Page 62 of Coincidentally Kismet

“Yes, sir,” I shout as he starts to walk away.

“Oh my God! We almost just got caught having sex on the beach,” Cam says through a fit of laughter.

I smile at her shyly. “Worth it.”

While I’m a bit annoyed that the officer broke up our post-coital snuggle, it dawns on me that I almost told Cam that I love her. I do, I know I do, but it’s too soon to say it. Thankfully, the officer showed up when he did.

“We better get a move on, like he said. I don’t want Elliott to have to bail us out of jail.” I kiss her cheek one last time. “Thanks, Wright.”

“For what?” She looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to decipher.

“For understanding about my job . . . for uh, for being supportive.”

“Sure, Rambo. I’ve got you.” She smiles at me, a soft tentative smile. It’s full of reservation, but I can’t tell if it’s from her own fear or because she isn’t actually planning on sticking around. She promised she could handle it, and at this point, only time will tell. I’m too in love with her to resist the risk.

CHAPTER 28

CAM

“TWO THINGS” - KELSEA BALLERINI

Have you ever heard the expression, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans? Plans are my thing. I make lists, set goals, overthink every possible outcome and yet my follow-through, virtually nonexistent. No one would call me type A, organization is not my strong suit, cleaning—meh. Good intentions should count for something though, right?

Good intentions are exactly how I would label every interaction I’ve had with Will so far. I intend to go in, be fun, and protect my heart at all costs. My follow-through...in serious jeopardy. He’s too kind, too sexy, too funny, too badass, too everything. The kryptonite to my Clark Kent. The very things I wished for back when my mother used to tell me you could have too much of a good thing. Except it’s not too much, I want it all.

At this point, I can’t even pretend I’m trying to be unaffected by him. I like being with him. It’s simple—well, not really, but it feels easy. He makes me brave and also calls me on my shit: The perfect balance of building me up and bursting my bubble when necessary.

And then there’s the sex. When the dictionary was written, it should’ve had a picture of Will next to that word. No definition needed, just a picture, people would get it with a mere glance. I thought it was good back when we were younger, but let the record show—like fine wine, it got better with age.

Aside from the phone sex, I initiated both times things went further than kissing, which I should regret. But I can’t help it that Will turns me into a glorified floozy. I can’t resist him. My mother would be mortified to know I had sex on a beach. Well, technically in a Jeep on the beach. Same difference.

Was it worth it? A million times over, absolutely, hands down. The man knows how to make my body come alive with a simple caress of his hand. He’s efficient and skilled and, lord almighty, gives me earthquake orgasms. You know, the ones that give you aftershocks a day later just thinking about the experience.

Yes,experience. Sex with most people is an act. Something that, based on my previous history, you do while tightly squeezing your eyes closed and praying for it to be over. Not with Will—that shit is like one of those immersion experiments where you’re blindfolded in a dark room and eating odd foods but nothing has ever tasted better in your life because your senses are fully activated.

It’s addicting, and I’m shamelessly desperate to do it again. The problem is, while I’m ridiculously into him, I’m also scared out of my mind that I’m letting myself slip right back into what we had. I am trying to let go of the past and these fears that haunt me, but it’s still really hard to fully trust him. I keep thinking that the more time I spend with him, the easier it’ll get. Fake it ’til you make it, if you will.

Unfortunately, today’s a workday for him, so hanging out is basically off the table. Speaking of his work, our conversation yesterday was pretty intense. On some level, I knew his jobwasn’t simple, safe, or easy, but I had no clue how involved it was. No vacation without special permission, leaving at a moment’s notice, walking into unknown situations. It’sa lot.

I can’t quit thinking about what happened the last time they went on a mission. What kind of sick world exists in which someone would hurt a child? That girl was someone’s baby, maybe a sister, definitely a friend. Thinking about it has me choking back sobs, and I wasn’t even there.

It’s unfair and yet that’s life. If I could change what happened, I would. Not just for her but for the guys too. Wrapping my head around how they could have witnessed such horror and yet still laugh and smile and joke...It’s incomprehensible.

I like to think I’m strong, but I know I couldn’t have come back from that. I can empathize with why Thatch didn’t. Often, since reconnecting with Will, I’ve wondered why he seemed hardened or different. Now I know. His heart has scars from being haphazardly stitched back together. Not all wounds are visible, but that doesn’t make them any less real.

Hell, my heart has a permanent bruise simply from hearing him recount what happened. He asked me if I could handle this life, his life. What kind of question is that, and who would I be if I said no? I’m not delusional enough to think it will be easy, but taking even a bit of pain, fear, or worry from that man—it’s not even a question, I will do it without reservation every single time. I will be my own kind of warrior; I will fight every battle to protect his soul.

Over the past several weeks, I’ve pushed and pulled, ignored and evaded, trying desperately to keep my true feelings at bay. I refuse to do that now. I love him! I’m not ready to tell him that yet, but acceptance is the first step, right?

It terrifies me in the worst way, the soul-crushing, anxiety spiral, aching-in-my-bones kind of way. Somewhere inside,buried deep, I know he has the capacity to hurt me. He’s walked away before, and even though he was young, it doesn’t mean this is guaranteed to work now, just because we are older.

Love to me is not logical. It’s not something you choose, at least not in the beginning, but rather something that happens to you. Like how the strike of a match causes it to ignite: All relationships have the potential to set sparks ablaze or to burn out. It simply depends what type of ignition device you’re working with. Is it a cheap match that was a free giveaway at your favorite bar? Or is it a refillable Zippo lighter that you can top off when the flame gets low? If it’s the latter, you can make that choice and reignite the flame as it ebbs and flows through the years.

My daddy always told me the key to a lifelong love was finding someone who pushes you to become the best version of yourself. He said you don’t need a yes-man; you need someone who isn’t afraid to tell you the stuff that’s hard to hear. The guy who will tell you that you do indeed look bad in that dress, but that you are still the most gorgeous woman on earth. Someone who will walk beside you during a storm, not run off for shelter, leaving you to follow behind. I want to believe that Will is that man.

A knock on the door drags me sluggishly out of my warm bed. Ugh! Who is here? This was supposed to be my lounge day.

“Delivery for a Ms. Cam Wright,” the paunchy old man with a scraggly beard bellows from behind a bouquet of what must be three-dozen pink, white, and red peonies.

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