Page 71 of Taming Waves

I want to argue, but my limbs feel heavy, and his body is so warm. I let him pull me in closer, and I lay my head against his chest.

The next thing I know, I’m in his arms, and he’s carrying me upstairs. He sets me down on a chair beside the bed, removes my boots, and then pulls back the comforter.

“Climb in, baby,” he commands.

I don’t argue; I crawl into the soft, warm bed. He kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his hoodie, and tosses his jeans into the chair. He turns off the light and settles in beside me. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me onto his chest.

He kisses the top of my head and whispers, “Sweet dreams.”

Parker

“Come on. Weren’t you the track star in school?” Audrey asks, looking over her shoulder.

“You should know; you wore my letterman jacket every day.”

She convinced me to go for a run with her this morning. I was so content, waking up with her wrapped in my arms, that I agreed. Now, she’s currently kicking my ass.

“Ah, I loved that thing. I was devastated when I lost it. I bet my dad burned it,” she says. “You still back there?”

“I’m enjoying the view,” I say.

She shakes her head, then turns and starts running backward.

“The view from the front isn’t bad either,” I quip.

“Weak, Alston. I guess that’s what happens when you turn twenty-nine, huh?” she cracks as she turns back around.

The little minx.

“Ow!” I shout, and she whips around, a look of concern on her face. “Cramp.”

I stop and bend over, clutching my side. She jogs back to me, but before she reaches me, I sprint forward, duck down, and lift her off her feet, tossing her over my shoulder.

“Put me down, Parker,” she squeals.

I smack her on the backside. “As you wish.”

I carry her to the door of the coffee shop and place her at one of the bistro tables.

“Running is over. It’s time for coffee now,” I say.

“We hardly worked up a sweat,” she groans.

“I haven’t run since high school, and I can think of many more enjoyable ways to raise our heart rate, Tiger.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll take a caramel latte, please.”

I run inside, place our order, and return to her. A few minutes later, the barista brings us two steaming mugs and a large cinnamon bun to share.

“Breakfast of champions,” I say as I hand her a plastic fork.

She drops the utensil on the table, picks up the sticky bun, and unravels the pastry, popping a large bite into her mouth.

“I love the way you do that,” I say.

She quirks a brow. “The way I do what?”

“Eat with your hands. You do that often—pastries, cheese fries, hash browns, waffles, pasta, and even salads. It makes it seem like you’re enjoying your meal more than everyone else.”

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