I’m not sure what she means by that. And at this point, I can’t tell if she’s just fearless, or suicidal.
When we went surfing this morning, she got way too close to the rocks, even after I told her how to avoid them. And when I caught a wave without her, she paddled out even farther, far past the break point, where she just sat on the surfboard looking out into the vast ocean.
“Look at the helicopter,” I say, as another one flies through the canyon. “Two days ago, that was us. We were looking down here and seeing the people who looked as small as ants. And now we’re the ants, and we’re looking at them. We’ve been on both sides of the coin, and it’s amazing how different they are. Down here, we feel small, insignificant, almost invisible. But up there, we felt larger than life. Invincible. Isn’t it amazing how seeing the same thing from two viewpoints can change your perception?”
She nods. I think she gets what I’m trying to say. But that doesn’t mean she’ll change the way she feels about whatever happened to her. And after what just happened with the flower and the cliff, I’m sure whatever happened to her was life-altering. She’s experienced profound loss—that I’m sure of. I’ve seen a lot of loss over the past ten months. In my line of work, I’m always seeing people get injured. People dying. People getting pulled away from loved ones. Ivy’s got that same look. And it guts me.
“I can see why they call this the Grand Canyon of the Pacific,” she says, standing up, but keeping a respectable distance from the edge.
“It’s pretty fantastic, isn’t it? I was told that if I was coming to Kauai, I had to hike Waimea Canyon.”
She looks sad when she stares at the ground. “Yeah, I was told that, too.”
I reach out and grab her hand, grateful that she doesn’t pull away.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s head back before it gets dark.”
Chapter Eight
Ivy
Yesterday was exhausting. Physically. Emotionally.
And I think Bass knew it. He walked me home after dinner, kissing me at my door without asking to come in. I wanted him to come in. I needed something to numb the pain. But I wasn’t going to beg. He’s already getting closer than I want.
I know he thinks he can change my mind about what happens when we get back to New York. But what he doesn’t know is that he won’t want that Ivy. The Ivy who doesn’t get out of bed. The one who doesn’t go on helicopter rides and canyon hikes.
I cried myself to sleep last night after taking a sleeping pill. I don’t dream when I take them. And after the day I had, there was no way I wanted to dream.
Bass didn’t know it, but everything we did yesterday were things I was supposed to do. Things I promised to do. Things that gutted me to do.
I roll over in bed and grab the picture frame. I run my fingers across the face inside. “I’m trying,” I say. “It may have taken me a while, but I’m doing everything you wanted me to do. And it’s just as beautiful as we thought it would be. All of it. The waterfalls, the ocean, the canyon. I know I promised to enjoy it. And sometimes I do. But when I start to enjoy it too much, I feel guilty. Do you think that’s crazy? Do you think I’m crazy to feel guilty when things make me happy?”
Bass’s face pops into my head and I sigh. “I know he thinks he can make me happy. And maybe he can for a minute or an hour even. But then when I remember …”
I realize what I just said, and a tear escapes my eye. “Oh, baby. It’s not that I forget you. I could never forget you. Not in a million years. But sometimes there are moments. Fleeting moments where I think I might feel normal. But those are the moments that make me feel terrible because you’re not here. I’m sorry, I know that’s not what you wanted for me. But I’m trying. I promise you, Mommy is trying.”
I trace my fingers across the curve of her smiling lips. Her chocolate eyes dance with laughter. I don’t know how she was ever this happy or carefree, knowing what was happening to her. She was so much stronger than I was. Stronger than I could ever be.
I hug the picture frame and stare out the window, remembering the day we said we’d come here.
“Spin it, Mommy,” Dahlia says. “And wherever my finger lands, that’s where we’ll go.”
“Okay,” I say, giving the globe a big spin.
“Promise?” she asks, watching it go around and around.
I run my hand down the back of her hair. “I promise, baby.”
When the globe stops spinning and her finger touches it, she squeals in delight. “Hawaii,” she says gleefully.
“Let me see,” I say, squinting my eyes to look at which island her finger landed on. “It’s Kauai.”
Dahlia grabs my iPad off her table, handing it to me. I smile. I know the drill. I Google Kauai and show her the pictures, then she reads the text, me helping her with the bigger words.
“Waterfalls!” she squeals. “Oh, Mommy, can we go? Please, can we go?”
I look at my sick little girl, machines spread across her hospital room. “Of course we can,” I say, knowing the only way we would ever get there would be in our dreams.
We spend the next few hours researching the island. After all, we have nothing better to do while Dahlia is tied to her bed as she gets her dialysis.
The needles don’t even bother her anymore. She barely flinches when they put them in. But I do. I always have. Every time they stick a needle into my little girl, I feel like it’s going straight into my own heart.
“It rains a lot there,” she says, after reading it in an article. “That must be why they have so many flowers. It’s the perfect place to go, isn’t it, Mommy? I think you would look pretty with one of those flowers in your hair.”
I take a piece of her short, thin hair into my hand. “I think you would, too.”
A nurse comes in to check on her. “How are we doing?” she asks. Then she sees the globe. “Oh, where are you going today?”
She knows us all too well. All the pediatric staff do.
“Hawaii,” Dahlia blurts out. “It’s so pretty there. They have waterfalls and flowers and lots and lots of rain. We’re going there.”
The nurse gives her a sad smile. Dahlia has been on the transplant list for months, ever since her first transplant started showing signs of failure. We both know there is a three-to-five-year average wait for a kidney transplant, and even with her being a high priority, Dahlia having a rare blood type means she could have to wait even longer. And everyone knows she doesn’t have that long. Including Dahlia.
“That sounds wonderful,” the nurse says. “Will you wear grass skirts and leis made of flowers?”
Dahlia nods excitedly. “Mine will be made out of daisies,” she says. “They’re my favorite.”
She starts to tire when her dialysis is almost done. I crawl into bed with her and cradle her in my arms.
My little girl yawns. Then she snuggles into me. “I want you to go, Mommy. Please say you will. Please say you’ll go no matter what.”
“Okay, baby.” I kiss her soft hair. “Okay.”
“No matter what,” she says, her soft words trailing off as she fights sleep. “You have to promise.”
A single tear rolls out of my eye as I watch her drift to sleep. “I promise, baby girl.”
My phone pings with a text.
Sebastian: Are you ready? You’d better hurry or you’ll miss it.
I kiss Dahlia and put the frame back in its place. Then I roll out of bed, splash some water on my face and throw on a romper to meet him for our sunrise walk on the beach.
~ ~ ~
Listening to Bass play guitar at sunset is becoming my favorite part of the day. Last night, we just made it back from Waimea in time to see the sun go down, and a guy named Tua brought his ukulele, and together, they drew quite a crowd.
Today, however, there’s a large turtle on the sand just down the beach that has drawn people away, so Bass and I sit by the fire pit, just the two of us, as he strums away.
I recognize the tune he’s p
laying. It’s the one he wrote for me. Or about me. I’m still not sure which. It sounds even better tonight. Every time he plays it, he adds something. A chord here, a note there. And unlike me, he doesn’t have to look at the guitar as he plays it. He looks at me. It’s like he’s making love to me with the song.
I squirm around on the bench, anticipating what will happen after we go back to my place for dinner. I wanted to cook for him tonight. He’s taken me out the past two nights and neither time would he let me pay. I don’t imagine he makes a lot of money as a first-year firefighter. And he’s right about one thing, my parents sell a shitload of flowers.
They took over a single flower shop from my dad’s parents when Grandma and Grandpa decided to retire. Then they turned it into a chain about twenty years ago. Fortunately, the stores have been quite successful. So, money has never really been an issue for us. They have three stores now. Three stores they plan on leaving their three children someday. One for each of us to run.
The thing is, I’m not sure I want to run one.
I still love flowers. Being surrounded by their beauty. Smelling their sweet fragrance. But now, they just remind me of my daughter. Especially certain ones.
“Oh, shit!” Bass says, putting down his guitar and running to the edge of the water. “Hold on, miss!”
I look to see who he’s shouting at. There’s a surfer who’s hung up on the rocks that line the beach to the right of us, her board being pounded into them and she can’t seem to stand up or get herself out of it. She looks completely exhausted and I wonder how long she was stranded there before Bass noticed her.
Bass takes off his flip-flops and carefully navigates through what I know are sharp and slippery lava rocks.
“Don’t move,” he tells her. “I’m coming to you.”
The water is only a few feet deep where she is, but I suspect she’s too worn out to try and stand and bring her board back in with her. And the bottom of the sea where she’s hung up is lined with more jagged rocks. It’s the spot Bass told me to stay away from yesterday when he gave me my first surfing lesson.
I watch him expertly work his way over to her and help her off her board onto a large rock. While she’s sitting there, practically in a state of shock, he grabs her board and pushes it over the rocks so it won’t be taken out to sea. Then he picks her up and carries her back across the dangerous bed of rocks to bring her to safety. And after all that, he goes back out to get her surfboard.
She finally calms down enough to thank Bass for his efforts. In fact, she calms down enough to ask him on a date.
“You have to let me take you out to dinner. I owe you big time for rescuing me. I’m not sure I would have ever had the strength to get myself out of that.” She looks at him with doe eyes. “You’re so strong.”
I study the woman. She’s young. I’d be surprised if she were a day over twenty-one. But even dripping wet, I can tell she’s beautiful. And she’s smiling at him. And I’ll bet she doesn’t hide behind trees and break down in hysterics on hikes. Or have to take sleeping pills to stop dreaming. Or cry every time it rains because she sees her dead daughter dancing in puddles.
He should be with someone like that. Not someone broken like me.
I walk back over and sit on the bench, giving him some privacy to answer her.
A few minutes later, the woman walks away, her surfboard tucked under her arm.
Bass sits down across from me, picking up his guitar and playing another song like what just happened was no big deal.
I can only stare at him.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I nod to his feet. “The question is, are you? Surely you cut your feet when you walked over the rocks.”
“Nah. They’re tough as nails,” he says.
“Bass, you just saved that girl.”
“That was nothing, Ivy. I run into burning buildings and hang off sides of bridges.”
I gasp. “You hang off sides of bridges?”
“Yeah. Once when we got a call about a jumper. Don’t worry, I was anchored. I wouldn’t have fallen off.”
I sigh. I try not to reveal too much with my eyes. I try not to think about how often I’ve driven over bridges in the city, contemplating getting out of my car and diving head-first into the water below.
“Are you going to go to dinner with that girl?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Of course not.”
“She’s pretty. Why wouldn’t you?”
He scoffs at my question. “First of all, rule number one of firefighting is not to get involved with rescues. They look at us as their saviors. It’s not any way to start a relationship. And second, I already have a date for dinner—tonight and every other night I’m here.”
I can’t help the relief that rushes through me, and I scold myself for feeling jealous over another woman.
“So you’re not allowed to date the people you rescue?” I ask.
“It’s frowned upon,” he says. “But it happens.” He pats the bench beside him. “Come here.”
I get up and walk around the fire pit and sit next to him. He hands me his guitar.
“Oh, no,” I say, pushing it back at him.
“You said you don’t play very well. I want to teach you. Please?”
“Fine.” I pout.
He scoots me to the front edge of the bench and then hops behind me so I’m sitting between his legs. Then his arms come around me as he shows me how to play some chords. We take turns fingering the chords and strumming the strings. We play like this until the sky is black and the only light we see is coming from the fire pit and the tiki torches that illuminate the grounds.
When we stop playing, I lean back and relax into him.
“At the risk of sounding cheesy,” he says. “We make beautiful music together.”
I giggle as I turn my head to look at him. Then he kisses my cheek.
“I think I like this,” he says. “Having you and the guitar in my arms.”
I nod. I like it too. But I don’t tell him that. It could give him false hope. “Are you hungry?” I say instead.
“Starving,” he says, staring into my eyes. “But not for food. Come on, let’s go stash my guitar and head to your place. You can cook me dinner and then I can have you for dessert.”
My face heats up at the thought.
He leads the way to his room, holding my hand in his, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles the entire time. It’s a tiny movement. One I’m not even sure he’s aware of. But it’s sending pulses through my body, and by the time he lets us in his front door, I’m pulling him across the room.
I push him down so he’s sitting on the couch, and then I straddle him.
He laughs as he looks up at me. “Or we could just skip dinner and go straight to dessert.”
He pulls my face to his until our lips meet. I kiss him softly. Then I work my mouth down around his jaw to his ear.
“Watching you save that surfer was kind of a turn on,” I say, undulating myself on his lap.
“Really?” he says.
“Yeah.” I kiss his neck. “Right up until she asked you out.”
His body shakes with laughter beneath me. “You’re not jealous, are you, Ivy Greene?”
I sit straight up and pull my cover-up over my head. Then I untie my bikini top. “Do I look like I’m jealous?”
He peruses my bare breasts with his eyes and then he explores them with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I forgot the question.”
I smile and lean into him, giving his mouth full access to my chest. He takes one of my nipples into his mouth as he works the other one between his fingers. A moan escapes me when I realize how hypersensitive I am to his touch.
“Do you know what it does to me when you make that noise?” he asks.
I grab the hem of his T-shirt and pull it over his head. I can feel his erection pressing into me through his board shorts.
“I missed this last night,” he says. “You
have no idea how much I fantasized about you when I got home.”
I look down at him and boldly ask, “Did you … do anything about it?”
He smiles a crooked smile. “I might have.”
I’m not sure why that makes me feel like high-fiving someone, but it does. I’m not supposed to want him to want me too much. It will only make things harder in the end. But the thought of him making himself come while thinking of me is really hot.
“What about you?” he asks, rubbing his erection against me. “Have you touched yourself since meeting me?”
I can only look at him and smile. Because I’m afraid if I say anything, he will find out that it was the first time I’d done that in years. And I’m not sure I want him knowing that.
“Shit, Ivy. I wish I could have seen it.”
In a very un-Ivy-like move, I pull on the ties of my bikini bottoms, making the small scrap of blue fabric fall away from my body. Then I run a finger down my stomach until it reaches my clit. I rub it in slow, methodical circles as he watches.
Bass’s mouth falls open. He’s mesmerized by my erotic performance. I’m confused by it. This isn’t like me. I’m the girl who lets the guy take charge. I lie back and let things happen. I don’t do this. I’ve never done things like this. Not until meeting him. And the more I do it, the better it feels. And the better it feels, the more I lose myself to the world.
I like losing myself to the world. I like losing myself in him.
After a minute, he moves my hand aside, like his is jealous that mine was having all the fun. He pushes a finger inside me, sliding it in and out, searching for that tender spot that will take me to the edge of ecstasy.
“Oh, God,” I say, my head falling back at the pleasure of his fingers inside me.
When he looks like he’s ready to explode and I can feel his hard-as-steel length jumping beneath me, he stands, picking me up with him. I wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him as he bumps into a chair on his way to the bed.
The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 6
