103? Who-hoo! Hope you love the rest of Chapter 18

Whoa. Look at that! We broke a hundred over the weekend. Thanks, everybody for spreading the word. Thanks for all the comments, too. Keep them coming. Remember, every one means another entry in the big giveaway at the end of the book.

I got some more good news. Thanks to all of you, UNBROKEN CONNECTION and SING ME TO SLEEP both received enough nominations to become official Whitney Award Nominees. Now it's up to the judges to decide if they are good enough to be finalists. I'll let you know if I get good news.

Thanks for all the comments over the weekend. I'm glad you liked that last scene in Michael's POV. I just felt it worked better that way.

So, here, to brighten up your Monday is a mesmerizing (well, I intend it to be mesmerizing someday) diving scene. Losing my editor and having Razorbill reject Michael and Leesie's continued journey was painful, but here is a silver lining. I don't have to fight with anyone every time I want to include a diving scene. My editor--probably for the best--made me cut most of the gazillion dive scenes I wrote for TAKEN BY STORM. I had to fight for the scenes we left in and heavily revise them to make them more relevant.

I've learned not to overload the story with them, but here and there, I think they can be wonderfully romantic. So here's my cure for Monday Moodiness. Enjoy.

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

POEM # ??,

Water closes over my head.

My pulse rate triples.

Michael, his face inches

from mine as we sink

together, motions slow,

take it slow, slow, slow.

I swallow, and my ears pop

like we practiced yesterday

in the pool, swallow again.

No pinching my nose and blowing

like I learned with him back

in SLC in that pretty hotel pool—

he’s worried about pressure

on my weakened nose.

To avoid strain on my newly

healed collarbone, Michael

geared me up in the water,

kicking tanks and weights to where

I floated and gently wrapping me

in the complex web of equipment.

He motions, Okay?

I nod—remember to return

his signal, swallow again

and bump my leg into his

on purpose. 

Private lesson today.

No other students.

Just him and me, coral

and aqua water. Stray fish

staring at me like I’m an alien.

Alex with her students stir

up the sand on the other side

of the boat.

I’m in a new world with

Michael—his world

where my heart races

and I want to kick free

and swim for blue skies,

his world where his bubbles

breaking around me calm

my soul enough to pass off

skills kneeling in the sand,

wetsuited knees touching,

gauges checked, masks cleared,

air supply recovered, buddy

breathing.

Buoyancy balanced, he

leads me on a swim around

that wipes away the last wisps

of fear with wonder.

Is this really just under the surface?

Or did he transport me?

Am I on the moon? Mars? Venus?

A purplish world where

large flat fans screen the water

in lazy rhythm, fantastical formations

top every choral head.

A kingdom of tiny bright subjects

whiz in and out of their intricate

castles. Yellow. Blue. Black. Orange.

Vivid in tubular rays descending

from our own bright sun,

revealing their hidden playground.

Too soon we’re on the surface.

Too soon Michael unsnaps my B.C.

and unsnugs the Velcro cumber bun.

Too soon he boosts me back into the boat.

Too soon he reads the delight

in my face.

“Can we go again?”

I’m dying for another taste

of this mystery he loves so much.

He crushes me close, wipes a tear

from his eye before it can fall.

“Sure, babe.” He whispers,

“I love you.”

I blink, sniff, and manage to say,

“I know,” before his lips

take my breath away.