I can feel the sands of time slipping away like the grains that float through my fingers asIpace on the beach, waiting for my beloved.
Trading a life of opulence with a lieutenant governor for years of struggle with a simple fisherman is unthinkable.Buthe loved the sea, and promised that the sea would love me, too.
How amIsupposed to choose between what is proper and what is right?AsI’mbeing prepared for this wedding like a lamb for the slaughter,I’mlearning there’s a vast difference between the two.
I fear the time is coming soon thatImust choose my fate.
Death to love, or death to me.
“Holy shit,”Jackmuttered under his breath when he finished reading over my shoulder.
The same cursiveAthat had been branded into the wood was lightly seared into the top of the paper like a letterhead.
“So, my mysterious deadGreat-Auntwas secretly in a love triangle between a fisherman and the lieutenant governor.Cool, cool, cool.That’snot weird at all,”Isaid asIraked my eyes over the words once more.
“No,”Jacksaid as he pointed at one particular line.Hischest pressed into my back, enveloping me in his warmth. “Itcouldn’t have beenJuniperWhitlock.Notunless she was born in the 1700s.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Howare you so sure?”
“Well, for one,TryonPalaceburned down in 1798 and took thirty years to rebuild.Thegovernor’s mansion had already moved toRaleighright before the fire.”
I glanced over my shoulder.Mytemple brushed against his stubbled jaw. “Andyou just happen to know that fun fact off the top of your head?”
“TouringTryonPalaceis a rite of passage for every coastal public school student.I’vebeen so many timesIcan probably give the tour myself.”
“Then what the hell is this?”
He let out a sharp breath. “Yourguess is as good as mine,Roar.”
It had been a long time sinceIallowed myself to be close to another human being like this.
I wasn’t what some people would describe as “touchy-feely.”Ineeded my personal bubble to be respected.
Sure,Icould give friendly hugs, butIdidn’t like lingering closeness.
AndJackwas lingering.
I tilted my chin ever so slightly.Ourlips were only a breath apart, his square and sure.Jack’seyes lowered to my mouth, his thick lashes shading the endless pools of amber.Hesucked in a quick breath, those lips parting as the tip of his tongue darted out to wet them.
“You called meRoar,”Iwhispered, thinking it would break the spell and he’d pull back.
But he didn’t move.Hedidn’t even breathe. “Yousaid you didn’t like ‘Aurora.’”
“It’s too stuffy,”Iwhispered. “Ihate being named after a cartoon princess.”
His thick brows twitched, furrowing together. “That’snot whatIthink of.”Iwas about to askJackwhat he meant, when he cut in again. “Is‘Roar’ alright?”
“It’s not awful,”Iadmitted.
He never moved closer, and a very deeply repressed part of me was disappointed with that.
“What do your friends call you?”Jackasked as he peeled away and grabbed the loose floorboard, debating whether to tack it back down or replace it with a new one.
“Um . . .Wander.”
Jack paused and looked up with a perplexed smile. “Wander?”
How didIexplain this to him?Thisconversation always went one of two ways.Eitherpeople were judgmental about my line of work—formerline of work—or they immediately launched into a long list of their attempts to write a book and all the people they knew who had.
