Amplify Excerpt

We walk into the kitchen just as the tea kettle begins to whistle.

“Perfect timing.”

He nods once and walks to the stove, turning off the burner. He pushes down the lever for the toaster and prepares my cup of tea. I head over to the little alcove rather than the table and sit on the window seat. I’d love to curl up here with a book… or just look out the window.

The ocean is angry today, the waves white-capping and frothing with fury. I wonder what fueled its anger today. I know all about anger. Anger is what’s kept me going the past twelve years. Without it, I’d have given up. Well, in truth, I did give up for a little while…until I found that anger.

Then I was able to focus and do what needed to be done. Just get through life until I could find my parents’ killers. I haven’t forgotten and as much as my parents tell me I should let it go while I dream, I can’t. Someone took them from me, took their lives so senselessly, so brutally, and then walked away without a thought. I grind my teeth and watch as a bird lands on the sand, picking at a dead fish. Irony, or my parents with a message?

“Here we go,” Cage says and sets a tray next to me. He takes a seat on the other side of the window seat, crossing his legs like me and I grin. He’s huge… get your mind out of the gutter. I mean overall, not his naughty bits, but in truth that’s nicely proportioned.
I nibble on a piece of toast, looking at him with his black-rimmed glasses on, reading the newspaper. God, he’s so incredibly sexy. The glasses…oh, I’d love to get him under me while he’s wearing those.

“What?” he asks when he catches me staring.

I take a sip of my tea. Lemony and sweet just the way I like it.

“How tall are you, exactly?”

He smirks. “Six-four.”

I nod. “And how much do you weigh?”

“Two-fifty-six.”

I raise my brows. “Nothing but muscle.”

He shrugs a shoulder.

“You have to know that’s incredibly hot,” I say without thinking.

When he grins, I feel the blush staining my cheeks.

“It doesn’t matter what I think or know,” he replies, leaning forward running a fingertip over my flushed cheek.

“What matters then?” Generally, I only care what I think about myself, my body. I’m not really into the whole making myself look how society and men want you to look—not since I gave up full-time modeling.

“What matters,” he tells me, sipping his tea, “is what you think.”