Page 82 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
She nods. “Yup. I need to pack and catch my flight.”
“Just like that?” I frown. “This is really weird, Imogen. And what am I supposed to do alone for two days? It’s not the same being on a beach by yourself.”
She just shakes her head. “It’ll make sense eventually.”
I sigh, throwing my hands in the air and then hug her again. “Fine, fine. I’ll just trust you—but it’s hard, I hope you realize that.” I pull away, holding her arms and blinking away sudden tears. “For real, though—thank you, Imogen. I needed this more than you’ll ever know.”
She kisses my forehead. “I love you, Audra. And…” She bites her lip. “Open mind, open heart. Okay?”
Oh dear—I really don’t like the sound of that. “Imogen? What did you do?”
She just pats me on the cheek as she stands up and backs away. “Open mind, open heart. Just remember that, okay?”
I roll my eyes and wave her off. “Okay, Yoda.” I blow her a kiss. “Love you. Say hi to Jesse for me.”
“Oh, I’ll do more than say hi.”
I laugh as she walks away across the beach back to the condo, already texting Jesse again. I stay in the cabana for a while longer, and then decide to go for one last swim before heading in to find some kind of dinner.
I toss my sunglasses into my purse, tighten the knots on my halter-top bikini, and head for the water. The sun is starting to set, a giant bright orange-red ball just barely touching the horizon, setting the whole ocean on fire. The waves are gentle and noisy, tugging at my ankles and then my calves as I wade in. The seagulls dart and wheel on wingtips and caw at each other. There are other beachgoers all around, but I feel totally alone, like I’m in a bubble of solitude.
Finally, I let the sadness bubble up, let it breathe.
I wade in up to my waist, and then to my chest, letting the waves crash up against my breastbone and chin, and then dunk under, taking a few long strokes under the water and surface, spluttering as I come up for air. I scrape my hair back and wipe my face.
Let the sadness rise, let it percolate through me.
And finally, finally, I let myself admit what it’s really about—the sadness is about Franco.
I miss Franco.
I want Franco.
Not just the sex, not just his body, but him. His laugh, his blue eyes. His humor, his deep, smooth voice. His soothing presence. The way he can turn me on with a look, a glance.
The sadness is about my missed opportunity with him.
“Did…did you want there to be something? I mean, did you want there to be a now-what?”
I should have said yes. I should have told him yes, I wanted a now-what. I wanted more. I should have admitted that feeling him bare inside me was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced, not because of the risk of pregnancy, but because of the intimacy of it. The realness of it. The rightness of it. It terrified me because it had been so right. So perfect. It had been…home.
He had taken the risk—he’d asked if I wanted something else. I’d known what he meant, but I was scared and stubborn, and I shut him down. Blew my one chance at…whatever could have been between us.
I suck down a sob.
I should have said yes.
I hear splashing around me, but it doesn’t register—nothing can penetrate my bubble of solitude.
And then…
I feel it.
A tingle.
It’s ephemeral at first, but it’s a familiar feeling.
An awareness of something…someone.
A knowledge, in my bones and blood and soul.
I splash water on my face, scrape my dripping wet hair back over my scalp, and then I slowly turn around.
He’s ten feet away, up to his waist in the water behind me. He’s shirtless and gloriously beautiful. Breathtaking. His hair is down, loose around his broad, hard shoulders. He has on a pair of cheap airport-kiosk plastic sunglasses instead of his usual Oakleys.
He’s just standing there, waiting. Staring at me.
I choke. “Franco?”
He closes the space between us, until mere inches separate us. He stares down at me, his chest rising and falling deeply, rapidly. The water laps at us, licks between us; the sun sets beyond us, bathing everything in a red-orange glowing fire, staining the sea and our skin and his eyes.
His hands wrap around my waist, and he pulls me up against him. “I decided you were lying.”
“Lying?” I whisper. “About what?”
“About not wanting a now-what.”
I laugh, or sob, or some tangled mix of the two. “I was,” I manage, trying furiously to catch my breath, which has mysteriously disappeared. “I was lying. I admit it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m scared of getting hurt again. Of being hurt worse than before, because you—you could…” I shrug, unable to finish the thought coherently.
