“Romeo and Juliet. Bonnie and Clyde. That’s our kind of love story, baby. That’s who we are. That’s our destiny.” June Randall laughed as she said the words aloud, brushing her strawberry blond hair back over her shoulders and kicking the beach sand between her toes.
Elliot Lefavre—she called him “Ell” because it was simpler than saying his whole name every time she wanted to get his attention, and because it was uniquely her way of calling him—brushed back his own hair in reaction to her motion. His was shaved on the sides and long on the top, slicked back usually, though not here, in beachfront paradise. Here it was the sheen of the Atlantic’s waters still shining in his hair from when they’d gone for a little swim just a few minutes earlier.
The sea salt felt sticky on June’s freckled skin, drying as it was in the warm air. Florida in March felt a lot better than Ohio, where she was from. “How is this compared to Nevada?” she asked, moving the conversation along as her last comment hadn’t elicited the response she was looking for.
“Hotter there,” Ell said, looking darkly pensive. “The air’s drier.” He sniffed, like he was taking stock of the environmental conditions around him. He probably was, she knew by experience.
