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Book: In Your Arms: A Small Town Love Story (Safe Haven Book 1) by Erin Sloane
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Authors: Erin Sloane
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in the lungs—that was something you could fight and take down. He began taking long runs out the back of the farm, but it wasn’t enough. The terrain soon became too smooth, too easy.
He had headed into the bush, the wilderness, using rutted animal tracks, following streams and climbing high ridges. And he ran until the numbness went away and the raw hurt began. Ran until his bare legs and arms bled, torn by shrubby manuka bush and tātaramoa barbs, until, now physically broken, the tears that came covered every type of pain he knew. He mightn’t know why Vince had a need to ‘go bush’ but he certainly understood what he got from it.
On the days he had better control of his emotions, he would swim. Long ocean swims battling the sloppy sea chop or the rolling ocean swell. Battling the bad thoughts devouring his mind that were fueled by the merging of loss and guilt.
He had to be so sure of himself on the swimming days. Sure that sheer will would beat down his torment—the if-only replay that looped through his head. He needed the confidence that he would carry on, so he took the memory of Emma with him. In his mind, he positioned her off his left shoulder in the place she always swam when they did that together, so that when he lifted his head for a breath he could see she was okay. If she needed help he was in the right place to protect her, and they’d tackle the sea the way they had when she’d been alive.
Protect her. How pitiful, this conjuring up of Emma, this attempt to give himself an opportunity to save her. But he needed her phantom image, because in his soul he understood all it would take was a big suck in, a big breath of water instead of air and the pain would end.
Now he stood at the side of the pool, edgy, little jags of emotion awakened and firing through his body. He hauled in some focus and dived. Once he surfaced he started to swim, mentally working through a checklist of his form. He planned to be in the water about an hour, so he started concentrating on his stroke, making each one matter while at the same time maintaining a slow, strong rhythm. Next he found and centered on his kick and finally he shifted to his breathing. Once he had established a comfortable cadence, he could let his mind go free.
Tonight, swimming was his meditation.
He touched the end of the pool and turned, his legs pushing off from the wall and propelling him well up the pool before he resumed his stroke.
For the first time in almost four years, there was that ripple of attraction toward a woman. The sort of attraction that skittered from physical to emotional and called out to his heart as it went by, asking if it would like to send a little piece along for the fairground ride.
The sort of attraction that grew into something that made you feel awestruck and sick on alternate heartbeats. The sort of attraction that would grow to a point where breathing became a secondary concern, because simply being with that person could sustain life.
Extreme heart sports. Wrap a bungee cord around the monster and hurl it off a bridge and it would bounce right back.
And there were already two reasons telling him he still had time to do the right thing and shut that reactor down. One being that little issue called Emma, and the other one being—oh, yeah—making the people you care about vulnerable .
Because Marlo doesn’t need more shit in her life.
Idiot.
And wasn’t that the whole point of coming to the U.S.? To do a job, alone, therefore not put anyone in danger?
Double idiot.
Regardless of the shutdown, it now appeared Marlo would know his entire story by mid-morning the following day. She would hear it from somebody else when it should have been him who told her.
With the loss of Emma, Adam thought he’d found his limit, and for four years he’d taken utmost care to ensure he’d never again put himself anywhere near that boundary. Never again allow anyone to own that much influence in his life.
He had to shut
He had headed into the bush, the wilderness, using rutted animal tracks, following streams and climbing high ridges. And he ran until the numbness went away and the raw hurt began. Ran until his bare legs and arms bled, torn by shrubby manuka bush and tātaramoa barbs, until, now physically broken, the tears that came covered every type of pain he knew. He mightn’t know why Vince had a need to ‘go bush’ but he certainly understood what he got from it.
On the days he had better control of his emotions, he would swim. Long ocean swims battling the sloppy sea chop or the rolling ocean swell. Battling the bad thoughts devouring his mind that were fueled by the merging of loss and guilt.
He had to be so sure of himself on the swimming days. Sure that sheer will would beat down his torment—the if-only replay that looped through his head. He needed the confidence that he would carry on, so he took the memory of Emma with him. In his mind, he positioned her off his left shoulder in the place she always swam when they did that together, so that when he lifted his head for a breath he could see she was okay. If she needed help he was in the right place to protect her, and they’d tackle the sea the way they had when she’d been alive.
Protect her. How pitiful, this conjuring up of Emma, this attempt to give himself an opportunity to save her. But he needed her phantom image, because in his soul he understood all it would take was a big suck in, a big breath of water instead of air and the pain would end.
Now he stood at the side of the pool, edgy, little jags of emotion awakened and firing through his body. He hauled in some focus and dived. Once he surfaced he started to swim, mentally working through a checklist of his form. He planned to be in the water about an hour, so he started concentrating on his stroke, making each one matter while at the same time maintaining a slow, strong rhythm. Next he found and centered on his kick and finally he shifted to his breathing. Once he had established a comfortable cadence, he could let his mind go free.
Tonight, swimming was his meditation.
He touched the end of the pool and turned, his legs pushing off from the wall and propelling him well up the pool before he resumed his stroke.
For the first time in almost four years, there was that ripple of attraction toward a woman. The sort of attraction that skittered from physical to emotional and called out to his heart as it went by, asking if it would like to send a little piece along for the fairground ride.
The sort of attraction that grew into something that made you feel awestruck and sick on alternate heartbeats. The sort of attraction that would grow to a point where breathing became a secondary concern, because simply being with that person could sustain life.
Extreme heart sports. Wrap a bungee cord around the monster and hurl it off a bridge and it would bounce right back.
And there were already two reasons telling him he still had time to do the right thing and shut that reactor down. One being that little issue called Emma, and the other one being—oh, yeah—making the people you care about vulnerable .
Because Marlo doesn’t need more shit in her life.
Idiot.
And wasn’t that the whole point of coming to the U.S.? To do a job, alone, therefore not put anyone in danger?
Double idiot.
Regardless of the shutdown, it now appeared Marlo would know his entire story by mid-morning the following day. She would hear it from somebody else when it should have been him who told her.
With the loss of Emma, Adam thought he’d found his limit, and for four years he’d taken utmost care to ensure he’d never again put himself anywhere near that boundary. Never again allow anyone to own that much influence in his life.
He had to shut
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