“To repair your guitar? I have no idea. From what I’ve researched, he’ll use tonewood for the body. But perhaps he could add sea glass to the rosette around thesound hole?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” She’s restless, buzzing with energy as she glances at the setting sun. “We could go to the beach now and collect more sea glass.”
She slips her fingers into mine, tugging, hopeful.
“We certainly can. But first, we wrap your cast.”
She makes a face. “Or…you could just carry me.”
I arch a brow. “I thought you weren’t fragile.”
“Well, I never said I wasn’t persuadable,” she says primly, looping her arm through mine and pulling me towards the side gate.
“Then let me persuade you,” I growl, scooping her up over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she squeals as I head for the back door.
“Carrying you.”
“But the ocean is that way,” she sulks as I enter the house.
“Patience. You’ll thank me later when your cast isn’t waterlogged.”
“And I’ll thankyoufor putting me down,” she huffs.
I set her down onto the edge of the counter, loose waves falling over her face. Gorgeous.
She blinks at me, stunned and too breathless to speak.
My voice drops to a low rumble as I hold her gaze. “What else will you thank me for?”
Her lips part, but no words come out.
I chuckle and start searching the cabinets for supplies.
45
Sparks Between Us
Lily-Anne
Brandon is a few metres down the shoreline, a tall, cutting silhouette against the sinking sun as he scans the shingle with that serious concentration he applies to everything. His shirt sleeves are rolled to expose his forearms, his trousers folded up to reveal lean, toned calves, saltwater darkening the fabric. Wind lifts his untucked shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing a peek of the flat planes of his chest, his collar crooked, his coffee-brown hair whipped into a frenzy.
It’s the most dishevelled I’ve ever seen him, rugged with the edges undone, yet there’s a coiled control beneath it, like he’s holding himself back with sheer will.
I have no such control left. Pain and time have stripped it from me, and beneath it all is the simple, unbearable truth: I want him.
He stole my breath away when he carried me into the kitchen and set me down on the counter, his arm tight around my waist, my feet dangling off the ground. An hour later, I still can’t breathe normally.
He stood between my parted legs in the kitchen, wrapping my cast in plastic with the calm efficiency of a field medic, smoothing it, then winding duct tape in neat, decisive loops to secure it.
The air in the kitchen became thick and silent, save for the crinkle and stretch of tape. I can’t stop thinking of how sure his hands were, the heat of his palms seeping through the layers. The way his grip tightened just a fraction on my calf as he finished the job with a rough clear of his throat.
Having him tend to me like that—neither rough nor gentle, just quietly intense—might be the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me. And we hardly exchanged a word.
We share a similar silence now as we search the beach. My pulse hammersas I pretend to look for sea glass, every nerve tuned to him at my side. It feels like we’re drifting towards something we’ve both been avoiding—and it’s getting harder to ignore.
“See any more?” he asks, as if he isn’t clocking the near-perfect pieces I’ve been ignoring at our feet.
