Flirting With Forever by Kim Boykin

He followed the shoreline, losing himself in the rhythm of each steady stroke. His mind always cleared when he swam, nothing but him and the water. It was probably why he still swam. After what felt like a couple of miles, he picked up the pace to avoid being pushed and pulled by the undercurrent.
    The water wasn’t as clear as when he’d swum in the Caribbean or the lakes back home. He saw shadows of fish dart away from him, a stingray about the size of a Welcome mat.
    When he turned and headed back toward Tara’s house with the tide, his brain suddenly kicked in. He wondered if she was asleep, if she was waiting for him to come to her bed, or maybe she was in his. When he got back, maybe he’d just say screw the moratorium. If it was just sex, he’d still be able make sure the tour was a success and Tara got through the theater gigs. But he had a feeling it wouldn’t be just sex for either of them.
    He thought about his body surrounding hers, finally sliding into her. His long slow strokes turn choppy, and before he knew it, he was sprinting the last fifty meters. As he waded back to shore, his brain was screaming at him not to screw things up by rushing Tara. She’d been with the same guy forever, she’d been hurt. He’d made it clear he wanted her, but she would have to tell him when she was ready. He toweled off, shoved his feet into his flip flops and headed back to the house. Nothing on the itinerary today, but he needed to feel better so he scrolled through it just the same. With only twenty-four more days to go, it didn’t help much.
    When Jake came through the door, I snapped my laptop shut, a habit I’d gotten into a long time ago whenever I was writing and Jim came around. Don’t know why I did that. Maybe it was because Jim wasn’t interested in reading anything I wrote for so many years, it was my way of shutting him out.
    “Morning. Hiding something?” he teased, kissing me on the cheek. “Are you writing my boss to tell her you want another publicist?”
    “Yeah, wanna hear my email?” I opened my laptop and pretended to read from the screen. “Dear Jake’s Boss. I hope you’re well and Erin’s crushed foot is healing nicely. Couple of things: As a full-fledge diva, I have some demands. I’d like to trade up to a new publicist, get a better looking one, one that actually puts out.” He raised his eyebrows. “And taller, definitely taller. He should also be an exceptional kisser, or at least better than J—.” He cut off the last word, kissing the stuffing out of me, and then pulled back with that sexy smirk that said he knew he was a god. “Good morning, Jake,” came out in a long breathy sigh.
    “Something smells good.” He popped a shrimp in his mouth from the skillet on the stove and closed his eyes in approval. “Great. Love the spicy gravy stuff.” He took the lid off the pot on the stove.
    “And grits,” I laughed.
    “No.” He spooned over half of the shrimp mixture into a cereal bowl.
    “They’re stone ground. I made them just for you. Besides the Lowcountry is famous world wide for their shrimp and grits.”
    “And again. No.” He sat down at the bar, making an mmm sound. “God this is good.”
    “Come on, Jake.” After five or six bites he was scraping the bowl. “Just one grit.”
    “I’ll eat anything Southern you want me to try, but no grits. Christ, just the name. Grits. ” He shook his head. “Anything but that.”
    “Squirrel brains?”
    “I’m a big guy; it would take a shit load of squirrels, but yes.”
    “Fried pickles?”
    “Are not as bad as you think.”
    “Chitterlings.”
    “Done.”
    “Hog intestines.”
    “They’re the same thing as chitterlings. Is this a test?”
    I spooned some fluffy grits into a bowl, ladled a little of the shrimp over it, and gave Jake seconds before I sat on the barstool beside him.
    “But this? Really good,” he said, running his finger over the empty bowl.
    “Did you have a good swim?”
    “Yeah.