“I think we should just cut this one loose, Lizzie.”
“No way!” I shout, the monster at the other end of the fishing line giving it another tug, sending me straight into the railing again. I try reeling it in a little more. “Clearly this is going to be an epic catch.”
“I just think this might be a little dangerous for a first-timer. That thing ain’t playing around.”
“Second-timer,” I correct him, bracing my foot a little higher up on the side of the boat, until it’s almost between the side and the rail. “And I’ve got this!”
I push my foot against the wall, giving myself more leverage to pull on the fishing pole. A large powerboat flies past us, the people on deck watching me grapple with the fishing pole, whooping and hollering at me while I wrestle with the fish from Hell. Their speed creates a wake that begins rocking Cam’s boat, and without warning, we crest a small wave and hit the water hard. The boat leans heavily to one side, causing me to lose my footing. Then, it rocks back in the other direction, toward the side that we’re standing on, to right itself, and I’m totally unprepared. Cam grabs the railing, bracing himself, but for some reason my hands are glued to the fishing pole. Off balance from the rocking, I don’t have time to prepare myself for the pendulum swing back in the other direction. As the side of the boat leans at an impossible angle toward the water, I feel my center of gravity give way, my feet slip, and the fishing pole tugs toward the water, bringing me in a cacophony of flailing arms and legs with it.
I hit the water with a splash, the shock from the icy cold momentarily stunning me. I stay absolutely still as I sink a little, letting myself get oriented and adjust to the temperature. I kick my legs furiously until I bob through the surface of the water, spitting and sputtering and gasping for air. The surprise of the fall still has my adrenaline pumping, and I realize I’m still holding on to the fishing pole, the line of which is no longer tensed but rather sitting on the surface of the water. Whatever demon fish was on the other end of it must have somehow unhooked itself. I let myself bob up and down with the wake, inhaling ragged, salty breaths of air and coughing up ocean water.
Cam leans over the railing of the boat, wide-eyed in shock. I wipe some water out of my eyes, and realize the wake has carried me a few yards away from the boat. Trying not to panic, I start to swim a few strokes toward the ladder at the back of the boat, wanting to get the hell out of the bay as quickly as possible, and fearing that the current might continue to carry me farther away.
“Oh my God, Lizzie!” Cam yells, as if he’s finally processed what just happened. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I yell back, the weight of my water-logged jeans causing my progress toward the ladder to be extra slow. My arms and legs are shaky from the shock of the fall, but I use every bit of strength I have to propel myself toward the ladder.
“Stay there, I’m coming in to get you,” Cam says, speaking slowly and loudly. “Just stay calm!”
“That’s really not necessary,” I call back to him, breaking for a moment to catch my breath. Is it just me, or is that ladder getting farther away? Man, I am so out of shape. I try a breast stroke, hoping the movement will give me some better momentum.
“Don’t panic, Lizzie. I’m coming!” he yells, causing me to stop again and look up at him.
“I’m good, Cam, I’ll be right there!” I yell, but it’s too late. I watch as he rips off his baseball cap, hitches his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the boat dock, revealing his tanned, toned chest. I freeze, my eyes taking in the glorious sight of him bare chested, and for a moment I forget to keep kicking. My head dips under the water as another small wave from the wake crests over me, causing me to cough and sputter as I inhale some of the ocean water again.
Great, Lizzie, I think, shaking my head. Drown yourself at the sight of a half-naked man. That’s just great.
“I’m fine, really,” I say, trying again to swim.
“Stay there! I’m coming in for you!”
I look back up at the boat and, Jesus H Christ, he’s taking off his shorts now. Tight, black boxer briefs sit low on his hips, totally conformed to the shape of his muscular thighs and revealing a noticeable bulge right you-know-where. Oh, dear God. My mind momentarily wonders what they look like from the back – in high school, Cam had the cutest butt – and the thought distracts me from yet another small wave that crashes over my face.
Dear Lord. I’m going to die out here if I can’t pull it together.
Then again, if he takes off the boxers, I might just drown myself.
Cam leaps off the deck of the boat and plummets into the water, resurfacing quickly and swimming out to me. I watch in awe at the speed and strength of his strokes, finding the seriousness with which he’s jumped in to rescue me mildly amusing. I’m not drowning, after all. My clothes are wet, and my pride is hurt, but that’s about it. He closes the few yards distance between the boat and I swiftly and easily, thanks to his broad shoulders and impeccably muscular back and chest. I can’t help it; I’m mesmerized by the way he moves through the water so easily. Considering how I flopped around like a wet plastic bag trying to make my way back to the boat, his skill in the water is impressive. Hey, maybe I did need rescuing, after all.
When he reaches me, he stops swimming and rubs a hand over his hair and face, brushing away any excess salt water. His skin glistens from the sun hitting the droplets of water covering his face, neck, and shoulders, looking like Goddamned Aquaman or something.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Just peachy,” I say. “Can we go back to the boat now?”
He smiles a devilish smile, splashing water at me. “You’re a stubborn woman, you know that?”
I splash him back. “I am not!”
He catches my wrists in his hands, pulling me toward him until I’m tightly against his bare chest, our faces just inches apart. The soaked, exposed fabric of my shirt clings to his skin as well as mine, and I can feel his heat even through the fabric. His touch ignites my body, sending an unexpected shockwave of desire straight to my core. I let out a raggedy breath that incites a slow, sexy smile from Cam.
This is the part where I melt into a puddle of mush and get swept away into the waves, never to be seen again.
Sure, I dated in New York. Nothing was ever serious, but I did have some casual flings. None of them ever felt like the breathless rush of anticipation, the aching, devastating need that Cam elicits from me now with just the slightest bit of skin-to-skin contact. I want to lean into it, into him, to get lost in him, but I can’t.
“Stubborn,” he breathes, his eyes darkening.
He has no idea.
Before I can respond, he moves behind me, enveloping me in his arms and holding me snugly against him. With long, slow kicks he maneuvers us back toward the boat, every single movement of his body rippling against my own, sending pulses of desire through me with every touch. I let the fishing pole, which I’m somehow still holding like it’s some kind of lifeline, drag along with us, and pass it to Cam once we are at the ladder. I begin to hoist myself out of the water, and realize with a gasp that I have no change of clothes with me. Panic sets in as I climb back onto the boat, feeling the weight of my soaking wet jeans and the chill of the ocean breeze across my sopping wet skin and shirt. Once I am firmly planted on the boat again, I whirl around, prepared to explain my problem, when I catch him pulling himself out of the water and onto the boat.
He catches me staring at the taught muscles of his arms and broad chest, the rippling six pack and V indentation that starts just above the band of his soaking wet boxers, a devastatingly handsome smile spreading across his face.
“Like what you see?”
Heat pricks at my skin and explodes over my cheeks as I pick my jaw up off the floor. Instinctively, I turn around, as if giving him some privacy, which causes him to laugh. He walks past me and into the center console of the boat, retrieving two big beach towels and tossing one at me. I catch it
without making eye contact, and try not to look as he towels himself off.
“I’m going to guess you don’t have a change of clothes,” he says, as I wrap myself up in the large towel and just stand there, staring at the deck of the boat.
“Erm, no,” I mutter.
“I figured,” he says, wrapping the towel around his waist and going back into the boat’s center console. He fishes around in what looks like a backpack, and pulls out a neatly folded t-shirt and extra pair of basketball shorts. He hands them to me, winking. “Prepared for anything.”
“I can see that.”
“I’ll give you some privacy.”
He turns around and crosses his arms across his body, gesturing to the console, the most privacy I’m going to get to change on such a small boat. The dampness of my clothes has made me freezing cold, though, so I’ll take it. I traipse inside the center console, using the big beach towel for some extra privacy, and carefully take off my sandals, roll off my soaking wet jeans and lift my sopping wet shirt over my head. Crap. My bra and undies are also soaking wet, and unless I want the dry clothes he’s offered me to get wet too, I’m going to need to remove them. Swallowing hard, I quickly strip them both off, slide on the shorts, and pull the t-shirt over my head. The warm, dry clothes feel a million times better, and I start to relax.
When I go back out onto the deck of the boat, Cam is already dressed in the same shorts and shirt he was wearing. He gives me a once over when he sees me, his eyes darkening for a moment, then laughs.
“Feel better?”
“Much,” I say, despite the fact that the shorts are way too big and practically falling off of me. I pulled the drawstring ties as tight as I could, but beggars can’t be choosers. I settle onto the bench seat and draw my knees up to my chest, reveling in the warmth of the dry clothes and setting sun. I will never take being warm and dry for granted ever again.
“Are you okay?” he asks, a tone of concern in his voice. I nod my head.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“I feel awful,” he says, shaking his head. “This was supposed to be a fun outing.”
“Well, I definitely forgot all my problems for a little while. Mission accomplished,” I tease, and he rubs a hand over his eyes.
“Not exactly what I had planned,” he says. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I insist. And I am. Except the part of me that’s supposed to not let Cam get back under my skin. That part of me is most certainly not fine.
WE GET BACK TO THE marina in record time, the sun now set behind the horizon and the bay basking in a purply, dusky glow. Cam hops off the boat to tie us off at the dock, then deposits my sopping wet clothes into a plastic bag and hands it to me, along with my now dry sandals. I slip them on, feeling silly in his big, oversized clothing and my strappy sandals, but grateful at the same time. I take his hand without hesitation as he helps me off the boat, silently enjoying the warm familiarity of his touch, and letting my mind wander back to the water, to the feel of his arms around me, my back up against his chest. It’s my turn to smirk, now, a silly grin spreading across my face. Cam catches me, because of course he does.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks.
“Oh, you know. Just happy to be back on dry land.”
We get into his truck and head back, both of us silent as the truck rumbles along down the twisting, turning back roads of Rocky Point. Even as darkness blankets the town, I know these roads like the back of my hand and anticipate every turn he makes. When we finally pull up outside of Tate Construction’s office building, my car is the only car still in the lot. Cam pulls up next to it, puts the car in park, and quickly jumps out, coming around to open my door.
My heart flutters again at the gesture, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
“Well, thank you for an eventful evening,” I say, unlocking my car and then turning to face him. He has that deadly serious look in his face again, and I feel my heart rate pick up.
He takes a step closer. “Sorry again for how it turned out.”
His eyes are laser focused on my mouth, and I suddenly can’t breathe. He takes another step toward me, his eyelids lowering, the tip of his tongue peeking out to wet his lips as his eyes search mine.
I should get in my car, shut the door, and drive back to Gran’s as fast as I can. For some reason, though, my feet are glued into place and I can’t peel my eyes away from the desire darkening Cam’s eyes. I can tell he’s waiting for some sort of sign that I want this, too, but I’m frozen. Mindlessly, I bite my bottom lip, and that’s all the confirmation Cam needs.
Cam takes my face in his palms, the rough pads of his thumbs stroking my cheeks and sending shivers down my spine. I only look at him, wide-eyed as he lowers his head and presses his lips against mine, kissing me gently, as if he’s still not quite sure where I stand. For a moment, neither am I, but the tension in his body tells me he’s holding back, and, damn it, my brain is so scrambled. I let my eyes flutter closed, my lips parting, giving him permission to let go. With a growl, he deepens the kiss, his hands travelling to my hips and his tongue exploring my mouth while I let myself relax into him, my arms wrapping around his neck. I let myself get lost in Cam, the weight of the past pushing me toward him and melting away with every brush of his lips against mine. After what could have been a few moments or a few hours, he pulls away and untangles my arms from around his neck, his breathing ragged.
After he releases me, I sink back onto my car and press my fingers against my swollen lips, watching as Cam runs a hand through his hair and tries to catch his breath. Finally, he gives me a sheepish look, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. For a moment, he looks exactly like the eighteen-year-old boy I used to know.
“Well,” he says. “Goodnight, Lizzie.”
Laughing and shaking my head, which is still spinning from that amazing, dizzying kiss, I climb into my car and start it up.
“Goodnight, Cam.”
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth
ROCKY POINT, MASSACHUSETTS
January 2010
“What the hell is that?”
Gran eyes me as I walk in through the front door, a zipped-up dress bag slung over my shoulder. Cam had officially asked me to go to Senior Prom with his last week, although I never really doubted we were going together. He’s my boyfriend, after all, but it’s still customary for the guy to do a “Promposal” and Cam did not disappoint. I met him in the gym after football practice on Friday afternoon, and had walked into the entire gym filled with flowers and Cam standing in the center, holding a sign that said: Will you go to Prom with me?
It was undoubtedly the best Promposal of the entire school, even better than how Dallas Adkins asked Ainsley Wells. I had secretly been excited to hear that Dallas’ Promposal had actually been a little disappointing, although Ainsley had said yes. Now, I had the rest of the year and an amazing Senior Prom with Cam to look forward to.
“It’s a prom dress,” I say. “Cam asked me to go with him.”
She scoffs, ripping the bag off my shoulder and unzipping it. The silky, dark azure fabric spills out of the bag, revealing the beaded Princess-cut neckline and long, full skirt. Gran roots around the bag, and my stomach sinks when I realize what she’s looking for.
With a satisfied grunt, she pulls out the price tag.
Her eyes bulge out of her head when she sees the $300 tag, and I take a step back, worried about how she’s going to react. Truthfully, the dress had been on sale. It was originally $500, but had been marked down because it was one of last years’ styles.
“Where the hell did you get $300?” she asks, her tone as sharp as a knife. Defiantly, I grab the dress out of her hands and zip the bag buck up, holding it safely against my body.
“I’ve been picking up shifts at Java Point the last few months and tutoring after school. I saved up for it,” I say, proud of myself that I was actually able to save up enoug
h money to buy the dress on my own. I even had enough in my bank account that I could buy a used car if I wanted to, or put it toward books for college.
“And you decided to spend your hard-earned money on some ridiculous dress you’ll only wear once? Stupid girl. I thought I taught you better than that.”
Her words sting like a slap in the face.
“Gran, it’s Senior Prom. Everyone goes, plus I got this dress on sale. I worked hard for it!”
“You worked hard, and you squandered the money away. Who does that remind you of?”
I swallow the lump in my throat, knowing she must be referring to my mother. Tears well up in my eyes but I refuse to let them spill. Why can’t she just be proud of me? When will she realize I’m nothing like her? That all I want is to work hard and make something of myself? Why does she assume that I’m destined to fail?
“I’m going upstairs,” I say, brushing past her and heading up the stairs toward the safety of my room. When I get to the stop of the landing, she calls up to me.
“If you’re going to waste money or frivolous things, don’t ever think about asking for my help,” she sneers. “You’re on your own.”
“Whatever,” I say, stomping into my room and slamming the door behind me. The force of it shakes the walls of my room, but I don’t care. Laying the dress carefully down on my bed, I sit down and let the tears fall, knowing that no matter what, I’m going to have a great time at my Senior Prom.
When I finally calm down, I grab the picture of Cam and I off my nightstand and look at it, letting the memory take me back to a happier moment. Cam is in his football jersey, blue and gold paint streaks under his eyes and his hair a mess from his helmet. His arm is around me, pulling me in close to him, and we’re both smiling without a care in the world. We took the photo right after Cam and the football team won the Thanksgiving game against our rival school, beating them out by a record number if points. I had been so proud to Cam’s girlfriend in that moment. I still am, but I’m grateful, too. Whenever I feel like the world is crashing down around me, Cam is always there to lift me back up. There is always something to look forward to with Cam, whether it’s getting milkshakes at the diner, or celebrating after game. Even Senior Prom.
Second Chance Girl Page 10