Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
New dawn. New day. New life. Nina Simone and Michael Bublé, eat your heart out.
I feel like I could tackle the wind, take on the world, and come out the victor no matter what.
“Let’s go to the beach!” I shout, suddenly excited about anything and everything.
Ben shakes his head. “I don’t swim.”
“How can you not swim?” I say automatically, then remember he said he was a city kid, so he might not have had access to water like we do here, where we learn by getting tossed into the lake as kids. “We’ll wade, then, but you need shorts.” I think there’s true fear I see blossom on his face. But why would he be scared of shorts? They’re just pants with a little less fabric. But that’s not what I say. Instead, I tease, “No shorts? Okay, a Speedo it is!”
I’m hustling toward the dock store, which sells all the goodies you could possibly need for a day on the water—bait, fishing poles, snacks, beer, sodas, and of course, swimsuits. Ben catches up to me in three long strides.
“No Speedos. No shorts. I’ll roll up my jeans or something,” he offers by way of compromise, but even that seems to make him uncomfortable.
I look down at his ripped faded-black jeans, plain black T-shirt, and the same brown, worn boots he had on when hiking. “Do you have any other clothes? Or is this the daily uniform?” Don’t get me wrong, he looks good in what he has on, but I don’t think I could wear the same thing every day. Even my scrubs for work are patterned and colorful.
“It’s an aesthetic,” he argues, raising one dark brow in challenge. “And it makes getting dressed easy.”
“Yeah, but goth isn’t the usual vibe for summer fun. And you, my friend, asked me to show you the Maple Creek experience, so water sports are happening. Let’s go!”
I swear Ben chokes on his spit, because he sputters, “Hope, water sports does not mean what you think it does. And they most definitely are not happening.” I don’t know what he’s talking about or why he’s fighting back a grin. And I definitely don’t know why he scrubs his hand down his face with a sigh.
“Water sports—like swimming, diving, Jet Skis, tubing,” I explain. “And yes, they are. At least swimming. Or swimming adjacent.”
He chuckles but, not accepting any more arguments, I enter the store. Immediately, I freeze, realizing how much I just fucked up.
I hadn’t thought about whether the people here would be Team Hope or Team Roy, and now it’s too late to backtrack.
I duck behind a rack of swimwear, peering over at the cash register. Ben steps up next to me, laying a lazy arm over the row of hangers and conveniently blocking me from view with his height. “How do we feel about the girl at the front? Need me to distract her with water-sport conversation while you make a run for it?”
I’m definitely looking up what the hell he’s talking about later because now when he says it, water sports sounds like something I definitely don’t want him discussing with the girl in the store. Arching a brow, I meet his gaze, but the tease in his voice doesn’t match the concern I see in his eyes.
I could run. It’d be easy, and Ben would cover for me. But I’ve done nothing wrong, and it feels important that I don’t act like I have.
Straightening my back to stand tall, I shake my head. “Nope, I got this.”
Behind me, I hear him mutter, “Yeah, you do.”
I work my way through the racks of souvenir shirts emblazoned with the Maple Creek city logo and get to the more functional clothing at the back, heading to the swimsuits. I grab a plain one-piece in a pretty baby blue I know will look good with my eyes, and then I turn to the men’s suits.
There’s a pair of solid black shorts that would probably be the best choice for Ben. But that’s not what I grab. Nope, if he’s stepping out of his comfort zone, we’re going all the way out, in style. So instead, I pick up a neon highlighter-yellow pair with pink flamingos on them. “Perfect!” I tell him, holding them up for his approval even though I know I won’t get it.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” he growls, trying to pull them from my hands. We tussle for a second, but I keep a tight grip on them, and when he begrudgingly lets go, I hold the suit up to him, the back of my hand brushing just above his waist.
I smile and flash puppy dog eyes at him. He shakes his head harder. I flutter my lashes. He crosses his arms.
I pull out the big guns: sticking my bottom lip out in a pout.