Leap Of Faith

Chapter Thirteen

[photo by Davide Sibilio from Unsplash]

Topher

I take a restorative breath. Not terribly helpful. But the hand resting on my arm is proof, isn't it? As are Leni's soft, entreating eyes. I haven't loused up my chance with her. She simply wants me to take her to the beach.

That, I can do. I point to the walkway separating us from the ocean. "Do you want the blanket or shall I stow it in my—"

"No, Topher. I need to swim.

Need. There it is again. "You say that as if swimming is literally something you require?"

"Exactly. Will you take me home so I can get my swim suit? And you can borrow Matt's..."

I nod, standing—although awkwardly, because I'm a bit stunned by her suggestion, an invitation to swim with her.

She plucks the blanket off the ground and gives it a graceful shake, allowing it to sail on the wind for a moment before she begins to fold it. She has the job half done before I realize I'm just standing there, staring at her.

Ogling if I'm honest.

And that is precisely the reason having a swim with her is a terrible idea. It's much too early in the relationship for moonlight and bare skin. Especially considering what I've just learned about her.

"Thanks for that," I say, reaching for the blanket. The walk to the car is silent. Which gives me a chance to sort a plan. Matt and Dee were at the cottage when I arrived—if the assortment of vehicles in their driveway was any indication. Perhaps the two them could be persuaded to accompany Leni and I to the beach.

She settles into my passenger seat, shifting her shoulders back and forth—much like a bear scratching its back on a tree. "Sorry," she says when she catches me watching. "This is why I need to swim. The salt water will take care of it."

"Right. So you're saying you need the ocean specifically?"

She nods, biting her lip. And there's vulnerability in the way her eyes keep making quick scans of my face and then darting off again. As if she's afraid of what she might find in my expression. She's not having me on, then. This is something she truly believes. "What other symptoms do you have—aside from the itching?"

"It becomes painful after a while."

"Just your back?"

"Everywhere."

"May I..." I switch on the Jeep's interior light and point to her arm. "Might I have a look?"

She places her hand in mine and I brush my finger over her forearm. Her soft skin reflexively prickles.

Ignoring that, I look for discoloration, dry patches, flaking. There is none. "Have you had anyone look at this?" I ask.

"I have now. What's your diagnosis?"

I huff out a breath. "You are literally addicted to the ocean. And you can hold your breath underwater longer than what would be considered normal. Are you certain your legs don't turn into—"

"Don't say it," she says.

But she's smiling now. And holding my gaze, her eyes warm and inviting, her lips...

No, scratch that. There is no invitation here. I release her hand and crank the car.

The short drive to the fisherman's cottage is silent, save the occasional rustle of fabric and the soft scraping of Leni's fingernails over her neck and shoulders. The substantial pickup truck that'd been parked on the road is absent. A purple Post-it affixed to the fridge confirms that Matt and Dee are out for the night.