ELLIOT

I saw her sitting on the rocks above the cove. It sucked the air out of my lungs, causing me to stumble. She was sitting right there, a stone’s throw away from me. At least I think it was her.

Emily … the woman I had tried to purge from my soul for the last seven years.

The woman who was the lover in every book I had written since the day I met her. The woman who invaded my mind, be it day and night.

Emily … my muse.

It had been seven agonizing years since I walked away from her.

Seven years of beating myself up and wondering.

Seven years of wishing I could have found a way to make her see how much I loved her.

Seven years of hoping she still thought about me.

Seven years of living hell.

For a moment I thought she spotted me. My heart stopped for a second, then it began to pound in my ears. It drowned out the sound of the surf behind me. The chatter around me ceased. For one single moment I thought our eyes met, but she moved on. She didn’t notice me. I wanted to find a hidden spot where I could stand and watch her, take in every inch of her and not have her see me. I knew this cove, there was nowhere to hide and still have an unobstructed view of her. So I did what I always do, I ran … I kept running along the surf. Like I had done for the last seven years. I just kept running.

I ran all the way to my house at the other end of the beach. Slamming the door behind me, I bent over, grabbing my thighs, and my breathing came in ragged gulps as I tried to suck in air. Just breathe, I chanted to myself. Breathe.

My thoughts began to race, doubt knocking at me. Was it really Emily? Or did she have a twin out there who just happened to be in La Jolla? Was she visiting someone?

I hadn’t seen her in a long time, except in my dreams. She looked so different and yet completely the same. I wanted to see her up close and guide my fingers over her face. To inhale the scent of her and tattoo it into my brain. She was the most beautiful woman God ever created. Emily was perfection in every sense of the word. She was sunlight and a gentle rain. She was feisty and passionate and angry. She had invaded my thoughts for seven years and now she was here. At least I thought it was her.

I wanted to go into town and wander about, to see for sure. I felt like a stalker, wanting to sneak behind doorways, watching for her.

My emotions were running rampant. Up and down and all over the place. I kept going back to the last time I held her in my arms.

I didn’t even know what really happened anymore. I was with her one moment, and then, just like that, I was gone. I walked out of her life. I was terrified I would’ve hurt her if I’d stayed. My emotions overruled my common sense when I was with her; I had no control. She drove me to the edge of insanity, to the point I couldn’t think or reason. I acted impulsively, like I was on drugs. She was a drug to me.

Her passion combined with her anger at life made her whole body vibrate at moments. She was a time bomb just waiting to detonate, and I didn’t want to be the person to set her off. I loved her too much to be the reason she destroyed herself.

So I walked away … and I waited.

Days became months, then became years. I figured she went on with her life, forgetting about me … about us. I thought maybe I did too, but I was wrong.

Catching a glimpse of her proved just how wrong I was. Her face was implanted in my heart and my mind. It kept invading my thoughts, appearing more often as the years scrolled by.

Maybe it was the sign I needed to do something, I needed to find her and see once and for all if she had really forgotten me, if she had moved on. Only then could I ever be free of her.

I hit the shower, rinsing away the sand and sweat, while making a plan of how I could stroll around town and maybe, just maybe, get a glimpse of her, make sure it really was my Emily. Damn, I hadn’t acted like this since I was a teenager in heat over some girl.

I knew she was on Facebook because I occasionally looked at her page. She didn’t post much, just an occasional photograph or two. Most of them were a group of friends hiking or out for a happy hour.

Lately pictures of a dog had appeared. She seemed to take a lot of scenic photography too. I always thought she would write more. She was a damn good editor but she was wasting time with that. She was a born writer.

She used to constantly make up stories of people we would see when we were out and about, who they were and the crazy things they might have done. We could spend hours going back and forth describing in detail a life of some stranger we saw on the street. I hoped to God that she still did that. Her imagination was one of the many things I adored about her.

Throwing on jeans and a T-shirt I picked from a pile of clothes in the corner and grabbing a ball cap to shield my face, I dug out my shades and headed into town. It was early so I figured I’d check the cafes first.

I couldn’t believe I was stalking a woman like some nut job. I had it bad, really, really bad. In fact, I think I had it worse than the characters I wrote about in my mysteries.

Man stalked woman until he went insane and got committed to a facility from hell. Maybe, if I couldn’t find her, I would have to write a storyline about my actions today. My obsession with Emily Golden had generated a number of bestsellers already.

The central square in La Jolla was busy with people ambling about, lots of tourists, and of course, the locals who had made this little beach town their home.

The outside cafe tables were filled with people eating, so I wandered about, browsing the shop windows across the street. I didn’t see her anywhere.

Jane’s Cafe had a line coming out the door with patrons waiting for their orders. I kind of lingered just across from there, partially hidden in a doorway of a shirt shack. I nodded at the owner working behind the desk. Most of the locals knew me so I wasn’t worried that I would stick out loitering in doorways.

I glanced briefly up and down the street and then back at the cafe.

I saw her just as she stepped outside with another woman. They snagged a table just as some people were leaving. From where I was partially hidden, I heard her start laughing at something her friend said. It was her, my Emily. I would know her laugh anywhere. My mind filled with memories again. I had loved to make her laugh.

The first time I ever laid eyes on Emily Golden she was laughing. Not a giggle or a quiet, delicate sort of laugh, it was a loud, boisterous, stop-the-room kind of laugh. A laugh that made you turn your head and take notice, made you want to know what made her laugh like that.

I spoke at a writer’s workshop in Phoenix and she was part of a group attending. I was gathering up my papers, trying to get organized, when a peal of beautiful laughter startled me. It was the kind of laughter that rang out like music, like a song you immediately needed to search out the source because it made your heart want to join in on the music.

She was standing with a small group of people just inside the door next to a table set up with coffee and water. The first thing I noticed, besides her laugh, was her smile. She had the smile of a mischievous imp full of expression. Her whole face lit up, and those eyes, they sparkled so bright I could see them across the room. Long, dark, wild curls cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Her legs, encased in a pair of leggings, were miles long. She was a magnet drawing me toward her. I couldn’t break my gaze away. Her body moved so animatedly as she talked. Shifting her weight from one leg to another and moving her arms, nodding her head, it was almost like a dance.

I wanted to know who she was. I had this incredible desire to run my fingers through that mass of curls and do something, anything to make her laugh again. I wanted to know her name. I wanted to know everything about this woman.

Emily and her friend stood up from their table, jolting me out of my trip down memory lane. I watched them dispose of their breakfast and glance around the courtyard. Emily pointed to a store next to them and headed toward the entrance, soon disappearing from sight.

I slowly walked back toward the beach and my home. I needed to know if it was really Emily and I had my answer.

My Emily was in La Jolla. I was able to look at her for a little while and I got to hear her laugh again. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face for anything.

I knew if I hung around too long I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from approaching her. By doing so I would also have to take the chance that the fantasies I’d held onto over the last seven years were exactly that, fantasies. For all I knew, Emily was happily married with a couple of kids by now, off on a girls’ weekend to escape her crazy home life.

I wasn’t ready to face that yet. I needed more information. I needed to figure out where she was staying and with whom. I needed to work through this damn fear that made me stop myself from actually walking up to her and saying hello. What was the worst that could happen?

I was a strong, successful man with women just begging to be with me. I could do this without pulling Emily into my arms and begging her to come back to me. Admit that I still loved her and dreamed of her every single day. I still had some willpower…

Hell … when it came to Emily, I was a spineless sap with no willpower at all.

I had to do something. I needed to convince myself that anything was possible. To be able to look into her eyes and know that she would look back.

Maybe she would actually see me.

Maybe she would think of me.

Maybe she would remember.

And maybe she still loved me too.

I just needed a day or two to gather my courage once and for all.