Saving Forever (The Ever Trilogy: Book 3) Read Free Page A

forehead, a faint frown pinching her brow and pale pink lips.  
    I clenched my fists, shook my head, and trotted into the water, diving in without hesitation. I stayed under as long as I could, kicking hard and pulling at the water, not surfacing until I was past Mr. Simmons’ rarely used Sunfish sailboat, anchored a good hundred feet or more from shore. I cast one brief glance back at the shore, saw her standing at the water’s edge, a hand shading her eyes. Looking for me?
    Embarrassment at my caveman behavior shot through me, and I did a few crawl strokes, and then dove back under, gasping a deep breath and kicking beneath the surface until my lungs burned. I surfaced, ventilated, then oriented myself by looking for the arms of the peninsula and the mainland. Then I dove back under. The next time I surfaced, the beach was a faint line behind me and she was out of sight. I was panting and my arms shook, and I had to roll onto my back to catch my breath. I kept kicking, kept moving homeward, thinking of her. Those eyes. What had she been thinking? Her expression hadn’t given anything away, except maybe curiosity. But how could she not be curious? I’d just stood there like a buffoon, after kicking sand on her. That swimsuit. God. It was a one-piece, but it was the kind that hugged tight in all the right places, cut high around her hips and low between her breasts, with little cutouts at her sides.  
    I rolled over to my stomach and kicked into an easy crawl, pushing images of blonde hair and green eyes and fair skin out of my head. By the time I got home, I had to pull myself onto the dock, trembling and weak, and I nearly fell asleep there with the late-evening summer sun warming my skin.  
    I made myself get up and go inside. I showered off the lake water, then went out to my workshop. I didn’t have the energy to work that night, but I made myself go out and look at it. The Sculpture. Her. Britt, in that last moment. I stood in front of it, staring at the lines, at her hands clutched into fists. I’d started there, with her hands. The way she’d held them in front of herself, the way they’d trembled. As if holding on, so desperately. On the sculpture, her face was blank. I couldn’t bear to carve the expression that had been on her face that day. Not yet anyway. I could see it, though. I could feel the chisel scraping the wood shavings away from her eyes, from her mouth. I was nearly done. I had to finish her legs and feet, and then I’d have to start on her face. Maybe once I finished, I’d find the strength to speak again.  
    I left her there--—the carving of Britt. Even with her unfinished face, I could feel her staring up at me. The way she’d stared up at me that night. I turned off the light and closed the door to my shop, drank a beer and watched TV until I felt sleepy enough to go to bed.  

    ~ ~ ~ ~

    A week later the girl was there, on the beach, just past dawn. This time, she was dressed in running gear, and even from fifty feet off shore I could tell she’d been running hard. She was bent over at the waist, hands on her knees, panting, ponytail hanging down by her face. I made my way slowly up to the beach, kicking the water louder than necessary so she’d know I was there. She heard me, straightened, hands on her hips.  
    Jesus, those hips. I brushed my hair back, stopped ten feet away from her, the water lapping at my calves. She was glistening with sweat, and each deep, gasping breath stretched the white material of her sports bra. I forced my eyes to hers, and again she kept her expression carefully neutral. But I could see the pain in her face. Not physical pain. Something deeper than that. The same pain that had informed the way she’d played the cello that night.  
    I moved past her, waving once, giving her a polite smile this time. It was something. It was communication. Almost.
    Once I arrived at the winery, I helped the guys tend to the vines for a few hours, then went into