Make Me Choose (Bayshore Book 4) by Ember Leigh

Author:Ember Leigh [Leigh, Ember]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-06-29T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

NOVA

Once the shuttles disappear, Weston and I exchange grins as if we’re about to embark on a Ferris Bueller’s Day Off adventure. Except instead of Chicago, we’re wandering the back roads of Aruba, pausing at fruit stands, inspecting any and all patches of flowers and shrubbery that catch our eye.

The air is heady with humidity and the wafting scents of a fire nearby. Yet my skin is fresh from my unexpected dip in the ocean. Weston has offered to carry all my belongings in addition to his own backpack, which is both unnecessary and extremely sexy. Why is it sexy? Because everything he does is sexy. He could fall and scrape his knee and I’d still probably have to change my underwear afterward.

Weird, but it is what it is.

My phone vibrates just as we set out. I’d ignore it if I weren’t irrationally worried about something happening to Gram. But of course it’s Jimmy, responding to a picture of the resort I sent him that morning.

JIMMY: God, that place looks incredible. I wish I could visit.

NOVA: You should! It’s literally the most gorgeous place I’ve ever been.

JIMMY: You really think I should?

NOVA: Why not? Life is meant to be lived.

It’s a timely platitude that I also happen to believe in. But Jimmy’s version of lived involves drunken nights at the same watering hole for the rest of his life.

Weston and I chat about everything and nothing as we wander along a road we have no familiarity with, in a direction we can only guess is east. It’s a natural decision between us, and neither of us doubt it for a second. And for how natural it is, it still strikes me as outrageous. Because if this were anyone else—perhaps most of all Jimmy—I’d have to reassure them plenty of times not to freak out. Hell, I doubt even Amelia would want to do something like this—wander into the unknown without a map. We cross paths with plenty of locals, and even stop to have an interesting conversation about the necessity of trying an authentic bitterballen recipe with a man who punctuates every sentence with the sound “yanoo.”

The late afternoon sunlight beats down on us. Weston helps me reapply sunscreen approximately a hundred times in our hour-long wander through cactus-spiked paradise. Finally we come upon a little village outpost where attractive apartment buildings sit next to cactus-infused parks, and the clear blue of the sky makes everything inside me ache with something powerful and unknown.

“God,” I sigh as we scuff down the road between street vendors selling clearly not-name-brand sunglasses and other accessories. Christian Dior does not write his name in Ariel font on the front of the glasses, just so we’re clear. “I wish I could move here.”

“You could, couldn’t you?”

Weston’s simple question forces my mouth shut. It’s not as easy as doing it or not doing it. The question never even comes up. It’s simply not on the drawing board. “Are you kidding me? That’s about as likely as me moving to the moon.

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