Page 44 of When We Are Falling

She kisses me deeper, an aching, wanting need in the way her lips press against mine. I’m going to taste her and make her come like it’s actually our honeymoon, and once we’re both fully satisfied, I’m going to make her come again.

After that? Who knows? And for the first time in a long time, I’m perfectly content not knowing what comes next.

Chapter 20

Ethan

That nightaway with Blake on a fake honeymoon was something else—it was as if the world had stopped just for us. But the next day, and the ones after that, found me back in the routine of leading the volunteer group in the morning, working in the afternoon planning charters for when the spill is finally cleaned, and longing for the day all this is done, when I won’t have to fit Blake into the spare moments in my life.

We’ve already had a long morning with the volunteer group at the wildlife rehabilitation center, and Bandit and I climb into my truck, heading for the marina. Blake couldn’t make it today, and it’s an understatement to say I missed her like crazy—the need to hold her while she’s sleeping, to wake up beside her, has gripped me.

I’m falling for her so hard. And it really feels like falling, like the best jump I’ve ever taken, the wind buffeting me from all directions, with no idea when or evenifI’ll find the drop zone, allthe carefully controlled foundations of my life being swept away by one person:Blake.

Driving through town with Bandit sitting beside me, my thoughts stay with her, a hot need that seems to always be there, no matter what else I’m doing. We pass some older Victorian-style houses painted in pastel hues, their porches adorned with hanging baskets overflowing with vibrant flowers, before reaching Main Street.

Winding my window down, the aroma of freshly baked bread drifts in, mixing with the salty tang of the ocean breeze. Locals have stopped at the Sweet Current Bakery and other cafes along Main Street for lunch, chatting with neighbors and sitting outside, enjoying the last week of summer. There are a handful of tourists trickling in, but most are still staying away.

The community center comes into view, and I spot Blake’s car parked out front. Curiosity tugs at me and I pull over, parking my truck across the street. Through the glass windows, she’s visible behind a small scuffed desk, her beautiful face a picture of concentration.

There are other volunteers, and signs offering free legal advice and referrals to services. A dozen or so people drift through the room, faces marked with the harsh realities of life. Some sit hunched over, clutching worn backpacks, blankets and sleeping bags rolled and tied on with string, their eyes dull.

An older man in a threadbare coat sits in the corner, gaunt face lined with signs of his battles, eyes darting around the room. A young woman with stringy hair and hollow cheeks shifts in her seat, her arms covered in faded bruises and marks, while beside her, a middle-aged man in an oversized jacket nervously fidgets with a worn leather wallet, his dull eyes distant, lost in some far-off memory.

Reverend Billy moves through the crowd, with his usual kind expression in place, offering words of comfort and advice. But it’s Blake who holds my attention.

She takes a sip of something out of a mug, eyes soft and attentive as she listens to the older man in front of her speak. She takes down details, and hands him a stack of pamphlets with a warm smile that just about makes my heart burst.

Glancing at Bandit, who’s watching me curiously. “She’s incredible, isn’t she, buddy?” I scratch behind his ears and Bandit gives a low huff.

I stay for a few minutes longer, watching her navigate the room with such grace. She moves from person to person, and there’s a genuine warmth in all of her interactions, a light that draws people in and makes them feel seen and heard. I’ve seen it so many times while we’re working on the oil spill.

Part of me is glad she agreed to give this thing between us a shot, but a larger part of me wants more than justtaking things day by day. I want to be with her completely, to have a proper relationship where I can tell the world she’s mine. Where I can shout it from the fucking rooftops if I want to.

Every time I see her, every touch, every laugh, every moment we share—it’s clear: Blake isn’t just another fling. She’s someone I want to build something real with. I want to be there for her, support her, and let her know she doesn’t have to carry her burdens alone.

As I linger, Blake stops to talk to another volunteer, a tall, handsome guy with a chiseled jaw. He leans in close, saying something that makes her laugh, and a sharp pang twists in my gut.

Clenching my fists, trying to rein in the surge of possessiveness. I take a deep breath, reminding myself to trust her, to trust us. But damn, it’s hard when I see someone else making her smile like that.

Just the thought of her being with anyone else makes me sick, then angry. She’s the only one I want, and I want to be the only one for her. I need to show her that we can face everything together. She’s more than just a part of my life now: she’s becoming the very center of it.

“Come on, Bandit.” Reluctantly putting the truck back in gear. “We don’t want to look like stalkers.”

Spotting Ruby O’Connor in her gallery a little further down the road, I pull in, hit with inspiration. She started making jewelry a while back from the smooth beach glass she finds on the beach, and I want to pick up something for Blake.

I step into the gallery, where Ruby stands behind the counter, her silver streaked dark hair pulled back in a loose bun. The walls are adorned with her beautiful creations—paintings of coastal scenes, intricate jewelry, and delicate glass sculptures. The soft hum of a local radio station plays in the background.

“How lovely to see you.” Ruby gives me a warm look. “What brings you here today?”

“Hey, Mrs. O’Connor. I’m looking for something for someone special. Maybe a bracelet or a necklace.”

Ruby gets a look in her eyes like she knows exactly who I’m talking about, but she’s got enough tact that she doesn’t mention Blake by name. She moves to a glass display case and pulls out three or four pieces, all made by hand. A silver bracelet with a piece of green sea glass set in the center catches my eye. The sea glass glimmers softly, capturing the light just right.

Picking it up, looking it over, trying to picture it on Blake. “This one might be perfect.”

“I found this piece of sea glass after Hurricane Karen. It’s a rare color, and it could match a certain someone’s eyes.”

I pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “It’s beautiful. I’ll take it.”

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