Free Dirty Secret: A Bad Boy Romance (Bluefield Bad Boys Book 3) by Tess Oliver Page B

place.” We reached the sand that was just wet enough to provide more solid footing, and we walked in the direction of the beach house. “What’s it like down there in middle earth? Is it everything the science fiction books say?”
    Dawson had one of those dreamy smiles, not big or toothy, just enough curl of his mouth to make sexy little creases form around his lips. “The only thing that is remotely science fiction is the machines that chew through the rock like it’s made of cake. Otherwise, it’s dark and it’s cold. Unless you’re really deep down. Then the heat of the earth’s core can warm the chambers up to a hundred plus.” He stared off ahead at the stretch of sand in front of us.
    The moon was playing chase with the waves. Its glow rolled along with crests until they reached the shore, where the moonlight disappeared and was swallowed up by the shadows of night.
    “Most of the time, you’re not thinking about it,” he continued, and it seemed it had been something he’d wanted to talk about, to get off his chest. “You just do your work and get to the end of the day. It’s the easiest way—not giving it much thought. But sometimes shit happens, a rock fall or explosion in one of the bleeder entries, and you’re reminded that there might be a day when that morning’s sunrise was the last you’ll ever see.”
    I reached for his hand, and his strong fingers curled around mine. I wasn’t completely sure what had prompted me to do it. It might have been his last few words and the raw somber sound of his deep voice when he spoke them. But, like on the plane, when I’d thrown my legs across his lap, I just wanted to be touching Dawson. He was most definitely the kind of guy you wanted to touch when he was near. His grip felt powerful, confident, protective. I liked it. I liked him, and I hadn’t thought that about many people lately. 
    I pushed my hand back and forth so that our arms swung together, like a couple walking casually on the beach. “What about Bluefield? What’s it like there?”
    His eyes looked darker under the moonlight as he peered over at me with a faint smile.
    “What?” I asked.
    “It’s nothing, except you keep asking questions about my dull-ass life when I should be asking you. You’re the one who is living the dream, traveling the world, hanging with the rich and famous.”
    The tide rolled in quickly. Dawson’s reflexes were faster than mine. He released my hand, scooped his arm around my waist and lifted me away from the frothy water. His arm lingered longer than necessary before he pulled it away.
    “Quick thinking.” I took hold of his hand again. “My life—” I thought about it. “The best, most memorable moments are like right now, when we’re not getting ready for a concert and we’re not working or doing press interviews or other appearances. Times like this, walking with a new friend on the beach as if none of that other stuff exists, those are the moments I live for. The rest is just a crazy-ass whirlwind of people and places. Sometimes it’s exciting or interesting, but most of the time, it’s just crazy.”
    “Then I will learn to be more satisfied with my dismal, average, everyday existence. What about your parents and your hometown?”
    A white shell glistened in the sand. I let go of his hand long enough to pick it up. The buried half was broken. I tossed it into the water. “I’m not really supposed to talk about my childhood.”
    “Why is that? Seems kind of hard to not ever talk about your time as a kid. That’s where most of the fun stuff happens. Isn’t it?”
    “Not for me.” I stared down at the sand as our feet pressed the wetness from it for a brief second with each step. The current had carved out a line that ran along the beach, separating the wet sand from the dry. Not ever talking about my childhood had caused all of it, the whole ugly string of memories that’d caked up like layers of dried cement in my chest. Dawson