Noel opens his eyes and grins, gaze full of impish delight. “Are you sure?”
It’s a question he’s asked me a hundred times before, and the instinct to tease back dies before it catches, dimmed by the enormity of the question, of the overhaul his life has taken in the past twenty-four hours.
This is everything I’ve wanted, but in this moment, I’m scared he doesn’t. Or that he won’t tomorrow when he wakes up with me and not her and wonders what in the fuck he’s done.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Tressa. I’ll never do that.” He closes his eyes, running a hand down my neck and cupping my breast, his thumb tracing firm circles. “You terrify me. But you also challenge me. I want to wake up every morning feeling alive.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Yes, gorgeous girl. This is where I want to be.” He grins, the serious expression dissolving. “Well, not quite where I want to be.”
When Noel pushes inside me for the first time, I cry. I can’t help it. There’s too much past, too little present, and the idea of an endless supply of future undoes me. He groans and presses his forehead to mine.
I tip up my hips, wrapping my legs around his back, and invite him deeper. Noel lowers his lips and kisses my neck, then the hollow of my collarbone, and my body tightens around him as pleasure shudders through me.
I roll him over until I straddle his hips, moving back and forth as he throbs inside of me. Our pace increases, our bodies in unspoken agreement. Sweat beads up between our skin and our breath mingles in panted gasps. Ecstasy starts in my center and builds, rolling outward until my limbs tremble, until I ride the waves of bliss with my face buried against his neck, sobbing by the end.
Noel groans, his fingers digging into my hips as he pulls me down to meet his hard thrusts. Our names combine in the air between us as we finish, tangled together as surely as our bodies. He tugs me, sated, into his arms. An incredulous smile curves my lips.
Noel and Tressa. Tressa and Noel.
I had let him down, all those years ago. I’d waited too long. He hadn’t waited long enough. Yet we’d ended up here, and the only explanation seemed to be fate.
I snuggle into his side, unwilling to let go of him. I came here with nothing but the thinnest shred of hope. I’m leaving with the kind of faith that can’t be bought—sometimes, people do wait. Sometimes, life is like the movies.
Sometimes, love really is enough.
About the Author
LYLA PAYNE was hooked on writing both romance and New Adult after diving into her first such title, Broken at Love, and hasn’t looked back. In her spare time she watches a ton of tennis (no surprise, there), plays a ton of tennis, and dedicates a good amount of brain power to dreaming up the next fictitious bad boy we’d all love to meet in real life.
She also writes Young Adult science fiction stories under the name Trisha Leigh.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
For the Sake of Science
MARK PERINI
The Science Research Trip
Date: August 10
Materials: Merriam-Webster’s Spanish-English Dictionary
Experiment: An examination of the chemical and biological response beta Homo sapiens expresses when met with an alpha female.
Our eyes meet. With the full weight of her gaze my stomach starts to flutter. Butterflies. Warmth creeps up from the center of my body, something I haven’t felt, considering I’ve spent the past six hours on a whale research vessel in Gulfo Nuevo. I don’t know how much time passes before Bobby elbows me and says, “Did you forget your line, man? Tell her we have a reservation.”
Shit. How long have I been staring? I’m such a doof. I look at my feet, gathering up the courage to smile, and mumble my practiced line.
“Tengo una reservación para veinte personas.”
“¿Todos estan aquí?”she says in a tone that I read as impatience.
My guidebook is failing me. “¿Si?”
“Bueno, sígueme a su mesa.” She’s just standing there with the stack of menus in the midst of an eye roll.
Huh? “Sorry, I don’t really speak Spanish that well. I just memorized that expression out of my guidebook . . .”
“¿Que?” she says, clearly confused.
Off to an awesome start.
I shrug my shoulders and put my palms to the ceiling, signaling my surrender. She smiles and gives a little giggle. Great. Now she’s making fun of me.
As all fourteen students and two teachers find our seats at the long table and do their best to order, my best friend, Bobby, puts his arm over my shoulder.
“Hey man, there’s always tomorrow. Maybe you can study up tonight and learn something super Spanish suave to say for the next time. You know, some real Ricky Iglesias shit.”
He turns to his right and smiles at his girlfriend, Sarah. She blows him a kiss, which he catches and puts in his pocket, all while she’s giggling with her girlfriends. I make an exaggerated gagging sound. Bobby has never been the open PDA type of guy. Maybe it’s the new locale?
While Mr. Tio is going over the rules like he’s done every night since we arrived, ending his speech by threatening to “send us home on the next flight” if we violate the ten o’clock camp curfew, Bobby is telling me the fresh intel he just gleaned.
“Sarah told me that Jewels is into you; everyone knows you have a major crush on her. You should go for it. What’s hotter than getting laid in a foreign country?”
Like that’s gonna happen. Yeah right. Guys like me don’t return from South American expeditions with real stories to tell. We come back with pages of research data and a slightly larger Spanish vocabulary, possibly a few new swearwords.
Sitting around the table with all this amazing food, it’s obvious how excited everyone is to be in Argentina. Patagonia is our second stop on our two-week journey, but this is the place where we are finally going to be able to test out the experiments we’ve been working on for almost a year. I’ve been crazy-obsessed with this experiment forever.
That is until a smoking hot Argentinean hostess distracted me. Bobby’s right, we’ll be here all week. I wonder when she’s working next?
Date: August 11
Materials: Frying pan, groceries, lighter, campfire, camping cookbook
Experiment: A study of the molecular gastronomy of consumables, in order to ascertain validation to the positive or negative that male Homo sapiens really are disproportionately less inclined to succeed domestically.
The next day, I wake up extra early with stiff muscles and a fresh coat of frost covering my face and clothes. The last few nights have dipped down past freezing, and it’s really taking a toll on all of us. Not to mention sleeping outside in tents doesn’t lend itself to much comfort either. And to add insult to injury, my team has to wake up extra early to get breakfast ready. We drew the short straw last night and have breakfast duty for the next two days. After walking a quarter mile to grab firewood and get a fire started, I vow that I will never complain about Mom’s overcooked eggs again.
In an effort to distance myself as far away from actually cooking as possible, I attempt to assemble cooking equipment and a pot stand with Spanish-only instructions. Hearing me cursing under my breath, Jewels comes over to lend me a hand.
“Need some help, scientist? Has the culinary world blindsided you?” She’s clearly teasing me because of the expanding pile of blackened iron amassed around me.
“How is anyone supposed to do this without pictures? Especially for people who don’t speak Spanish?”
“Move over.” She grabs an odd-shaped piece and quickly connects it to another odd-shaped piece. “My parents and I used to camp all the time out in Montauk. Get the kettle and we’ll have this oatmeal started in no time.”
In no time flat, she had the kettle holder assembled and the water boiling.
“Luke, why don’t you take over and
stir for a while. I want you to take some ownership over the meal and feel a sense of accomplishment.”
“I’m more than willing to help, I just don’t want to be held liable if someone dies of food poisoning.”
“I think you’re Martha Stewart in the making,” she says as she walks off.
We’re definitely flirting, right? A smile crosses my face and all of a sudden I’m imagining cooking breakfast with the hostess from the restaurant. She’d be skipping around the kitchen to some Argentinean jams, wearing my shirt. Just my shirt. While I’m trying to stay focused on a research proposal that I’m drafting, she’ll circle around the island tousling my hair while singing and dancing, then all of a sudden she’ll grab my hands and pull me toward her . . .
“Luke! LUKE! You’re burning the oatmeal.” Jewels runs over and takes the kettle off the flame. She’s fanning the kettle with an oven mitt.
“Shit. I’m so sorry, I was thinking about the research . . . forgot what I was doing.” The best lies have some truth in them, right?
“It’s fine. Only the bottom is burned. Maybe Martha Stewart is a bit of a reach.”
Today’s culinary masterpiece consists of burned oatmeal, sliced apples, and chewy raisins with a side of juice boxes. At least dinner at the restaurant is something we can all look forward to, me especially. We got assigned teams/small groups for the remainder of the trip. Jewels is in my group. I should be really excited about this. She’s hot. I’ve always thought that. But knowing that she likes me has conflicting effects for some reason. It’s a confidence booster, but it’s also kind of a letdown. Like the hunt’s over and the prize is waiting. Maybe that’s an asshole way of thinking. Another reason to be conflicted, I guess. I’ll have to ask Bobby later.
With breakfast cleaned up, we grab our gear and get ready for another foray into the wintry seas.
“Bro, have you seen my other pair of long johns?” I ask, desperately searching our cramped, disorganized tent.
“You’re not going to need them. We’re going in the water today.”
“What? It’s close to freezing, dude.”
“Who cares about the cold! We’re swimming with the whales and testing our experiments. It’s awesome,” Bobby says.
“That’s today? How do you know?”
“I’ve told you before, you have to respect your elders.”
“Wise Buddha master . . . Shut the fuck up!” I throw my canteen in his general direction, missing by a long shot, which shouldn’t be possible in a two-person tent. My aim sucks.
Date: August 10
Materials: Scuba gear, DARAVOC® underwater speakers, mp3 of whale mother emergency call loop
Experiment: An examination of how beta Homo sapiens can exhibit alpha characteristics when prompted by emotional duress.
We all gather around the captain of the San Fernando, our fishing boat turned research vessel, in various states of undress. We’ve ditched our cold-weather gear in favor of black wetsuits which are being covered up by eighties-style neon dry suits complete with webbed gloves and booties. People are hopping on one leg, struggling half naked, as Jack Frost nips at any exposed skin waiting for our mixed Spanish and English address. I see Jewels out of the corner of my eye struggling to zip up her dry suit. I’ve been diving with my parents for years. I know a thing or two about slipping into spandex, so I rush over to help her out.
That’s what teammates do, right? It’s not like I’m trying to get a view of what may or may not be underneath her suit. Of course I’m not.
“I think this zipper is broken,” Jewels says, turning around to show me her back. It takes me about two seconds to seal her up. “Thanks, Luke.”
“No problem, let me know anytime you need help.” Oh God, that sounded bad, didn’t it? “You know . . . with a zipper.”
Oh boy . . . even worse.
She smiles at me. “I will for sure let you know.”
Was that some kind of invitation given in girl code? Where the hell is Bobby when I need him?
“Um . . . okay, then.”
With the commotion dwindling to a low roar, the grizzled captain finally starts his address. “¡Cállate! Soy el capitan de este barco y cuando estamos en el mar soy, Dios porq—”
“WE DON’T SPEAK SPANISH!” someone yells from the back.
“Oh, right . . . puta, estupido. The wind is muy fuerte today so we are going to be a little frio out there, but as they say, ‘Calm seas never make skillful sailors.’ If you need to vomitar do it in the ocean because we lost la fregona.”
Jewels walks toward me, looking petrified. “What if the boat crashes and sinks?”
“The boat’s made of polyurethane foam. It has positive flotation so even if it got a hole in it, it would still float.” Too much nautical jargon. I’m being a total know-it-all. I need to ease her apprehension.
Her forehead wrinkles. “I don’t really have much experience in the mar.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right by your side.” Come on, that was smooth. I can be macho, right? A grin springs across her face and I know that I said the right thing.
As we all gather up our gear and set out bearing farther and farther eastward, I find myself perfectly at ease. The cold lashes of windy seawater splash up in my face, while my nose is met with that fresh familiar smell of fishy salt. Being on the water reminds me of home, of family and friends, BBQs, fishing, wakeboarding, tubing gladiator battles where no one ever wins. Unfortunately, that warm and fuzzy feeling quickly dissipates when we’re hit by a huge wave of water and a deafening blast of the air horn.
“¡HOMBRE AL AGUA!”
“What does that mean? Man overboard? Who?” I run to the edge of the boat and see someone desperately struggling to entangle themselves from the cord on their lifejacket. It’s Jewels. And she’s panicking. If she doesn’t calm down, she’s gonna drown. My heart pounds, roaring louder in my ears than the wind and the waves.
I promised her I wouldn’t let anything happen.
Apparently, I suck at promises.
Without thinking, I jump off the edge of the boat with two other crewmen. The water hits me like a ton of bricks, the ice working its way up my veins. She’s right in front of me, but I know from lifeguard training that if I go right up to her, she’s bound to drown us both, panicking like that.
“Jewels, it’s okay. I’m going to hand you the float, just reach for it.”
“I can’t! The water’s too strong. My head’s about to go under.”
“No, it’s not,” I say firmly. “You’re floating, you have a life jacket on, just grab on to the float.”
She’s not grabbing the float. And my limbs are starting to seize up. Knowing that she’s not thinking straight, I swim right behind her, put my arms under her armpits, and grab on to her shoulders. She’s kicking and flailing uncontrollably.
“I got you, don’t worry, everything is going to be okay,” I say as calmly as I can muster after being pounded with a few flailing fists. I swim backward toward the boat, which is a bit farther off because of the rough water and wind. As they lower a ladder into the water and collect Jewels from my arms, I feel something brush up against my leg.
I rush up the ladder of the boat before I start screaming like a girl. The captain leans over me, laughing.
“Looks like our joven héroe rescued the princess and found the whales!”
“Whales?” The southern right whales are right here and one just touched me.
“Everyone gear up and get ready to swim with the whales, but let’s let our héroe be the first one in the water.”
Everyone is patting me on the back while I make my way to Jewels to make sure she’s okay. Our guide, Tomás, has already checked her out and said that she just needs to rest, and to give her some space.
While I’m backing off from the gathering crowd around her, I catch her eye and she mouths an exhausted “Thank you.”
The captain comes over to me. “How do you say in English, ‘Again into the deep’
?”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Laughing, I get ready to return to the arctic sea. Donning my scuba gear, I once again plunge into the forty-degree water. I don’t have time to register how cold it is because I’m literally surrounded by a family of three southern right whales. I do a quick mental calculation. Around one hundred and thirty tons of whale circling our boat. That’s like fifty elephants all stacked together. I kick off from the boat and swim right alongside them. The pod dives further into the ocean and I lose sight of them. I peer through the deep water hoping to catch another glimpse. As I’m looking ahead, I feel something brush against my leg. When I turn around, I’m eye to eye with a sixty-ton female. Knowing full well that what I’m doing is illegal, I put my hand on her head and feel the warty callosities that help us identify each whale. As I’m swimming with this huge, monstrous mammal, I fail to notice that my research partners are lowering down the waterproof speaker we rigged up to blast off our emergency whale mothers’ call. It’s a test we’re conducting to prevent unknowing whales from getting hit by commercial vessels. I hear the familiar “Wwwwhhhhoooo . . . Wwwwhhhhooo!” And as I turn around to see where it’s coming from, the whole pod has swum down to the deep unknown.
“Luke, did you see that? It worked perfectly; as soon as we blasted the sound they took off! We can literally save hundreds of whales from being killed every year if we can get this installed on all the shipping and fishing vessels!”
It’s amazing. I can’t stop smiling. Everything is coming together. All the research and hours studying whales from afar is finally paying off. Right now.
When I get back on the boat, everyone is clapping and patting each other on the back. The only thing that could make this day more perfect would be a little more time with those majestic beasts.
Or the beautiful hostess. My beautiful hostess. At least, in my head, she’s mine.
I spot Sarah and ask, “How’s Jewels doing?”