Page 9 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

FOX

I wake the next morning before anyone else, with the sun slowly creeping toward the horizon and the chirp of birds outside invading my dreams.

It’s not that I mind a noisy world—New York City traffic is a constant hum I’m not sure I’ll ever stop hearing—but a robin’s call is pretty enough, and loud enough, to drag me toward consciousness and remind me where I am.

In Satan’s asshole.

Though, the room Tommy and Alana have set me up in is luxurious enough to make the rest tolerable.

Crawling off my bed and into a pair of buttery soft yoga pants, I tiptoe acrosss my room with eager anticipation bubbling in my veins.

The memory of the lake from last night playing in my mind, and the reality that I’ll get to enjoy it all alone for a few moments, means I move quickly.

Too quickly. Because in my rush, I slam my toe against the corner of a heavy set of drawers.

Pain radiates up through my leg and into my belly, forcing me to grit my teeth and swallow my hiss before I wake the rest of the household.

Instead, I pause right where I am, squeezing my fists and slowly opening my lips to allow fresh air into my lungs.

When the sharpest blades of pain subside, I limp toward the door, carefully pulling it open to reveal a still-dark house and out the windows on both sides, trees and water as far as the eye can see.

Most magical of all is the dock that stretches halfway across the water, disappearing into the fog of an early morning .

From the moment we drove in last night, and Chris’ headlights played off the water, I knew what I wanted to explore.

More than that, I knew I wanted to do it all alone, before the rest of the world woke.

And since New York is a couple of hours ahead of Plainview, that means I get a head start on everyone else.

Eagerness is like electricity in my blood, pulsing in my veins as I head downstairs in silence.

The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee leads me to the kitchen and, mercifully, to a coffee pot that clearly works on a timer.

I snag a mug and fill it to the brim with steaming black liquid, then whipping my hair into a ponytail to keep it off my face, I skip creamer altogether and move toward the door.

Already, the pain of a stubbed toe is a long-gone memory.

Carefully, as quietly as I can, I flip the locks and peek back to ensure no one stirs upstairs, and when the coast is clear, I step outside into the glorious morning chill.

Fresh air never tasted so good. The smell of moss in my nostrils and the soft movement of the lake, just fifty feet from Tommy’s back door, is better than whatever Heaven is likely to offer.

Being born and raised in New York City means the stench of traffic and subway grates is in my blood. It’s not even a smell I dislike. The glitz and glamor of Broadway makes my heart swell, and the constant lights in Times Square leaves me with a happy sense of belonging.

Harmony.

We’re all in this together-ness.

None of which Plainview could ever hope to have. But this lake… this view…

I traverse the porch steps and tiptoe from dirt to grass, soft dew-coated blades tickling the soles of my bare feet. Goosebumps track along my exposed arms, just cold enough to remind me that it’s early, but not so bad that I’m tempted to trade this for the comfort of inside.

Instead, I stop in the middle of the yard and tilt my head back, closing my eyes and hugging my coffee between both hands.

And I take this moment to simply… be . To breathe.

To remember and bathe in the knowledge that I’m with my family again for the first time in way too long, so close I could sprint inside and jump in their bed and steal a hug that won’t ever be denied.

When Alana and Franky left New York, they took my heart and a chunk of my soul with them.

I would never tell them their absence haunts me or that the loneliness I feel now is akin to abandonment.

They’re entitled to their happiness just as much as anyone else.

More, really. But that doesn’t mean I’m spared from the consequences of their move.

It doesn’t mean that pain isn’t a beating drum, day after day, while the cruel, dark side of my subconscious reminds me that I wasn’t good enough for them to stay.

There’s what I know to be true, and of course, their move wasn’t about leaving me, so much as it was about moving toward something else. But then there’s that childhood trauma I keep tucked away, rearing its ugly head and stomping on me during my darker, achier days.

But those are problems for New York Fox Tatum. For this moment, I choose appreciation and being . I choose the outdoors, solitude, and silence. And when I can’t stand the darkness any longer, I open my eyes and take in the beauty of this paradise my best friend has stumbled upon.

It’s all so pretty.

So clean.

So tranquil, as frogs croak and crickets chirp.

Strolling toward the dock, I take in the lake that may actually be a river…

a stream of some sort, considering the slow-moving water.

Grass grows all the way to the edge, and flowers spring up in every available patch of dirt, so what isn’t green, is yellow and pink and blue and white.

The morning fog rolls ominously across the water’s surface, thinning with every inch of sunlight that spills over the mountains surrounding this town.

This house is nice, certainly. The land is lovely and sprawling.

But the water is otherworldly, so mesmerizing, I wonder how many mornings Alana and Tommy have snuck out to snuggle in each other’s arms and revisit the love they had pre-Franky’s conception.

The relationship they have now is beautiful, but the love between teenagers, before they knew true heartache… that’s something else entirely.

I slowly wander the grass, in no rush to arrive anywhere, and scrunch my toes in the thicker patches of the lawn until dew sneaks between each one. Moisture soaks into the bottoms of my pants, darkening against the gray fabric until I’m tempted to fold the hems up.

But I don’t.

I don’t truly mind.

I sip my coffee instead and move from grass to dirt, then dirt to rocks, and when I’m close enough, I skip from rocks to the dock, all so I can stroll amongst the fog.

This is where magic happens. It’s where the world holds no pain, hearts never break, and the vulnerable are simply… okay.

It’s where everything is perfect .

I walk on my toes and look everywhere at once, fearful that I might miss something beautiful.

I hold my coffee in one hand and raise the other above my head, stretching my arm, my shoulder, my back.

My shirt rides up, revealing my stomach.

But that, too, is okay. Because I’m the only person who exists right now, and modesty is hardly a necessity when I’m the only person alive.

I tuck loose tendrils of hair behind my ear, only for the soft breeze to knock them loose again, and when I try a second time—and lose—I leave the locks on my face and meander to the very end of the dock until I’m gifted with a view more perfect than any painting could try to imitate.

Not even the most talented artist could capture this with tools as ordinary as a canvas and paints.

I draw a deep breath, sucking air into my lungs until I taste the dew in my throat and feel the cold inside my belly, and exhaling again, I turn and lean against the railing someone—perhaps Tommy, or maybe whoever owned this land before him—built to make the dock safer.

I tilt my head back and smile, though I have no clue why, exactly , I do, and I search my five senses, since the literature says to do that.

I smell the water, and I feel the rough wood under my feet.

I hear the birds, and I taste my coffee.

Then I see … I see Chris Watkins sprint across his front yard.

Dammit .

Just like that, my delicate glass pane of peace shatters, replaced immediately with worry.

Because he runs toward Tommy’s house. Toward Alana.

Is she okay? Is there an emergency ? Straight away, I push off the railing and prepare to run, too, but before he crosses yard boundaries, he skids to a stop, touches the ground, and turns again.

He pumps his arms, head down, powerful legs carrying him faster than five o’clock in the morning should allow.

Until he reaches another invisible boundary, touches the grass, and spins back again.

Exercise. Shuttle runs.

Not an emergency.

Exhaling, I rest against the railing and explore my senses again. I still feel the wood and smell the water. I hear the birds and taste my coffee, but my eyes take in more than all the others combined. Chris’ black shorts, sitting low on his hips and the ends touching his knees.

No shoes.

I have no shoes on either, but his lack of footwear becomes a detail that sticks in my side. His chest glistens with sweat despite the chill in the air, and his back burns a light shade of red… beneath the ink, that is. So much of it littered from shoulder to shoulder.

It’s too bad he’s an insufferable control freak. Because even a blind woman would acknowledge he’s a treat to look at.

I hide amongst the morning fog and sample my coffee in the quiet, and when Chris switches from running like a lunatic to lifting weights that may or may not consist of a tractor engine, I merely shake my head and know this is the purest version of that man I’ll ever know.

When he thinks he’s alone, not competing for Tommy’s attention, or Alana’s, or even Franky’s.

When he has no clue I’m near, and because he doesn’t, lacks the massive chip on his shoulder and his unfair claim to the only family I’ve ever truly known.

When it’s just him, and he’s not imagining false things to be defensive about, he creates an image of serenity.

Just a man working his body to the point of failure. Building muscle and forcing his heart to a thunderous pace.