Page 31 of Stick Break
I’m definitely not the person who should be doling out advice, but here I am, trying anyway. “Rip, you’re a good guy. There’s nothing broken about you.” My voice feels small, almost fragile in the quiet night. “Sometimes the heart wants what it wants—no logic, no rules. But you have to protect yourself. You can’t let anyone string you along like a puppet. She’s dangling you, and that’s not fair. Not to you.”
We fall silent, words slipping away like sand between our fingers. Our knuckles brush, just a whisper of contact as we keep walking, lost in our own storms. The second my feet hit the harder sand, I stop.
“This would be a good place to stretch.”
His voice barely carries, soft and hollow. “Okay.”
I lift my arms above my head, and he mirrors me. We move slowly, the world narrowing to the rhythm of our breath and the quiet stretch of muscles. I ease into some gentle groin stretches, watching his jaw tighten, then relax, then tense again. When I think he’s done, I shift back to the dry sand and flop down.
Rip slides down beside me, his body warm against the cooling night air. He points upward. “There’s the Big Dipper.”
I smile, teasing. “I thought I was lying beside the Big Dipper.”
He rolls onto his side, facing me, and my breath catches. The moonlight softens his sharp features, makes everything about him glow. “I’m the Big Dripley. There’s a difference.”
I roll toward him until our bodies align, our mouths just inches apart.
God, what am I doing?
The beach, the day, the food, Rip—they’re all conspiring to mess with my head. His fingers reach out, rough pads brushing back the stray hair that falls across my face.
Before I do something reckless—like kiss him—I flinch and flop back onto my back.
“I see the Little Dipper.”
He follows, landing with a soft groan. When he stretches his arms out, our fingers brush and finally clasp.
“How was the stretching?”
“Really good.”
“Maybe we should get in the cold water.” I try to sound casual, but my heart’s racing. “I like to use ice or cold water after yoga. Helps with inflammation.”
“Something’s inflamed, alright,” he mutters, a grumble beneath his breath. And I can’t help but love the way he reacts—gruff, but honest. That little moment reminds me how much of a mess I am. How much I shouldn’t want this guy. How much I shouldn’t be thrilled he might want me.
But here we are.
He stands, walking to the water’s edge, bathed in silver moonlight, looking like a god or a gentle giant straight out of a fairy tale. I laugh softly.
He throws a glance over his shoulder. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” I push myself up and step closer. “Going in?”
He shrugs off his T-shirt and starts unbuttoning his shorts.
I blink at him. “What are you doing?”
“Going in? Didn’t you just ask me that?” He’s grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing—stripping to throw me off balance.
“You’re getting… naked?” Way to state the obvious, Charley.
Rip looks around the empty beach like a mischievous child caught sneaking cookies. “I don’t see any kids here.” Then his gaze snaps back to me, that playful grin spreading wide enough to melt ice. I swallow hard, heat creeping up my neck. “You don’t think I got the nickname Ripley Stripley for nothing, do you?”
He tugs his shorts down, and his boxers follow like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
I whip my head away. Either look like a total gawker, or pretend I’m not staring at his… well, everything.
I shake my head but I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knows his rep.
