Island Affair (Keys to Love #1) - Priscilla Oliveras Page 0,81
“Like I already told you, I see my therapist regularly. I rely on learned cognitive behavior therapy skills. And Dr. Evans is on speed dial if I’m struggling with a trigger.”
Luis shifted beside her. Not wanting him to interrupt her, Sara rushed on, needing to get this out before she second-guessed herself.
“Which hasn’t happened in a while now. Not since my mom finished chemo and we got our first good news. My family hovers. Robin gets annoyed or aggravated or, whatever, for whatever reason. But you—”
She turned to face him, the sheet twisting beneath her crooked knees. Sand spilled onto the material, marring the white surface like the topic of her disorder had done to their carefree afternoon.
“You look at me differently than them, than a lot of others. Like I’m normal, whatever that really means. And I, I need for that to continue. For this, us, not to change.”
Suddenly, like a kettle left too long on the stove, she ran out of steam. Agitated, Sara tugged off the ball cap, gripping the bill tightly in her hands. The wind cooled her heated brow, blowing loose tendrils across her cheek.
“You are normal.” Luis twisted to splay his right hand on the sheet, leaning on his straightened arm for support. “I mean, we’re all dealing with something we don’t want to in our lives. In one way or another.”
“Like whatever happened between you and Enrique.”
He drew back at his brother’s name.
“C’mon, if I can share my deep dark secrets, you can, too.” Sara poked his shoulder with her knuckle. He didn’t even budge.
With his dark sunglasses in place, she couldn’t read his eyes. The rest of his face was set in a stoic, don’t-mess-with-me expression that probably worked with recalcitrant individuals when he responded to a call. It wouldn’t work with her.
Had they not spent the past few days together, basically fast-tracking their relationship, she might have backed off. Worried about overstepping some unspoken but definitive boundary.
Not now. Not when she’d picked at the scabs covering the painful scrapes in her personal life and revealed them to him.
“I know from experience, talking a situation out with someone actually helps.”
His “humph” in response told her exactly how thrilled he was by her suggestion.
Sara refused to be deterred. This . . . relationship had to be a two-way street. He wanted to help her; she was determined to do the same for him.
“Here’s the deal.” Scrambling on the sheet to sit tailor-style, she straightened her shoulders and spread her hands palms up on her knees. “I’m going into the water to cool off. Join me. Talk with me. Be honest with me. Like I’ve been with you.” She leaned toward him, her gaze boring into his, stressing her point for several weighty seconds. “Or stay here and pout on the beach.”
It was either a brave or foolish move. This edict she laid out for him.
That little voice inside of her, the one she often thought of as Mamá Alicia whispering encouragement in her ear when self-doubt dodged her steps, cheered her mettle.
“I don’t pout,” Luis grumbled.
An ember of hope lit in her chest. She plopped back down on her butt, fighting a grin.
Above his glasses his brows angled down in a fierce scowl. His mouth pursed in what she would most certainly call a pout.
“Don’t look now, but this”—she tapped his lips with her finger, then pushed to her feet—“is definitely a pouty face.”
She shimmied her running skirt down her hips, folded the garment, then set it near one of her flip-flops. Her orange Lululemon racerback tank followed.
Despite the cover of his sunglasses, she felt the heat of Luis’s gaze when she stood before him in nothing but her fuchsia string bikini. Reveled in the knowledge that she had his full attention.
Fists on her hips, she squinted down at him, the noon sun hot on her skin.
But the heat building on her inside . . .
Those flames were fanning to a blaze because of the mouth-wateringly gorgeous, if sometimes frustratingly hardheaded, hunk eyeing her from behind his darkened lenses.
“The decision is yours,” she challenged, imagining her hard-won self-confidence like a superhero’s cloak, flapping in the breeze behind her. “Me? I’ll be making like a saltwater fish cavorting in the surf. If you’re lucky, you might catch me.”
With an impish wiggle-fingered wave, she pranced toward the water, knowing full well that, thanks to a healthy diet and exercise, she rocked her bikini even better than a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.