Happy Thanksgiving--hope this holds you until Monday!

Okay. This is the rest of Chapter 15--I think. I'm going to add a chat with Kim next. That will either start a new chapter or finish this one.

I just found out today that Leave a Mark Auctions is featuring the marked-up, hardcover, first edition of TAKEN BY STORM that I donated over the Thanksgiving holiday. You've got until Monday, November 29th to bid. Proceeds go to buy books for kids in need. It would be a very cool Christmas present for a Michael/Leesie fan don't you think? You might just want to send a link to it to your special someone who is searching for the perfect present. Or treat yourself.


Here's what you've been waiting for--Michael and his wetsuit. The middle still needs work, but you get the picture.

Have a great Thanksgiving. Those of you outside the U.S., I'm sorry. It doesn't seem fair to leave you with no posts, and you don't even get a holiday.

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

Michael takes my hand

and helps me down

into the boat—other

passengers clear a lane

for me like I’m royalty.

His princess—with my island

scarf wound round my head

and my old swimsuit giving

me away. Nothing to see here,

people. Move along.

I trip a little so I can fall

against Michael’s bare chest.

He gives me a squeeze

and a fat lady yells,

“Hold it,” and snaps our picture.

He lines up his students

along one side of the boat,

sits across from them

and gets down to business.

I sit off to the side

and watch him teach,

watch the muscles in his shoulders

and back subtly ripple when

he stands to reach his wetsuit.

The boat putters a few hundred

feet from the dock while Michael

coats himself in neoprene.

All black—wrapping him tight.

I miss his golden skin, but

can’t deny he devastates

exponentially more wetsuited.

He hovers over me.

“We won’t be down long.”

I slip my right hand out of its sling

and rub it along his shoulder and arm

while the rest of the women

watch their prince. “It’s cool,”

I whisper. “I’ll help Cooper.”

Sun burnt, sandy-haired, smiling

Captain Cooper lies on a bench

and follows the one lonely cloud

crossing the sky as he tells me about

Canada and snowdrifts that

don’t melt until April.

“I know snow.” I had him a slice

of the melon I chopped for the break.

“Great up driving in it.”

“Cool. Where?”

“Washington.”

“State?”

I nod and pitch a melon rind

over the side.

“When you going back?”

My face pulls into a frown.

“Leave here?” My glance

indicates the paradise

of sparkling blue we float in.

“Are you kidding?”

“You can’t stay forever.”

“Why not?”

“Visa runs out.”

“That sucks.”

“Not for me.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I flick a piece of melon

at him and stick my tongue out,

wander to the back of the boat,

try to see what’s going on down under.

I’ve never been so eager to get

in the water, sink into Michael’s

kingdom, obey his every command,

trust him with my life

like fat lady and friends.

Cooper hands me a mask.

“Care for a swim?”

He tapes my cast in bag,

jams fins on my feet,

and comes along so I don’t

drown. “He’s over there.”

He points to bubbles

percolating on the surface.

I swim to them, mask down,

blowing too hard through

my snorkel until

Michael comes into view.

Perfect.

Except I’m here.

He’s there.

Gotta change that up.

Soon.

But today, this moment

of jeweled wonder floating

in pure clear ocean

I can watch, wait

and love him.