Page 47 of For Butter or for Worse
Returning to my side, King reaches over and grabs my trembling hand. “No one will think less of you if you decide to go back to shore,” he says gently. “Just having you out on the water with me has made me happier than I can say.”
“It was always so easy tomake you happy,” I murmur.
He actually blushes, though he ducks his head to hide it. “Not so much lately. Ever since Uncle Bill died, I think there’s been a shadow hanging over me that won’t go away. I don’t know if it ever will.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Maybe if we ride a wave together you can have a little sunshine.”
I don’t even know if we can share these waves, which aren’t exactly large, but that doesn’t stop a grin from spreading across his face. “Can’t hurt to try.”
It hurts a lot, in fact.
On my first attempt to pop up and get to my feet on a wave, the nose of the board takes a dive and sends me tumbling face first into the whitewater. Something hits my head hard, and the next thing I know I’m on the shore with King’s frantic face looming over me as I choke on the water in my lungs.
“Georgie!” he says, the word a little garbled. “Can you hear me?”
I cough and then grimace when everything hurts, from my lungs to my head. I swallow, my tongue tasting salt. “What happened?”
He exhales with relief and then pushes my hair out of my face. “You scared the crap out of me,” he breathes. “I think the board hit you in the head when you wiped out, and then you didn’t come up.”
I don’t remember any of that, but maybe that’s a good thing. “Was it the most pathetic crash you’ve ever seen?”
He chuckles, though the worry hasn’t left his eyes. “Nah. But maybe don’t try surfing again, okay?”
“Deal.”
“How’s your head?”
It’s throbbing, but everything is already becoming sharper, including my realization that King is practically lying on top of me in the wet sand. His body is warm, his skin smooth against mine, and I don’t want him to move. Even if I feel a bit like Prince Eric after Ariel—King, in this case—rescues him from the storm. I highly doubt King will start singing to me, though.
“I think I’ll live,” I say slowly, “but I might need to take the morning off tomorrow.”
Nodding, King runs his fingers through my bedraggled curls. His eyes keep roving over me, like he can’t quite believe that I’m okay. “I’ll text Meg.”
“She might not listen.”
“I’ll pay her extra.”
“You don’t have to worry about the bakery anymore, Royal.”
He smiles softly, and his thumb brushes across my cheekbone. “I know. But I’m worried about you.”
I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve the warm concern in his eyes, or the gentle touch of his fingers, or the pleasure of lying this close to him, in the sand or otherwise. He deserves someone who will stick around, and that’s not me.
What’s making you leave?
The voice that asks that question sounds an awful lot like Cecily. But it also sounds like myself. I used to have a ready answer, but now I’m coming up blank. I certainly don’t want to leave right now.
“Do you think you can sit up?” King asks. “Cecily went to grab your clothes and a towel, but I think we should probably get you into bed after a crash like that.”
I’m exhausted, and my bed is calling to me like a siren song I can’t resist. I want nothing more than to sleep for days.
Except, as King helps me to my feet and then presses me up against his side in a sturdy embrace that shuts out the world, I think that statement might be wrong.
I think I might want him more.
Chapter Sixteen
King
