It's stupid. I know it is. Why am I even taking her there?

Even as the thought crosses my mind, my heart rate ticks up with anticipation.

As we pass Savannah and keep driving toward the ocean, my mind begins to clear like it always does when I head toward Tybee Island. I lower the driver’s side window a crack, letting the heavy air laced with salt seep into the SUV. Taking a deep breath, I hold the air in my lungs for several seconds before exhaling. Instantly, I feel better, lighter.

Beside me, Taylor is sleeping. Her face is so peaceful, so serene, I almost wish I could just keep on driving with her by my side. She needs to rest; she needs a break. I hope that seeing the Tybee Lighthouse, one of my favorite places to sit and think, will be energizing for her, too.

Crossing onto the island, the weight pressing down on my shoulders decreases, and the time constraints pulsing in my temples slow. It's ridiculous how close Tybee is to Ashby County and how, unless there's a beach party or a volleyball tournament or a group of people down for day drinking, we never use it. I can't remember the last time Jax or Den made their way out here. When Daisy was young, I used to take her every summer. But eventually, she lost interest unless she was coming with her friends to work on her tan.

It's nearly dusk by the time I park. Taylor shifts next to me, her nose wrinkling, and the softest sounding snore escapes her nose. She's adorable. So much so that I sit and stare at her for several moments, memorizing the lines of her face and the curve of her lips.

Reaching out, I cup her knee and give it a gentle shake.

"Taylor?"

Nothing.

"Taylor?"

"Mmm."

"We're here."

"Where?"

"The place I wanted to show you."

Her eyes flutter open, and she stares at me. Her eyes are glazed like she isn't sure if she's still dreaming or really wake. "Where's that?"

"Look." I point to the windshield, and she turns her head, a gasp catching in her throat.

Her skin and hair are bathed in the pinks and oranges of sunset. Her eyes are wide, remnants of sleep still clinging to them. "Is it real?"

I chuckle, sliding my hand up until it catches her fingers. "Very real."

She turns to me then, and a blush works its way up her cheeks. She ducks her head. "Sorry I fell asleep."

"I'm glad you got some rest. You need it."

"Do you come here often?" She tilts her head toward the windshield, where the lighthouse rises from the sea like a pillar of strength, a testament to history.

"When I need to think," I admit.

"What do you need to think about?"

"Lots of stuff." I shrug, but really, I need to figure out how the hell I'm going to pay the utility bills this month. Dad’s comment about keeping the lights on struck a nerve, which I’m sure is why he said it. Between his phone call and Texas Ink’s message about the poker guy not paying up, I’m growing antsy, sensing that something is coming but not able to figure out what the something is.

"It's beautiful. The pinks and purples. The oranges and yellows. I haven’t been here in ages."

"It's something," I agree, squeezing her fingers in mine. "Are you up for a short walk? Grab an ice cream?"

She nods, beaming, as if I just asked her to accompany me to Paris, on a private plane. "I'd love to."

"Okay." I drop her fingers, and we both get out of the SUV, meeting at the back.

We begin to walk, my scuffed sneakers kicking at stray pebbles. Beside me, Taylor moves slowly, her steps small and cautious. Instead of watching her feet, she keeps her face turned upward like she’s telling the sky a secret. She's different than any woman I've ever met, and most of the time, I'm not sure what to do with the feelings surging through me when I'm around her.

"So, how's it going?" She bumps her shoulder against my arm playfully. I’m glad to see her energy is back and she seems much better than she did just hours before.

"It's going," I admit, thinking about all the hours I need to log this week at Cork’s if I’m going to make our bill payments on time. Den’s been working more as well and between the two of us, we’re barely covering basic expenses. I know if we let on how tight things are to Jax, he’d want to pitch in but we both agreed it’s not fair to him when he and Evie are moving to San Antonio. "What about you?"

She sighs next to me. "Can I tell you a secret?"

I almost trip at her words, suddenly nervous where this conversation is leading. "Sure. Just nothing that will land me in a prison cell," I joke but really, I could end up there all on my own.

She smacks my arm lightly, and the usual jolt that consumes me at her touch zips through my limbs, causing my blood to heat up. "It's not particularly scandalous."

"Oh, well, now I'm not so sure if I'm interested."

She laughs next to me, tucking her hair behind her ears and dipping her head.

"I'm kidding. Tell me." I run my fingertips down the inside of her wrist until I can clutch her fingers in mine. I don't know what it is about Taylor, but I want her to always feel secure and reassured in my presence. I want her to always be relaxed and herself when she's with me. Seeing the tiredness that hugs her irises, the bluish half-moons pressed under her eyelashes, causes something in my chest to feel funny. The protectiveness I've always felt toward women, any woman, triples when I'm around her.

“I’m thinking of making a career change.”

“A career-change? Over the whole modeling thing?” A lump forms in my throat as I automatically worry what role the accident played in her new life plan.

She shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. I love modeling and I’ve done it for a long time and my career was really starting to take off when everything happened.” She gestures toward her foot and I wince. “But now, I’m just not so sure. The accident really made me think. Modeling isn’t something I can do forever anyway, and I don’t have a back-up plan or something else in place that I would do professionally.”

I nod, understanding her point. I guess modeling isn’t really a forever career choice. But then again, neither is MC gofer. Or server at Cork’s Wine Bar. What the hell is my plan going forward? What am I going to do professionally for the rest of my life? “What are you thinking?” I ask her instead of focusing on my lack of life goals.

"I want to be a teacher," she whispers, and I have to lean closer to catch the words.

"A teacher?" I repeat, turning toward her. I can totally see it. Taylor would be an amazing teacher. Just seeing the way she is with Marco and Ria, how she cares about them, engages them, I can tell working with kids is a passion for her. "You would be an incredible teacher," I tell her honestly.

She colors from my praise, and I tug her fingers gently. This woman has her photo shown to millions of people through magazine ads and billboards and in gossip columns. She's a complete attention grabber. And yet, she's so modest and humble. Everything she does surprises me.

"You think so?"

"Are you kidding me? With the way you love reading and literature? With how much you care about Ria and Marco and the other kids at Big Brothers and Big Sisters? I would say teaching could be your natural calling.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yeah.”

"I'd have to go back to school."

"So? Lots of people do career changes that cross over to new industries and need to have new degrees or certification in order to do them. Evie majored in psychology but wants to be a physical therapist. She’s starting over again at Baylor in the fall."

Taylor nods. “I started looking into a few programs in Georgia.”

“That’s great.”

“Thanks.” She says shyly, shaking her head. “It’s weird, you know? I haven’t told anyone else about this, not even Ria. But for some reason, I felt like you wouldn’t judge me for it.”

“Why would anyone judge you for following a new passion? For making sure you have a way to support yourself in the future?”

She shrugs, her eyes looking into the distance, unfocused, as if her mind is somewhere else.

"Just for the record, I would love it if you were my teacher.”

She snorts.

"At any age. At every age."

The sound of her laughter is warm and genuine. "Stop." She pulls my hand, and I step toward her.

"You would want to teach literature?" I guess.

She nods. "High school."

"Ah, forget it. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is going to sign up for your class if it's high school."

She rolls her eyes at me.

"You should do it," I tell her, bringing her closer so I can tuck her frame under my arm. "You should do whatever it is that's going to make you feel excited and inspired and eager to go to work each day. If that's still modeling, cool. If it's something else, then it's something else. You don’t have to do one thing forever.”

"We’ll see what happens. What about you?" she asks.

"What about me?"

"What makes you excited and inspired and eager?"

I shake my head, a million thoughts ping-ponging around my brain. A long time ago, I thought I'd play baseball professionally, but that thought quickly deteriorated when it became clear that someone had to raise Daisy. Lucky for me, an injury to my rotator cuff made a full college scholarship unlikely, which eased my disappointment. By then, I sort of fell into the work Dad and the MC set up for me, and I never really gave my future too much consideration. But if I could do anything, be anyone, what would I do? What is the type of career I would want to pursue?

Taylor looks at me quizzically, waiting for a response.

The ice cream shop comes into view, saving me from answering, and I hold the door open in my best gentlemanly manner. "After you, Ms. Clarke."