Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
With that enigmatic statement, he straightens and walks off, leaving me frowning up at the clear blue sky. I can’t settle down. His words have kicked up my heart rate, and the anxious tightening in my belly has returned tenfold. I might have been able to remain on the lounger, stewing in my thoughts, only I spot Macon heading toward the rough stone stairs that lead to the beach.
“Of all the stupid . . .” I grab my T-shirt and put it on before scrambling off the lounger. He’s a little less than halfway down when I finally catch up to him. The stairs are fairly wide and set at a forty-five degree angle along the cliff face. But they are also roughly carved and have hidden slick spots where the sea spray has hit them. “What the hell are you doing?”
Macon glances over his shoulder as he hobbles down another step. “The Pachanga. What does it look like I’m doing?”
I hustle down the stairs until I’m behind him. “It looks like you’re being a complete idiot.”
“You say the sweetest things, Tot. Really.” He keeps creeping down the stairs, his cane at the edge of the stone. The sight nearly gives me vertigo.
“Macon, you could fall, and you’re busted up enough as it is, don’t you think?”
“Hell, the boot comes off tomorrow. I’m just taking a little walk to get some air.”
“Take it tomorrow, then.”
“I’m not going to fall.” His foot wobbles, and he halts to shoot me an accusatory look, as if I somehow caused it. “Unless you’ve come to tell me you figured out what I already know or have the sudden urge to take a walk with me on the beach, quit hovering.”
“Quit speaking in riddles. It’s annoying.”
“Quit being obtuse,” he counters. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Why don’t you quit being stubborn.” At the small landing, I scramble around him, skirting the edge of the stone, and hop down on the stair in front of him.
Macon utters a ripe curse. “You call me stubborn. You could have fallen just then.”
“I needed to get in front of you.” I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a mother hen, but the thought of him toppling down these stairs and becoming more battered—or, God forbid, breaking his damn neck—makes my blood run ice cold. Not that I think he’d appreciate the concern.
Storm clouds gather over his face. “And why is that?”
“So I can break your fall if you tumble.”
Wrong thing to say, apparently. His skin goes ruddy, his mouth working as if he’s lost his voice. But then it booms out. “Of all the stupid, stubborn, foolhardy—”
“Stop ranting. It’s bad for your blood pressure.” I’m in front of him now. All is well. At least if we can get safely to the sand.
His nostrils flare. “You honestly think you could catch me? Delilah, I’d squish you like a grape if I fell.”
“I’m hearty. I can hold you up.”
“You’re a grape,” he repeats. “A succulent little grape.”
“There you go again, comparing me to food.”
Dark brows snap together as an evil light enters his eyes. “Yep. And one day I’m going to eat you right up. Now move your butt. I want off these stairs.”
He dogs my steps the rest of the way down as if somehow it’s his responsibility to make sure I don’t fall. Typical male. I’m shaking my head when we finally reach the sand.
“There,” I say, hands on my hips. “You’re down safely. Now call when you need assistance back up, and I’ll come get you.”
“Call when I . . . ? Oh, for the love of fuck.” He runs a hand over his face as if trying to quell his temper.
That’s my cue to go. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
I take one step, and he’s on me. “Oh, no you don’t,” he says with a dark laugh. “You followed me down here; you’re damn well keeping me company now.”
“You’re too moody for company.”
“Your fault, Tot.”
I dodge, trying to get around him.
He lurches forward, his hand outstretched as if to grasp my elbow.
A few things go wrong. His cane, which he’s reliant on, sinks into the sand—because canes and sand do not mix—and his step bobbles as he tries to correct his stance. I sidestep in the wrong direction, and my foot meets with a slimy lump of seaweed, which causes me to yelp and hop the other way, colliding with Macon’s teetering form.
We go down like timber.
The sand is soft but not enough, and I let out a hard breath when I land. Macon’s heavy bulk falls on top of me, our hips colliding. He reacts quickly, though, catching most of his weight on his elbows. I’m surrounded by him, his arms bracketing me, his hips nicely cradled between my spread legs. I’m so aware of how warm and solid he feels and the way my body suddenly wakes up that I can’t breathe for a long moment.