“It’s…incredible.”
“Did you have views like this in your world?” he asks, dropping his backpack at his feet.
I grimace. “In some places, probably. But not near where I lived. In Florida, kids think anthills are mountains. Ninety-nine percent of Flat Earthers live there. That’s a fact.”
Samson provides me with a curious look, but he doesn’t press the validity of my statement, choosing instead to roll his neck back and stretch his shoulders.
I forget what I’m talking about entirely.
Dreadfully masculine, Samson lifts his arms above his head and continues the casual torture as he locks his fingers and reaches for the clouds. Before us, above the ocean, the sun hangs, turning the surface of the water white with glitter. Those perfect rays caress Samson’s tan skin as he loosens his muscles, and my mouth goes dry.
I am feral for this man.
I want to tackle him in the pink petals and bite his shoulder and lock my legs around his waist and—
There I go again.
Focusing on the superficial things—like diamond-sculpted shoulders.
Which is unkind to a living, breathing person.
Forcing my attention to the ocean until the scintillation of the sun on the waves makes my eyes burn—darn astigmatism—I pour a cooling breath into my lungs.
During this zen moment, I prompt myself toward a thought exercise.
IfSamson hadpatheticshoulders, would I still want to bite them?
If kind, wonderful, gentle, funny Samson had pathetic shoulders, I would absolutely still want to bite them. And snuggle. And tackle him in the petals. And, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t seem like such a formidable, daunting angel from heaven so majestically out of my league it hurts.
Were his shoulders not so enrapturing, I’d be able to suggest an interest in courting him without feeling the need to throw up.
Were he crafted like anormal maninstead of God’s favorite sculpture, I would still have it so bad for him.
I’m starved for his kindness, desperate for the high it provides. Being tolerated by someone like him makes me feel special, and it doesn’t matter what format the feeling comes in. Not when it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
When Samson’s voice breaks into my thoughts, it drifts up to meet me, so I turn to find him crouched, sifting through his bag. “Egg salad?” He pulls out an insulated pouch. “I always keep boiled eggs on hand, so I grabbed some things to make lunch before we left for Austin’s.”Somethings is a dramatic exaggeration, I learn, as he proceeds to remove item after item from his pack.
Bread. Cheese. Fruit. Mayo. Herbs.
When he removes and shakes out an entire picnic blanket, it occurs to me that I haven’t questioned the presence of his backpack during this trip. Not once. Samson isPreparedwith a capitalP. After our several excursions to the mines, seeing him with his backpack whenever we venture beyond his farm feels normal.
Watching him assemble a picnic for us feels somewhat less normal.
Especially when he pauses halfway through opening a glass jar of mayo to look up at me, arch a brow, and pat the blanket he’s just laid out. “Sit, Lemonade. We’ve done a lot today, and we’ll need to regain our strength for the trip back.”
It’s a miracle my knees don’t give out before I’m seated.
Now, I just hope he doesn’t need me to stand for a good long while…
As he mashes up eggs, mayo, and herbs, I stay perfectly starstruck, hardly breathing, lest I lose my mind and tackle him to the checkered blanket.
“From what you’ve told me, your old world seems…pretty harsh,” he murmurs, passing me the first sandwich. “And that’s the opinion of someone who spent decades slaying dens of monsters in far from friendly company.” He carves a stick of cheese from the block he’s brought and passes me the piece, meeting my eyes when he does. “I’m sorry you had to live in such a cold place for so long.”
My heart stammers. “It…probably wasn’t anywhere near as bad as being expected to take care of actual monsters.”
He hums, cutting another slice of cheese for himself. “I don’t know. In my experience, the worst monsters are always the ones in human skin. And, unless you’ve forgotten to mention it in your Florida hate rants, those are the only ones your old world seems to have had.”
“Do cockroaches not count?” I ask.
