Page 19 of Undertow

Nausea threatensdeep in my stomach as Julia and I graze the edge of the ocean. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this close to a large body of water. I do everything I can to avoid it.

The crash of waves competes with the violent pounding in my head as grisly images blur on the outskirts of my consciousness. The memories would be enough to wreck me, but I keep them locked away with everything else.

Focus, Shaw.

My mission right now is to make sure my hand brushes Julia’sby accidentand my eyes search the depths of hers just a little longer than necessary for polite conversation. Since storing my suitcase at the café, I’ve been doing both, and it seems to be working.We’ve barely started our impromptu stroll, and already I sense the undercurrent of desire.

The way she walks closer than she should.

How her gaze strokes my face. My body.

It won’t take much to trap her. A few more glimpses of my intriguing artist soul, along with an angsty confession or two, and she’s mine.

After the first couple of hand collisions, the contact begins to originate from her side as well. The conversation has flowed seamlessly, bolstered by a quick bypass of small talk, straight to exploring the layers beneath. Usually, the “alpha rebel” is my play, but I’ve settled nicely into “broken artist” for this one.

In a weird way, the real me is both.

We walk in a long, easy silence, sparks swelling between us. I’ve never connected with someone through silence before. It feels wrong that our fingers aren’t already entwined.

There you go feeling again.

I shake off the traitorous emotion.

“So why did you really leave The Palmetto Grande?” she asks finally.

Interesting how she’s not letting this go.

At the bump of our hands, I hook my fingers with hers. She inhales sharply, and I pull away with feigned embarrassment.

“Sorry,” I laugh out. “Tripped on a hole in the sand.”

“Yeah? Or were you avoiding my question?”

Her teasing tone draws another smile from me, and I notice how she stays close. When her gaze drops to my lips, our smiles fade. I’ve been staring at her mouth too.

Focusing back on the sand, I continue our leisurely pace.

“Not avoiding. I just don’t think I should talk about it.”

Her attention isn’t just attraction anymore. The flash of gravity in her demeanor sets me on high alert. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off, that this is goingtoowell. I’m good at what I do, but she’s no bored socialite eye-fucking me during my shift at the bar.

Julia Hartford was supposed to be a challenge.

“Why can’t you talk about it? Why would you protect the organization that fired you?” she pushes.

“It’s not them I’m protecting.”

More bait. Her flash of surprise means it worked.

She stops abruptly and pulls me around. Her fingers remain locked on my bicep, sinking into dense muscle as her blue eyes blink up at me. A stray lock of hair caught in the ocean breeze obscures our connection. I follow the path of her fingers along smooth skin and into silky tresses as she tucks it behind her ear.

I don’t write romantic bullshit. You have to love something to be broken by it. But damn if theword scavengerin me isn’t digging for pretty adjectives right now.

I force my attention back to reality.

I’m reading compassion in her expression, but I don’t think it’s real. At least, it’s not alone. There’s something else. Something that triggers another alarm in my well-trained survival instinct. I’m also reading protectiveness.

For me or her?