Read Until We Meet Again for Free Online Page A

vanishes on my tongue. He gives his hair a quick rub with
his towel, giving it that perfectly sexy, tousled look. Then he
smiles, putting the final seal on my tongue-tied state.
“Did you come for a swim?” he asks. “The water’s excellent.”
“Uh, no. I was…brooding again, I guess.”
“Seems to be a favorite pastime of yours. What burdens you
so, Cassandra?”
I roll my eyes. “I told you already.”
“That’s right,” he says, pointing. “The subtle anguish of
life.”
I nod, though I’m surprised he remembered. “Something
like that.”
“I hoped you were simply trying to get a laugh out of me.”
Lawrence looks into my eyes, his gaze piercing. “I’d be sad to
know you truly are unhappy.”
My stomach flutters. I look away from him. “Don’t worry.
I’ll live.”
“You know, brooding can only get you so far. You really ought
to try a swim. The ocean’s good for the soul.”
“I’m okay just looking at it.”
Lawrence turns a glance to the waves beyond, sparkling in the
golden evening sun. “True. It’s undeniably lovely. The second
most beautiful thing to look at on this beach.”
“Oh gosh. You really are a player.”
“I’m a man bound by truth.” He drapes the towel around his
neck. Then he lifts his chin, as if trying to remember something.
“Of truth and sea, her eyes become
Bound, endless in the vast beyond.
And morning starlight’s milky shine
Reverberates her soul in mine.”
I bite back what certainly must be a dopey grin. I’m a sucker
for a boy who recites poetry. “Is that…Byron?” I ask, uncertain.
Lawrence laughs. “No, though I’m quite flattered. That’s
my poetry.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your poetry? As in, you wrote it?”
“Tried to.” When I offer nothing more than skeptical silence,
Lawrence says, “Is it really so hard to believe?”
This information still needs processing. After a restless three
days trying very hard not to think about Lawrence, seeing him
again, shirtless and reciting poetry, is seriously throwing me for a
loop. I start to walk along the shoreline. He keeps pace beside me.
“Well,” I say carefully. “You don’t meet many guys that write
poetry. And those that do are…” I start to say “not as hot as
you,” but thankfully stop myself.
“Are what?” Lawrence asks. “Drunks?”
“Not exactly the word I was looking for.”
“I’m not. Just so you know.”
I smirk. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
We walk in comfortable silence. Lawrence bends his head a
little to meet my gaze. “So, what did you think? Of my poetry,
I mean. Did you like it?”
“Not bad.” This downplayed response takes some effort.
“I’ll accept that.” Judging by his smile and the way he keeps
his eyes on me, I can’t help but feel that he’s well aware the
effect he has.
“Don’t you have a shirt or something?” I ask, trying my best
not to look at him.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“No,” I say with an incredulous laugh that comes across as
trying way too hard to sound incredulous. Lawrence holds a
smile, and I feel my face flush. Get on your game, Cass. This
is ridiculous.
Lawrence walks up the beach and grabs a white linen shirt
that had been hanging on the bushes. He pulls it over his head
and jogs back to me. I’m ready for him.
“So,” I say, as he comes to my side, “I assume you write poetry
to help convince ditzy blonds that you’re deep and interesting,
and then they’ll want to sleep with you.”
Lawrence presses a hand over his heart. “She strikes to kill!”
“I’m calling it as I see it.”
“Well, in this case, you happen to be wrong.”
“I don’t think I am. I’ve got you pegged.”
“Not quite.” The corners of Lawrence’s smile fade. That
distant, pensive look returns. “Actually, I’ve never shared my
poetry with anyone else. Other than my father. And he made it
quite clear how useless he thought it was.”
This slows my pace. If Lawrence is playing me,