Page 45 of Rating the Book Boyfriend

His face looks pained. “Not really. She got sand in her new shoes, so she wasn’t exactly happy with me.”

“Oh.” I move on to the next one. “And the trip to Switzerland for your one-year anniversary? That sounds awesome, and very… sandless.”

Riggs chuffs out a laugh. “The sandless-ness is why I chose Switzerland, but we, uh…” He pulls at the back of his neck. “We didn’t end up going. I was trying to be spontaneous and surprise her, but she already had plans I didn’t know about.”

Jesus, who is this woman? If a man who looks like Riggs Romero wanted to whisk me away to Europe—or hell, pretty much anywhere—I’d have my bag packed in about four-point-five seconds.

I pat the back of his hand and try to reassure him. “Riggs, I think you’re doing your best, so much more than a bunch of fives. But all relationships take two people to work.”

I stop short of saying,It doesn’t sound like a YOU problem; it sounds like a HER problem.His reluctant smile tells me that maybe he’s getting what I’m putting down.

“I think that’s enough for now,” I declare, letting my gaze roll toward the beach and the soft waves bubbling at the shore.

“You want to hit the beach?” he asks, perking up, and I nod happily.

We spend the rest of the day on the beach. Sitting lazily on blankets and soaking up the vitamin D. Throwing a ball for Ace and laughing when he bounds after it and trots goofily back to us, pride in his big brown eyes when he drops the ball at our feet. It’s too cold to swim, but we walk through the front edge of the surf and let the gentle water wash the sand from our toes.

I’ve had a crush on Riggs Romero since the first time I saw him on a book cover, but the real-life version of the man—the one behind the face and the killer body—is even better. He’s so fun to be around, and I find his attentiveness almost disarming. Throughout the day, he constantly checked to see if I was hungry or thirsty or if I was tired of playing with his energetic dog.

Not to mention, the man can cook like a five-star chef. The snapper was delectable and flaky, with a buttery sauce that held a hint of lemon. Paired with braised brussels sprouts, it was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

After our meal, I check my bag to make sure I’ve put away all my folders and papers, and I catch Riggs staring at me, an amused smile on his face. “What?” I ask.

“Have you always been this organized? With the spreadsheets and charts and stuff?”

I shrug. “Since I was four.” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I clarify, “Of course not with all the computer stuff, but I started organizing my closets and drawers by color. I tried to make everything as neat and tidy as possible.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Did something happen when you were four?”

Damn, he’s astute.

“It did. Nothing all that bad in the grand scheme of things. A lot of kids had it worse than I did.”

“Will you tell me?” His voice is low and his eyes seem to be piercing directly into my soul, making it almost impossible to say no.

“Why do you want to know?”

His pink lips crook up on one side. “I feel like we’re becoming friends, Libby, and I’d like to know more about you. The sun is about to set, and the view is beautiful from the beach behind my house. We can sit back there and talk.”

“Will there be wine?”

He chuckles. “I can open the bottle of Shiraz you brought.”

“So I get wine and a sunset, and you get a sad story. Seems fair.”

We make our way down the short, sandy path to the beach. Riggs is wearing the green swim trunks he swam in today, and his white linen shirt is open and unbuttoned, leaving a small strip of yumminess visible.

He spreads a blanket, and we sit side by side but not touching. We’re silent as he pours deep-red wine into two plastic wine glasses. Sipping slowly, we watch the greatest show on Earth.

“It’s like the sun and moon are on opposite sides of a seesaw,” he says, “and as one lowers, the other rises.”

“It is,” I say, loving his analogy. “And it’s like they trade their lights, the bright yellow one being replaced with the muted blue.”

Quiet falls between us, the gentle lapping of the waves the only sound as the seesaw raises the moon and lowers the sun into the water. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Riggs says softly. “I feel like I pressured you.”

I turn to look at his profile, which is so perfect it makes my teeth hurt. “Not at all. I don’t tell many people because it’s really not that interesting.”

Riggs pivots his head slowly to face me. “Everything about you is interesting, Liberty.”

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