Read A Davenport Christmas: A Bad Boys Serial Novel (Always With You Book 1) Online

Authors: M. Leighton

A Davenport Christmas: A Bad Boys Serial Novel (Always With You Book 1) (4 page)

Pocketful of Sand

“She’s beauty for my
ashes.

And I’m hope for her
heartache.”—Cole
Danzer
.

I don’t know what makes a great love story.

Is it that instant attraction when boy
meets girl?

The
passionate kisses and the fairy-tale ending?

Or is it a lifetime of tragedy, paid in
advance, for a few stolen moments of pure bliss? The pain and the suffering
that, in the end, you can say are worth it for having found the missing piece
of your soul?

The answer is:

I
don’t know.

I don’t know what makes
a great love story.

I only know
what makes
my
love story.

I only know that finding Cole when I
did, when Emmy and I were running from a nightmare, was the only thing that
saved me.

That saved
us.

He was more broken than I was, but somehow we took each other’s
shattered pieces and made a whole.

If
that
is what makes a great
love story, if
that
is what makes an
epic romance, then mine…
ours
is the
greatest of them all.

CHAPTER ONE- Eden

October

Emmy’s face lights up when she runs full speed toward the
water’s edge, chasing the tide out.

My heart warms with her squeal of delight as it chases her right back
in.

Back and forth they go,
engaging in the never-ending dance of ebb and flow.

Few times in her six years of life have I ever seen her so
happy, so carefree and animated.

That alone makes this move worth it. Maybe we won’t have to leave this
place.

At least
not for a while.

Tirelessly, her little legs carry her as she flees the
frothy waves, sandy water splashing up from her feet as she runs. I watch her
play, more satisfied than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe this will be good for
her.

Finally, winded, she doesn’t turn to run the tide, but keeps
coming toward me until she can launch her small body at mine like a tiny
bullet.

I catch her, hugging her
close so that I can bury my nose in her neck and inhale the smell of baby
powder, fresh air and little girl.

When she pulls away, she’s smiling. “That was fun,
Momma.

Did you see me run
fast?

Even the waves couldn’t catch
me.”

Her lime green eyes are twinkling and her cheeks are rosy
from the fall nip in the air. Her hot breath mixes with the ocean’s breeze to
sooth my
insides, like maybe happiness, wholeness is
finally blowing in.

“I did!

You ran
so fast
I could hardly keep up.”

She claps excitedly.

“Can we walk before we go?”

I glance at my watch.

We are supposed to meet the landlord at his office at three, but we
should be in good shape as long as we head back to the car within the
hour.

“Sure, but we can’t stay too
much longer.”

I’ve barely finished my sentence before she’s out of my
arms, on her feet and blazing off down the beach, her long hair flowing out
behind her like midnight flames.

This straight stretch of beach is practically deserted, so I
let her run as fast as she wants to.

There’s a great likelihood that I’ll have to carry her back, but I don’t
mind.

I treasure any chance I get
to hold her close and pretend that nothing in the world could ever take her
away from me.

Plus, all this
exercise means she’ll probably fall asleep in my arms tonight.

She’ll be exhausted.

I smile at the thought.

The perfect end to what’s looking like a
nearly perfect day.

Up ahead, Emmy stops several feet from what I now recognize
as someone building an elaborate sandcastle.

I see her pop her thumb in her mouth, so
I speed up.

That’s a sure sign of
distress for her.

That and the way
she goes still as a statue, not moving a single muscle.

Those are the only outward signs of her
condition.

Without looking back, as though she can sense my presence
when I stop at her side, she reaches for my fingers with her free hand,
squeezing them as tightly as she can.

I squat down, something I’ve learned is soothing to
her.

When she’s anxious, she likes
to be able to hide.

While she’ll
tuck herself behind my legs if I’m standing, she relaxes more quickly if I’m
down on her level where I can hold her.

She surprises me when she doesn’t turn into my chest and
bury her face like she usually does in these situations. Instead, she stands
perfectly still, watching the man who’s on his hands and knees constructing the
castle.

His back is to us and I
doubt he knows we’re here, so intent is he on what he’s doing.

Obviously he takes his castling
seriously, which gives me ample time to study the scene.

The castle is taller than Emmy and has at least a dozen
spires and turrets of various sizes.

It’s probably taken him all day to construct it.

There are even trees in the “castle
grounds” that lead down to the edge of the mote he’s currently digging.

The whole thing is pretty
impressive.

But not nearly as impressive
as the guy who’s building it, I learn once I turn my attention to him.

His hands are broad and long-fingered, tanned and
capable-looking, as though they’re used often and probably calloused.

I follow them up muscular forearms roped
with thick veins and bands of sinew, to biceps that bulge against the dark blue
cotton of his T-shirt.

The material
is stretched tight across his wide shoulders, too, which only further
accentuates his narrow waist.

I evaluate the man in the same clinical way that I do the
castle–with an appreciation for form and structure. Nothing more.

That is, until he turns his shaggy blond head to look at
me.

I can tell by the frown that creases his forehead and shades
his bright blue eyes that we took him by surprise.

Normally I would do the polite thing and
apologize, but at the moment my thoughts are as scattered and hard to catch as
my breath.

He’s handsome, yes.

He’s built well, yes.

I’m
sure in another life or if I were someone else, I’d be very attracted to
him.

Only I’m not attracted to men.
Or women. Not anymore. I’m not attracted to
anyone
anymore.

So then why can’t I breathe?

Why do I feel like I just fell into a
black hole that sucked all the air from the world and dropped hot boulders into
my stomach?

He rocks back on his haunches, brushing off his hands almost
angrily.

My insides do a funny
little quiver as he watches me.

It’s not really fear or embarrassment; it’s more like…
awareness
.

Extreme
awareness
.

Emmy stirs where she had gone around behind me to peek over
my shoulder, and her movement draws his piercing eyes.

After that, I think
I
cease to exist.

As he stares at her, the color leaves his handsome, golden
face, taking with it the frown that he was wearing.

His mouth drops open a little and I hear
the huff of a breath as he releases it.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks shocked. I just don’t know
why he would be.

He gapes at Emmy for a few long seconds before, wordlessly,
he turns away. At first, he does nothing. Doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Doesn’t
even appear to breathe.

Just
continues to kneel, facing away from us, staring at the sandcastle.

But then, after a bit, he returns to his
mote. He digs into the sand fiercely, almost angrily, and I wonder that his
fingers don’t bleed.

I don’t really know whether I should say something or not,
so I opt with not. Already he doesn’t seem too thrilled with our presence.

Another interruption might be even more
poorly received.

Just as I’m rising to sweep Emmy into my arms and carry her
back, the man pauses, his head turning as he catches a glimpse of the clump of
daisies buried stem-deep in the sand in front of the castle.

His shoulders slump visibly. I see his
hand start to jut out and then stop, and then start again.

He reaches for one flower, plucking it
from the bunch and twirling it in his fingers.

I know I should leave, leave him to
whatever he was doing and thinking before we arrived, but I can’t.

Not yet. I can’t, but I just don’t know
why.

Finally, he glances back at us, at Emmy.

His gaze isn’t too direct, almost as though
he knows that too much attention is hard for my daughter.

I watch as he extends the flower, his
hand shaking the tiniest bit as he holds it out to her.

I start to reach for it, but Emmy
surprises me by grabbing it
herself
, her slim little
hand easing out to carefully take the daisy from his grasp.

The stranger gives her a small smile and turns away
again.

He doesn’t get to see the
way Emmy’s lips curve around the thumb still stuck in her mouth.

He doesn’t get to see the way she
watches him afterward.

“Thank you,” I tell him quietly.

He pauses, turning only enough that I can see his strong
profile–straight nose, carved mouth, square chin.

He nods once and then returns to his
excavating, as intent as he was before we interrupted.

Puzzled and
flustered, I turn and carry my daughter back the way we came, the scent of
fresh-cut daisies teasing my nose and the quiet hum of my child tickling my
ear.

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A FINAL WORD

If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a
review and recommending it to a friend.

You are more powerful than you know.

YOU–the words from your mouth, the
thoughts from your heart, shared with others, can move mountains.

You make a huge difference in the life
of an author.

You have in mine. You
do every day, which brings me to my gratitude, my overwhelming, heartfelt
gratitude.

A few times in life, I’ve found myself in a position of
such love and appreciation that saying THANK YOU seems trite, like it’s just
not enough.

That is the position
that I find myself in now when it comes to you, my readers.

You are the sole reason that my dream of
being a writer has come true and your encouragement keeps me going.

It brings me unimaginable pleasure to
hear that you love my work, that it has touched you in some way, that it has
made life seem a little bit better for having read it.

So it is from the depths of my soul,
from the very bottom of my heart that I say I simply cannot THANK YOU enough,
which I say a lot of
in
this post
.

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Other books by M. Leighton on Amazon

All the Pretty
Lies

*
*

All the Pretty
Poses

All Things
Pretty

*
*

All Things
Pretty (part two)

Down to You

*
*

Up to Me

Everything for
Us

Pocketful of
Sand

Strong Enough

*
*

Tough Enough

Brave Enough

The Wild Ones

*
*

Wild Child

Some Like It
Wild

*
*

There’s Wild,
Then There’s You

YA and
PARANORMAL

Fragile