Page 51 of Stick Break
If I do see Charley again, it’ll be on a screen. But even that’s not a guarantee. Her ex did a number on her—scandal, betrayal, a full-blown smear campaign. She vanished from the spotlight, and now I’m not so sure she wants any part of it, and that sucks for her.
Another boat zips past, kicking up a foamy wake. I wave casually, and Charley cocks her head at me. “You’re really not embarrassed wearing those water wings?”
I glance down at the bright orange floaties snug around my biceps. “Nope. Might not ever take them off.” I shoot her a wink. “Could be the next evolution of hockey gear. I take a hit, bounce off the boards like a human ping pong ball.”
She snorts. “You’re a menace to society, Rip.”
“And proud of it.”
Her grin lingers, soft and wide, and something about seeing her like this—sun warming her face, hair escaping the hat in wild strands—makes my chest go tight. She's beautiful when she laughs. She's even more beautiful when she forgets to be scared.
The engine hums beneath us as we drift farther from shore, wrapped in the shimmer of sunlight on the water. After a few minutes, she slips off her hat and leans her face to the sun like a sunflower finding its way.
We reach a secluded stretch of the ocean, and I cut the motor. The world goes still, save for the gentle lap of water against fiberglass.
“Not too far,” I say when she glances back at the shoreline. “You could probably swim it if you had to. But you don’t.”
“I trust you.” She says it simply.
I gesture with a nod. “Want to stretch out I’ll set anchor and help you out of your seat. You won’t fall. Promise.”
She raises a brow. “Trying to get me horizontal, Rip?”
“Always,” I deadpan, and she bites her lip as she offers me her hand.
I drop the anchor with a clunk, then grip her fingers and guide her toward the front of the boat. We both ease down onto the cushioned floor, side by side.
“Not so scary,” she says softly.
“Not nearly as scary as Mrs. Callahan with her binoculars and judgmental glare.”
“Speaking of…” I take in the way the sun kisses her face as I shift a little closer, until our shoulders brush. Her hand slides across the cushion, grazing mine—just a touch. But then she threads her fingers through mine, and damn I like it, a lot.
“We need to come up with a plan,” she murmurs.
I turn my head toward her. “Where would you like to get married, Char?”
She gasps dramatically and presses her hand to her chest. “Ripley Hart. I thought you’d never ask.”
“Smart ass.”
She laughs, but it fades quickly. Her expression shifts, thoughtful now. She turns her head, meets my gaze.
“I really thought I’d be somewhere different in my life by now.”
I squeeze her hand gently, anchoring her—not just to the boat, but to me.
“You thought you’d be married?” I ask and when she nods, I continue. “You were engaged?”
“No,” she says, and the boat rocks gently as if it knows we’re drifting into deeper waters. “But I was dating a guy for a long time.” I shift slightly, and the motion rolls me into her. Our arms brush. She doesn’t move away. “I thought marriage was the next step. You know, natural progression.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, instinctively.
“It’s just the way things went down.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but the tightness in her voice says otherwise.
“You’re not sorry?” I press gently.
She exhales. “Let’s just say I’m glad I found out who he really was before we ever walked down the aisle. Timing sucked, but truth is better than a lifetime with a conniving, jealous jerk.”
