The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(33)

“I should do this more.”

“I try to come once a week.”

“To run?” He laughs again.

“Just to walk. Take it in.”

“I don’t know if I could do that. I’d get… bored.”

“You need to slow down. Take in the world around you. You need to stop rushing through everything, stop worrying about what’s coming next, what’s going to happen.” I glance over at him, wondering if he has been talking to Gabi.

“Have you been talking to my assistant?” Another laugh.

“No, but it’s nice to know it’s not just me who sees it.”

“I’m not… rushing. Or stressing.”

“Bullshit. Everything you do is carefully crafted so you know the outcome.” I stop walking, and he looks back at me, hand in mine.

“That’s not true.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” His smile is genuine, not angry or demeaning, and it’s that honesty that makes me think. Do I do that? Instead of answering myself, I walk again, but I’m stuck in my head now, wondering… wondering how this man can read me so well.

“Where did you go as a kid for vacations?”

“My dad was usually traveling for work.” I laugh, realizing now he was probably vacationing with his mistress, playing it off like he was doing good for the family. “We didn’t have a ton of money, but my mom and I would take day trips to the beach. She’d rent a room facing the water for a night, even though it was only a five-minute drive. She had contacts at the hotels, so she’d take it for cheap if there was a last-minute cancellation. We’d pretend we were on some fancy vacation and spend the day on the boardwalk. It was fun.” I look up at him, the ocean breeze whipping his short, messy hair about. “What about you?”

“It changed. We all got to choose, rotating. My sisters always chose somewhere new and exciting. I always went to the beach. Wildwood or Ocean City, Maryland. Beach, rides, boardwalk games, junk food. We’d spend days getting fried on the beach, then nights wasting money on games we’d never win and rides that probably should have gotten us killed. Living on fried food and zero nutrition.”

“So basically, you went here, but just in a different city?” I ask with a laugh, bumping my hip into his. He laughs.

“Yeah, but more… family-friendly. Less city and grown-ups, more fun and games. One year, my dad got me surf lessons. Can’t do that here.” He tips his chin to the rocky cove, definitely not safe for surfing.

“Do you still know how?”

“Yeah. Chris and I go sometimes. When we were kids, we’d go in the cold, in winter. Great waves, then. But now we just go when it’s warm and fuck around.”

“I always wanted to learn.”

“I’ll teach you one day,” he says, and my mind flashes to bare, tan skin, water, and a surfboard. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the weather, but he notices all the same. “You’re cold. Let’s go to our next stop.” And I let him lead the way, never cluing him into the true source of my chill.





Sixteen





-Cassie-





That’s how the entire date goes. By the time we go to the little cafe I love, we’ve had my favorite appetizer (mozzarella sticks from the greasy corner pizza shop) and chips and margaritas from Tia Maria’s. After that, we stopped at Luigi’s for cannoli cupcakes (Luke agreed they are to die for) and stopped at the Tavern for burgers and fries.

All places he asked me about on our first date or in conversations since.

“So, did you know on the first date this was your plan?” I ask, stirring my latte with the tiny spoon.

“What?”

“When you asked me all of those questions. Did you know you were going to do this on your date?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Nope. I just asked the important questions.”

“Favorite foods aren’t the important questions, Luke.”

“Sure they are. I’d argue the most important questions. The quality of someone’s favorite foods tells a lot about them.”

“I guess. So what about me? Did I pass the test?”

“Mostly. A burger in a lettuce wrap? That puts you on my’ potential serial killer’ list,” he says with a smile.

I choke on my drink with a laugh. “Shit!” I say as the warm liquid spills down my top, dripping down my cleavage and soaking my dress.

“Shit, Cass, I’m sorry.” He leans over, grabbing napkins from the dispenser on the table as I watch a brown stain spread from the center of my dress like I’ve been shot. Except this is caramel latte instead of a searing gunshot wound. “Here, let me—” He grabs a stack of nearby napkins and starts dabbing at the stain just below my boobs before stuffing a few between my cleavage. I’m frozen, and his hand pauses once he realizes what he’s doing, looking at my face with a slight look of shame.

“I swear I didn’t plan this.” Neither of us is moving, and just now, I realize how close our faces are, mere centimeters apart.

“I know,” I say, the words a breath of air across his lips. His eyes glance down, taking in my lips that are parted, my chest rising with each breath. But then he backs up, giving me space, time to contemplate what I’m thinking, why I’m feeling this way. “Does our… does our date end here?” I ask, looking at the stain, and I’m not really sure what I’m asking. It’s nearly five, and we’ve well exceeded my four-hour limit. Again. So many rules, completely shattered by this man. But why does the idea of this last date ending make my stomach churn?