17
GRACE
Iwant to store this moment in a bottle.
The scent of the ocean, the way his cologne lingers on my skin, the freshness of the air. I want to take it all and immortalize it.
I've always been good at compartmentalization. When life gets to be too much, I know how to escape. But for some reason, when I'm with this man, I feel itall.
I want to join him in the water, but I sit down on the blanket instead.
Dante returns a few minutes later. I try to keep my eyes averted, but he looks like some dark god with water dripping down his muscular torso. All of his tanned skin is on full display, making my core clench with that now familiar need.
He has tattoos covering nearly every inch of his body. I see a cracked hourglass on his spine, along with what looks like a date written next to it. The hard muscles of his body shift as he moves, demanding all my attention.
"There's something I want you to know," he says, still keeping his back to me.
He slips a long-sleeved cotton shirt over his arms, but leaves it unbuttoned. He turns to look at me.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Grace." There's turmoil in his eyes, like he's trying to hide his pain from the world. "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not someone who hurts women. I need you to understand that."
Something cracks inside me. A flood of emotions I'm not supposed to be feeling envelops me, taking me to a place I know I can't return from.
"I know," I tell him.
And not for the first time since I met him, I get the feeling that there's more to this man than what meets the eye. There's more to him than what he shows the world.
I honestly don't know what to make of it.
He sits beside me and opens the picnic basket. There's fresh fruit, a cheese platter, and sandwiches. He hands me one of the wrapped sandwiches, but I shake my head. I'm not interested in the food.
There are too many emotions fighting for space inside my body. They've only amplified since I've seen what he looks like without a shirt.
"Wine?" he asks, screwing open a bottle.
"I don't drink."
"Orange juice?"
I nod.
He pours orange juice into a paper cup and hands it to me. I wait for the usual paranoia to hit me. Every time someone hands me something to eat or drink, I'm always suspicious of it.
But I don't feel anything as I take the cup from Dante.
There are no nerves. There's no anxiety.
I take a small sip. It tastes like it was made with freshly plucked oranges, which it probably was.
It's a gorgeous evening. I just want to sit here on this blanket and enjoy the sunset. But there are more questions than answers, and I need to understand this situation I'm in.
I take a deep breath.
No guts, no glory.
"Let's play a game."
"I like games."
