Page 117 of The Unfinished Line

“That we…?” She raised her stitched eyebrow. “That we, what?” she prodded, feigning misunderstanding. “Met in Hawaii? That you’re a terrible driver and nearly ran me over? That I took pity on you and invited you to dinner—?”

“Hey—” I made to swat at her, but she was faster than me, securing my wrist in her grip.

“That by the end of that first night I was entirely besotted?” Her teasing tone slipped away as her expression grew serious. “That I’ve spent fourteen months falling ridiculously, hopelessly, madly head-over-heels in love with you? That you’re so far out of my league, it terrifies me, but every day I keep hoping you won’t notice?” She took a shaky breath, the pulse in her fingers pounding against my wrist. “Were you wondering if she knew all that?”

I stared at her, my mind spinning. I knew she loved me. It wasn’t the first time she’d told me. But she wasn’t one to wax poetic. And this time, there was something about the intensity with which she said it—the meaning behind it. I found it hard to breathe. When I swallowed, I felt like I was barely keeping tears at bay, and I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was because I’d spent the entire past year worried I was in over my head. That the depth of my feelings for her wasn’t entirely reciprocated. That I was bound to find myself hurt in an unbalanced, one-sided relationship.

And now, hearing her say that… knowing everything I felt was requited…

I managed a slow exhale, trying to drum up a smile. “I was actually just wondering if she knew we’d be running late to dinner?”

My teasing fell flat and I didn’t care. The only thing I wanted—needed—suddenly, was to close the gap of the last six months of distance between us. I couldn’t wait another second to remember the taste of her mouth, to breathe in the scent of her skin. To bury my fingers in her hair. To feel her against me. I didn’t care that we were a hundred paces off a public hiking trail, overlooking a beach in a cow pasture. I didn’t care that it was cold. That, as dusk arrived, the wind had found new vigor. I didn’t care about the sand that found its way into my shoes, or the reeds that caught in my hair.

I no longer cared thatSand Seekerswas being shown in theaters across the world even as we sat there. I no longer cared about the premieres, or the reviews, or the lingering apprehension that in two short months I’d already be back to filming—that once again I’d have to go through all the stress, the pressure, the highs, the lows, and the anxiety that came with it.

All of that disappeared with the setting sun on the languid Welsh coastline.

The only thing I cared about was that she said she was in love with me. And I desperately needed her to know I was in love with her, too.

In the aftermath of our beachside tryst, the magical insulation to the cold had eloped, lost somewhere along the way with my hair tie and one of my earrings.

“Tributes to the Welsh God of the Sea,” Dillon teased when we gave up combing through the sand in search of the silver hoop. “Did you know his name is Dylan ail Don?”

I laughed through chattering teeth. “Of course you were named after a Welsh God.”

“Or perhaps it was the other way around?” she goaded, earning an eye roll and poke to her ribcage.

We trudged our way back toward the car in the dark, at some point losing track of the wildlife trail we’d wandered in on. My pinky linked through hers, I followed behind Dillon as we waded into the waist-high grass, laughing each time I clipped her heels, and shuddering to think what kind of spiders might be hitchhiking home on my disheveled clothing.

I’d grown so cold I hadn’t even had the decency to deny her chivalry when she offered her sweatshirt, leaving Dillon in her shirt sleeves and me bundled in the hoodie and my jacket, zipped all the way to my chin. When we got to the car, I was relieved to find my bra was still tucked safely into Dillon’s back pocket, having survived the offroad trek and scramble beneath the livestock fence.

“You and your hikes,” I chided, hooking my thumb through a satin strap and stealing back the black Victoria’s Secret lace number I’d chosen in anticipation of tonight. I hadn’t planned on a roadside detour, or a rendezvous involving salt and sand.

“Um, excuse me,” said Dillon, holding the door as I climbed in, and then jogging to the driver’s side, “my only intention was to stop for a beachside chat.Youare the one who had other plans in mind.” She yanked her door shut and flipped on the ignition, turning the heater on high.

I humphed, knowing I was on the losing end of this battle, but clawing to keep the high ground all the same. “As if you can claim you chose this secluded spot with anything else in mind.”

She laughed. “Well, when last we spoke, I believe you told me I was going to have to work harder for it than that—so I didn’t assume a roadside shag was on the menu. If I’d known you were going to be that easy,” she brushed sand off my thigh, “I’d have chosen a tidier location.”

With a pretense of petulance, I pulled my leg away from her, retreating the entire two-and-a-half inches the cab of the Fiat permitted. “I’m notthateasy—”

“Care to wager?” she whispered through a smile, leaning across the console to ease the zipper of my jacket down below my chin. Her lips brushed my earlobe. “I’ve got a hundred pounds that say I could convince you of a reprise before I ever throw this car in drive.”

“Game on,” I challenged, without any actual conviction. The joke was on her if she thought I wouldn’t willingly shell out a hundred bucks to keep her doing what she was doing. This was one bet I didn’t mind losing. But as I leaned my head back to give her better access to my neck, I caught sight of my appearance in the sideview mirror, and bolted upright in a panic.

“Oh my God—I can’t meet your mother like this!”

I looked feral. My hair resembled something out of an Eighties music video, wild with humidity and glistening with sand and seashells. The minimal makeup I’d applied before leaving my hotel was smudged or missing. My cheeks were flushed from far more than the chill, and my lips—I had to take a second glance—were swollen and… tinged almost blue? That was from the cold, surely…

“I look like…like…”

“Like we haven’t seen each other in six months?” she shrugged, unperturbed.

I unzipped my jacket further, pulling the neck of Dillon’s hoodie lower to examine a red mark along my clavicle. “I think I’ve got reed rash on my shoulder…”

“Amongst other places,” Dillon smirked at me through her lopsided smile, dropping her hand to the gearshift and disengaging it from park. “I’ll let you win this bet. It’s worth the hundred knowing Hollywood’s paragon of virtue is going to have to greet my mother with seaweed in her hair.”

Scene 40

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