And so far, he is everything I want.
Any time we are around others on the island, or we are interacting with the staff, he is immensely respectful and considerate. He saves women from potential kidnappers. He is funny, kind, flirty, and just so lively. He speaks of his family as if they are his lifeline. He writes romance stories.
He drags me out of my comfort zone and pushes me to live without even having to try. He’s infectious. But not like a disease. No, he’s infected me with realness. He’s showing me passion is a real thing, not just something found between the pages of a novel. He doesn’t even know that minute by minute,he’s encouraging me to let loose and open my fists. And I kind of like who I am with him. Could I spend the rest of forever with a man who is so seemingly perfect? Who healthily pushes my boundaries?
Wait. Why am I thinking forever after two days? Is it because of what he said about talking to me every day? That’s just talking. That doesn’t mean it leads to forever.
Right?
Right?
“Esme.” The sound of my name snaps me out of the spiral, and I meet his golden eyes, so bright they rival the sun. “What’s your middle name?”
The innocence in his soft gaze, the curious tone of his voice, and the feel of his calloused palm cupping my cheek crack open the gates to my heart. Just a fissure, but the pressure is building with every receipt of authenticity Noah delivers to my hardened unconsciousness.
“Samantha. My name is Esme Samantha Prewitt. I’m a high school English teacher, but lately, I’ve had thoughts of quitting to write down the stories constantly swirling in my head.”
The most lovely, authentic smile I’ve ever seen on a human stretches across his face. “Esme Samantha Prewitt,” he muses. Then he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “How did the Lord see fit for me to meet a woman like you?”
But all of this could fade when I start demanding too much,I want to say, but I stuff it down and enjoy the time I have with him. Because regardless of these feelings, when we go back home, we won’t be the same people. Island Esme is meant for the island, and if we start dating, our passion would sizzle quickly like mine and Ryan’s did.
Chapter Four
It's Just Pretend ~ early July
Nothing will ever satisfy quite like chips and queso from El Mariachi on my birthday.
I crunch down on a corn chip loaded with gooey, hot, white cheese while Sam and Ethan bicker over who gets the last chip from their bucket. I sometimes wonder if their marriage survives strictly on arguing and making up, but when I see the tender way my brother looks at my best friend—okay, gag moment—I know they’re perfectly happy, and bickering over stupid things like chips keeps the romance alive.
“Give me the chip or I won’t vote for President Marshall’s reelection,” Sam warns, narrowing her blue eyes at my brother.
Ethan snorts. “Oh, really? Who will you vote for then?”
“I will abstain,” Sam says, crossing her arms and snubbing my brother.
“You admire his wife too much and want to see four more years of her. Of them together. You ate up their campaign trail romance like you’ve eaten all these chips.” Ethan laughs thenbreaks the last chip into two pieces. “Here, babe. ‘Cause I love you.”
Sam giggles, and I roll my eyes. Sam and I will be voting come November, and we’ll be voting for our favorite political couple. Hayden Marshall is a powerhouse of a woman; I was glad when President Darcy Marshall announced that she’d become the new Secretary of State when the previous one had to step down due to health concerns halfway through the President’s term.
“Speaking of politics,” Dad chimes in. “Have you guys heard about One Love Organization’s recent kill? As if what they did in Japan a few years ago wasn’t bad enough…”
“Oh, hush,” Mom swats the air. “That’s just conspiracy. The Prime Minister of Britain was old and died of natural causes.”
Ethan leans in closer to Dad and loudly whispers, “I’m with you Dad. That’s a cultish organization if I’ve ever heard of one. Did you know they kidnap women to offer them up as sacrifices?”
“Ethan,” Sam hisses under her breath. “Stop talking about kidnappings.”
I make eye contact with everyone at the table, but right as I open my mouth to question their absurdity, Mom speaks up. “How’s the book coming along, Esme? You’ve been so secretive about it with us. We only see the little snippets you post. Heard back from the agent?”
The table quiets at Mom’s squeaky words. Though my parents have been vocal about their support for my authoring endeavors, especially now that I’ve caught the eye of a literary agent, it’s still unfamiliar territory for all of us. It’s drastically different from the ten-year plan I had in place, but that was before I mentally lost three years of my life.
“Well,” I begin and then pause to take a sip of sweet tea. “It’s only been a week since I spoke with him, and I told him I’d need at least a couple of weeks to finish my draft.”
Mom nods, then she gets that look on her face that tells me she’s going to do that thing where she frets over my stability: knitted brows, a twitch in her lip, and hardening eyes. “You’re still going to teach this year, right? I support your writing, but I just want to make sure you have a secure income. That has to be your first priority, sweetie.”
“Yes, Mom.” I release a small, unnoticeable breath to calm myself. “I still plan to teach come August.” I open my mouth to add that my book is a hobby, a side project, but I snap my lips closed. That’s the old me, the one who would belittle my love of writing. The one who would shrug off my unspoken ambitions to become an author.
Not anymore.
