“Here,” he says, touching the corner of my eye, his focus absolute. “Ocean. Sky and sea. Smith Falls. Great…Blue Hole.” I snort, and his lips curl into a smile, but his gaze never wavers. His thumb travels down, brushing over my top lip. My breath hitches. “Sails,” he says, tracing the two arches of my lip. “Birds in flight. Palaces and…windmills.”
