Broken (2 page)

I studied the guy as he eventually sat on the sand, with Max practically in his lap. There was such warmth about him, and I could see from watching their play that he loved Max dearly. Allowing my eyes to roam over his face, I took in each feature as best as I could from this distance, and noted it down on my pad. His dark hair was on the longish side, maybe not quite long enough to pull back into a hair tie, but almost. A short neat beard wrapped around a strong-looking jaw. I was too far away to see the color of his eyes, but they seemed kind, and his laugh was easy and carefree. He looked to be around six feet tall but with all the layers of clothing, it was impossible to see his physique. Still, he had been running and chasing Max for a good twenty minutes, so I assumed he was in reasonable shape.

He must have felt my stare because he swung around quickly, his brow furrowed in curiosity. Our eyes locked and I sucked in a quick breath, but couldn't tear my gaze away. His head tilted to one side, studying this stranger who had invaded his privacy by so blatantly gaping at him. A slow, lopsided grin graced his perfectly featured face, and he gave me a courteous nod. I didn't know where to look, so I looked away, straight out to sea where the horizon met the water. Even with the cold air circling around me, my cheeks grew hot, my body warming from the embarrassment of being caught. Finally summoning up the courage, I turned to face him again. But he had gone, his figure jogging along the water's edge in the distance, Max in tow.

I couldn't get Max's owner out of my mind. Every time I tried to write a character outline for my blond, male hero, he somehow morphed into “Beard Guy.”

“Great job, Evie,” I muttered under my breath, holding down the Backspace key and deleting the paragraph I'd just written. “At this rate it'll take you eight months instead of eight weeks to write the dang novel.”

It was getting late, and I had yet to write an outline that was more than garbled bullet points. Placing my glasses on the table beside the laptop, I ran my hands over my face. I was already beginning to stress, and it had only been two days. Needing to relax, I decided to soak in the tub in the hope that not thinking about the book would help me come up with some ideas.

The water was scorching as I climbed in, the bubbles rising until a few tipped over the edge and spilled onto the tiles. Ah, this was better. Already I could feel the heat from the water and heady floral scent of the bubble bath carrying all my troubles away.

As I lay in the tub with my eyes closed, a scene came to mind, playing out like a movie behind my eyelids. It was a fireman, strong and brave, rescuing a pretty young girl from a burning house. Okay, this was good, because it was the first time that my characters were talking to me, telling me what they wanted to be.

“Mac,” I said out loud. “Mac, the fireman.” Sure, his face still wasn't clear as I fought the urge to sketch in a beard, but at least I had a concept to build on.

Climbing out of the tub an hour later, I wrapped a towel around my body and trotted into the bedroom to find my pajamas. Even if I didn't write anything down tonight, I felt lighter just knowing the basis of my story. It was now dark outside, but with the light from the bathroom and living room shining through their respective doorways, the bedroom was illuminated enough to see clearly.

There was movement out of the corner of my eye and I jumped, clutching the towel over my bare chest. Looking around quickly, I realized it was Max and Beard Guy again, back outside on the sand, one house up from mine. Behind them was a small bonfire, its flames dancing in the darkness, the embers drifting up before being extinguished by the cold night air.

An inexplicable force drew me closer to the window, to the wide sill that skirted around at hip height. Wrapping the towel around me, I balanced, one butt cheek on the windowsill, totally mesmerized by the simple scene before me. Beard Guy was sitting by the fire, his arms hooked around his bent knees, gazing out at the dark ocean. He looked…sad, or lonely, maybe even lost. There was no one reason why I felt this way, but watching him out there alone made me want to cry, because his demeanor personified exactly how I had been feeling for the last three months—totally defeated.

Resting my head against the windowpane as I continued to watch, a tear escaped from the corner of my eye. I wanted to go down there to talk to him and let him know that whatever was worrying him would be okay. That he wasn't alone. But I had never been particularly good at approaching people in need; that was Charles's specialty. I'd been the one to make the cup of tea and listen sympathetically as Charles counseled the troubled.

My mysterious stranger quickly wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and I felt my heart tug toward him. “Oh, Sugar, it'll be okay.”

With every part of me wanting to hug the poor guy, I reluctantly tore myself away from the window to give him some privacy.

Maybe he wanted to be alone, or maybe the next time I saw him I wouldn't be such a chicken, and I would talk to him, or at least return his acknowledgement.

Dragging myself out of bed, I quickly showered, then threw on my warm sweatpants and my old-as-the-hills but favorite sloppy yellow sweater before setting up my laptop outside on the back deck. I had given myself a little pep talk in the shower and imagined any self-doubt being washed down the drain.

The air was eerily still as I logged on, the sun only just starting to peek above the horizon. I flicked the hair tie from my wrist, pulling my long chestnut hair back into a messy ponytail, twisting it into a bun, and sliding a pencil through the mass to hold it in place. I pushed my glasses farther up the bridge of my nose and stretched my neck from side to side. I was ready.

The flashing cursor at the top of the blank page on my laptop tormented me. I pictured a little man inside the laptop, repeatedly flipping me off with every blink.

Okay, I can do this.
I lifted my middle finger defiantly at my laptop. “Right back at ya, asshole.”

Looking out at the beach from the veranda, I decided baby steps were the way to go. So many times in the last seven years I had made up stories in my head about people I saw on the street passing by. But now that I was sitting in front of the computer, the pressure of having to write was weighing on me. I needed to write what I saw to discover whether or not the words would flow before attempting to tackle anything too complicated.

With hands poised, I started…
The sky welcomed the rising sun as its light transformed the inky blackness of night into a myriad of color.

Resting my arms on the veranda railing, I looked along the sand, searching for inspiration. In the distance there was a dog running along the water's edge, taking maybe a dozen bounds forward, then turning to race back to his owner. It was Max, and following behind at an easy jog was Beard Guy. I raised my head, pulling my glasses down my nose so I could peer over the top of them. Now this was better. It was certainly more interesting than writing about the rising sun. In the name of research, I sat transfixed as Max and Beard Guy stopped a short distance up the beach, in line with the house that was next door to mine.

Beard Guy dropped his towel, then sat on the sand gazing out at the abyss of the vast ocean. Max sidled over, resting his head on the guy's shoulder.

“Today is going to be a good day, Maxie. I can feel it,” he said in what sounded like a deep English accent, his voice carrying in the still of the dawn. Max's ears twitched and he edged closer, almost climbing into his owner's lap. “It's okay, buddy. Today is not the day.”

There was something ominous about that statement, and I wondered what he had planned that wasn't for today. Now that I'd heard more than a couple of words from him, I concluded that the accent was most definitely British, and a very well-spoken, panty-melting British at that. Slouching in my chair to remain out of view, I strained to hear more, as images of James Bond leapt to mind. I'd always had a thing for guys with accents; it somehow made them sexier because it also made them mysterious. Being from a faraway land conjured up so many questions and fantasies that as a writer, and as a woman, needed to be explored. At that very second, I decided that my main male character, Fireman Mac, would be British.

The English hottie stood and kicked off his tennis shoes, then pulled his hoodie over his head, dropping it beside the towel. The water would be absolutely freezing, but it looked as though he was planning on going for a swim. He removed his T-shirt next, exposing a well-toned, lean frame. With every article of clothing that was shed, I sat up straighter like a meerkat sentry, taking in as much detail of his perfectly proportioned body as I could commit to memory. He looked from side to side quickly and I instinctively pulled my head down so I could see between the wooden rails. Once the coast was clear, he dropped his shorts, exposing the most perfectly rounded bare ass I'd ever seen. My eyes bugged, but I stayed down, not wanting to alert him to my presence.

With a “Come on, boy,” he raced to the water with Max in tow, and they both bounded through the shallows and disappeared under the crystal-clear surface.

I couldn't help giggling to myself.
Well at least you seem to be happier this mornin', Sugar.

The morning was so still, the beach deserted. From my vantage point, I could see them swimming out deeper and deeper, the splashing with each stroke echoing back to shore. The guy stopped and in the distance I could hear him conversing with Max to go back if he was tired. They kept swimming farther and farther out into the depths, and I sat up straighter, straining my eyes over my glasses to keep them in sight.

My stomach fluttered nervously. I wasn't a strong swimmer, so to go that far out would certainly mean the end of me; I would never make it back in. As they disappeared from view, I scoured the beach for another living soul and wondered if I should call 911 for a rescue. Finally they turned back toward shore, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

With labored breaths, both man and beast quickly made their way up the sand to the man's clothes and towel, which he wrapped around his shoulders but left his bottom half exposed. He shivered and pulled the towel tighter, then shook his head, his hair spraying droplets in an arc around him. For a moment I wished I'd brought my binoculars as I strained to get a better view.

Crouching down, I watched, transfixed as he dried himself off, and Max shook the water from his coat, mimicking his master.

Almost in slow motion, my balance wavered and I reached with an outstretched hand to catch myself on the chair. My hand caught the edge of the seat and pushed it backward, making a loud scraping noise against the wooden deck.

Crap!

I peered through the railings of the veranda to see Max racing across the sand toward me.

Double crap!

Slowly, I crouched back up on my haunches, below the railing. I heard Max panting as his head poked around the corner.

“Go away, Max. Go on, shoo,” I whisper-yelled, trying to send him back the way he'd come. It wasn't working. He came closer, his tail wagging as he nuzzled his nose into my hand for a pat.

A shadow crossed my line of vision and I raised my head. Watching me intently was a pair of gleaming deep blue eyes.

“I see you've already met my wingman, Max,” he said with a cheeky grin. “It's good to finally meet you.” His voice was deep and smooth and rich. I bet panties dropped everywhere he went from that velvety tone alone.

He had wrapped the towel around his hips and was tucking the corner in to hold it secure. My eyes were at the perfect level to see
exactly
what was going on, but I quickly diverted them.

I picked myself up from the floor and slowly stood. Now that I had been caught, I couldn't make eye contact, instead opting to tuck a strand of wayward hair behind my ear and stare stupidly at my feet.

“I'm Adam, Adam Walker.” He stretched out his hand as he lowered his head to meet my eyes. “Don't tell me you're going to pretend not to see me again.”

I had to meet his gaze. It would be rude to keep wishing that this whole situation were just a bad dream that I would soon wake from.

Taking his hand, I introduced myself. “I'm Evelyn, Evelyn Rivers…um, well, actually it's Harrison but I'm changin' it back to Rivers.”

“Wow. That's the longest name I've ever heard, Evelyn Rivers Um Well Actually It's Harrison but I'm Changing It Back to Rivers.” He grinned, immediately making me feel self-conscious, before turning toward the beach and where he had just been drying himself off. “You've got a good view from here.”

Heat rose in my cheeks, the cold air doing nothing to calm the bright red I knew I had just turned.

He chuckled, taking great delight in watching me squirm. “A great view of the point and the lighthouse, I meant.” He indicated to the left, past what I assumed was his house. “My place is set back a bit, so the house next door blocks part of the rock face.”

Max's wet coat brushed against me and I leaned down, patting him lightly on the head. “Hiya, Max, you little snitch. Did you have a good swim?” I asked as his tail wagged frantically.

Adam laughed, and I met his eyes. He seemed totally at ease with my perving on him earlier and not the least bit concerned with the fact that he was wrapped only in a towel.

Water dripped from his hair, landing on his shoulder and running down his chest. It was like poetry in motion. His head tilted to one side as he scrutinized my face, watching me watching him.

Max moved to the back door, whining to go inside.

“Would you like to come in, Sugar? You must be cold as ice, Adam…Adam Walker.” I smirked, cocking one eyebrow. “Is that similar to Bond, James Bond?”

“It's a variation on Walker, Adam Walker, actually.” His grin widened into a full-blown beaming smile. He was quite breathtaking to behold. “But you're more than welcome to keep calling me Sugar.”