Every Girl Does It(29)

“No, you’re not,” I say panicking.

“Yes, I think I am. I just need to find a good place. Though, I can’t start on it now what with me not having a bucket and all, but don’t you worry. By the end of the trip you’ll have your castle.” He looks pleased with this idea. A tear spills down my cheek. I turn to walk away, but he catches me.

“Amanda, I was kidding. I don’t have to build you a castle.” He looks concerned as he notices my tears.

Embarrassed, I turn my head and try to hide the emotion now ravaging my face. “It’s not your fault. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I sit in a huff on the sand.

“Castles make you cry?” Preston interjects. “No. That’s normal for a girl, right?” He nudges me with his elbow making me laugh.

“It’s just,” I start to explain. “My dad used to call me his little princess. We went to the beach every year. Seaside Oregon was the spot,” I say laughing at the memory. Preston listens intently as I continue. “We had lots of traditions, but one of them while we were at the beach was to build a sandcastle. I’d look forward to it every year. Not just because of the castle, though he rocked it.” I laughed. “But it was special to have time with him. He always told me that the man I marry better know how to build sandcastles or else.” I roll my eyes in remembrance. “When he died, the trip was already booked. My mom thought it would be good for us to go in honor of him.”

I push myself off the ground and begin to walk, knowing Preston will follow. “I built him a sandcastle.” Shrugging, I turn to Preston. “I build him one every year. I want to think he can see it from Heaven. So, that’s why sandcastles make me cry. You must think I’m emotionally unstable. You can say it.” My eyes rise to meet his gaze, and I notice he has tears in his eyes.

Preston pulls me into his chest and let's me cry. It’s not until I open my eyes that I realize he’s led me all the way back to our room. Without a word, he draws a warm bath for me in the tub and leaves. I force myself to remember that he annoys me, but it’s hard to feel irritated when he’s so good at comforting me.

Who is this guy? There’s no way I can figure him out, but at this moment there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with him.

After a long bath, I sink into bed with dreams of sandcastles floating around in my head. Sandcastles and a certain someone who offered to build me one. Someone who is both the most irritating and the most handsome man on the planet.



Chapter Twelve



I wake up the following morning with a pounding headache that is not remedied by the loud coffee grinding going on in the kitchen. I open my door and growl as I see Preston making coffee and pulling pastries out of the oven. What so he cooks, too?

“Morning, sunshine! Get in a fight with a semi truck?” Preston says as I sink into the bar stool. I let out a low grunt before holding my hand out for coffee.

“Bite me,” I say before I take my first sip.

“That can be arranged.” He smiles as he hands me a hot pastry.

“You’re like Diet Pepsi,” I say.

“Um, I prefer being compared to things like wine, but okay, Diet Pepsi it is,” he says sitting down next to me. I can’t help that my voice is extremely low in the morning, so I just go for it.

“Fine wine means you get better with age, Diet Pepsi is the beverage that pretends to be something else, but actually it’s just pop,” I say, meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry, do you always talk theology in the morning?” He shakes his head. “We’ll have to fix that when we get married.”

My eyes bug out as if he’s just said my coffee had poison in it. “We aren’t getting married!” I yell a little too loud for my headache.

“Ooo, this is fun. See, I’ve decided that I like bothering you. I am attaching myself to you forever. Like a leech.” He looks bemused as I continue to glare at him.

“Leeches suck the life out of people,” I state dryly.

“Yes, I believe they do,” he answers. “So, why diet? Why can’t I be normal Pepsi?”

At least he can keep up with me this much. “Because,” I say while grabbing the pastry with one hand and my coffee with the other, “Diet makes people think it’s better for you when actually the fake sugar causes cancer. So in reality, it’s just as bad as the real thing. Only people don’t know it, because on the outside it says zero calories.” I’m shaking my head. Why doesn’t he get this? I walk out toward the patio and sit with my breakfast.

“So wait,” he says following me. “Are you saying I’m a fake? Not as good as the real thing, even though I pretend to be?” He asks innocently. He puts his hand over his heart with a wounded look then shrugs. “I think you’re projecting,” He takes the newspaper off the chair and sits down.

“Wow, thanks, Doctor,” I answer with sarcasm.

“No, seriously. I think you want me to be fake so you don’t have to like me. It would just be easier for you. You wouldn’t have to put yourself out there and be vulnerable.” He looks at me critically, before going on. “Like I said before, you’re afraid of me. But it’s okay. I’ll get you through it.” Then he suddenly gets up and goes back into the kitchen. How in the world did this conversation turn on me so fast?