Page 103 of Winning Match
Marlowe and I undress slowly. Then, we slip beneath the covers—kissing, touching, and tasting. We make love quietly, as moonlight flickers on the bay and the stars shine in the night sky.
We make love until sleep claims us.
31
Marlowe
When the earliest rays of sunshine filter into the guest bedroom the following morning, my eyelids flutter open. For a second, I’m confused why I’m lying beneath the guest room comforter, completely naked.
But then, I feel the weight of his presence wrapped around me and I smile. His large hand curls around my stomach, his strong chest pressed against my back. Alejandro is here. Alejandro loves me.
I turn to him, studying the slope of his nose, the swoop of his eyebrows, the perfection of his rugged jawline and full mouth.
His eyes open slowly and those piercing green eyes captivate me.
“Good morning,” he murmurs.
I bite my bottom lip, nerves scattering through me now that he’s awake and it’s…tomorrow. “We should talk.”
He snorts. “We will.”
And I bite my bottom lip harder, turning to glance at the clock beside my bed. It’s early, in part due to the jet lag. Six seventeen a.m.
“Ale,” I whisper. “We should sail.”
Understanding colors his eyes and he smiles back. “I’d love to.”
We get out of bed and dress quickly.
Grandpa is already in the kitchen, having moved in during my time in Spain. He’s peeling a hardboiled egg, drinking a coffee, and reading a newspaper.
“I’m going to take Ale out on the water, Grandpa,” I explain, bending to kiss his temple.
Grandpa grins, glancing from Ale to me. “Show him the ropes.”
“If he can keep up,” I laugh.
“Wind’s in your favor,” Grandpa chuckles, winking.
Ale stares at me as if he can’t imagine life without me. It’s such a simple moment—my father’s kitchen at dawn, the sound of the spoon Grandpa taps against the egg, Narragansett Bay beckoning through the window—and yet, it spears me with a poignancy, with a promise.
“Grab windbreakers,” Grandpa advises. “It’ll be chilly this early.”
I move to the hall closet and reach inside, finding two Prescott Sail windbreakers that belong to my father. I toss one to Ale and he tugs it over his head.
Then, we step into the cool morning air, the sun slowly rising, and head toward the dock.
“This was my mom’s favorite boat,” I say pointing to the seventeen-foot, O’Day Daysailer. “Grandpa makes sure it’s docked right here every summer so Dad can see it. Sometimes…well, it jogs his memory.” I gesture for Ale to hop aboard. “Give me a few minutes.” I remove the sail cover, double-check for life jackets and other essentials, and run through a mental checklist. Grandpa was right—the wind is favorable, blowing away from the dock.
I hoist the mainsail, uncleat and stow the lines, and push off the dock. Within minutes, I trim the sails and we’re guiding toward the open water.
The wind whips at our faces, blowing our hair. I glance at Ale and note the expression of awe etched in his face. It’s surreal, sharing this moment with him, when it’s one I never thought could make me feel content, overflowing with joy, again.
Once we’re cruising and the boat is balanced, I relax next to Ale and grin. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I lift my chin toward the sky—soft pink interspersed with pastel blue. It’s dreamlike.
“Never seen anything like it,” he breathes, but he’s looking right at me.
I blush and dip my head.
