strokes, slow and patient, thumb brushing where it matters, and my hips move of their own accord.
“Fuck, you’re drenched, baby,” he rasps.
I moan a little in the back of my throat.