Page 148 of Too Far

I don’t mind princess treatment from the other guys, but letting Decker do it all makes me anxious. The urge to help claws at me, yet the idea of helping stresses me out. It feels as though there’s no solution for us. Either option will inevitably be the wrong move. With Decker, I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

To distract myself from my spiraling thoughts, I turn and take in the ocean scene. I take a deep breath so I can taste the salt air on my tongue. A shiver runs through me, but it has little to do with the crisp temperature.

“Want to walk the beach?” he asks from behind me, his voice full of gravel and hesitation.

Peering over my shoulder, I inspect his setup.

“Sure,” I agree.

See? I can do noncombative.

Clearing his throat and patting his pockets, probably to confirm he’s got his wallet and phone, he takes a step closer. “Which way?”

I open my mouth to make a cutting remark about being shocked that he’s actually going to let me choose, but I snap it closed just as fast. Clearly, I’m not the only one putting in the effort today.

“This way.”

We meander along the water’s edge, neither of us in a rush or with a destination in mind. The sound of the waves crashing onto the shore creates a melodic, meditative rhythm.

Decker’s hand brushes mine every few steps. He doesn’t course correct or shift away from the contact, but neither do I.

We pass two kids trying in earnest to fly a kite. Probably siblings, based on the way they bicker as the little girl tries to rewrap the string on the handle.

“Heads up!”

Lightning fast, Decker is on me, a hand pressed to my lower back and his body looming over mine, blocking me from the unknown threat. Heat crawls up my neck and paints my cheeks as memories of all the delicious ways he touched and pleased me two nights ago riot in my mind.

When we’re not immediately approached, I peek over his shoulder and take in the scene.

A man’s jogging toward us, shaking his head. “Sorry about that,” he yells once he’s in range.

Decker smooths his hand from my back to my hip and squeezes before releasing me. Warmth pools in my belly. His touch is intoxicating, even when we’re fully clothed on a public beach.

He bends and snatches up the football that soared toward us a moment ago.

He tosses the ball—underhand; nothing like how he usually throws a football, which I assume is intentional—to the man, who thanks him, then heads over to a little boy.

We don’t immediately continue our journey. Instead, still standing close to one another, we watch as the man grips the boy’s shoulder and bends low to talk into his ear. He helps his son square his hips and then lines up the stitches in his hand.

The boy hesitates, barely holding the ball in the grasp of his small hand. He can’t be more than seven or eight years old.

We can’t hear the exchange because of the distance and the pounding of the waves behind us, but it’s clear what he’s seeking—what he needs.

The man squeezes his son’s shoulder, whispers once more, nods, and steps back a few feet.

After another breath, the boy launches the ball into the air. It arches over the sand in a wobbly spiral. As it tumbles through the air, the dad claps and hollers so loudly his enthusiasm reaches us.

The little boy’s joy is palpable as his dad scoops him up, hugs him close, and spins in a circle. It’s a sweet moment. One I wish I could capture on camera.

When I peek up at Decker, he’s got a massive grin plastered on his face.

I bump my hip into his to get his attention.

“Is that what it was like for you?” I nod toward the duo, who are running side by side to retrieve the ball.

“That? No.” Decker grimaces, shaking his head.

“What do you meanno?” I frown up at him. “Your dad’s a professional quarterback. You’re telling me he didn’t teach you how to throw a football?”