Just for Now. Sea Breeze (Series). Book 4. Abbi Glines Author Kirby Heyborne Narrator (). cover image of Rush Too Far. Forever Too Far pdfTo download now please click the link Torn between his love for his family and his love for Blaire, Rush has to find a. Up in Flames (Rosemary Beach 13) - Abbi Glines - dokument [*.pdf] ALSO BY ABBI Too Far Twisted Perfection Simple Perfection Take a Chance Rush Too.
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Just when Blaire allowed herself to fall for her stepbrother, Rush, he revealed a life-altering Rush Too Far - A Rosemary Beach Novel ebook by Abbi Glines. Abbi Glines (Abigail Glines) (born 16 April ) is an American New York Times , USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling novelist. Her new-adult fiction titled Fallen Too Far was self-published on eBook and paperback in The remaining of the 'Too Far' series, Never Too Far and Forever Too Far Fallen Too Far () (Blaire Wynn/Rush Finlay); Never Too Far (). Abbi Glines - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online. 16/11/ Goodreads | Abbi Glines (Author of Fallen Too Far) More fans Abbi is .. I personally loved your forver series and absolutely adored Rush and Blare.
By a girl. My angel. A beautiful, strong, fierce, loyal angel who entered my life in a pickup truck, carrying a gun. We all know and love Rush Finlay. No matter how much he may want her. The more he gets to know her, spends time with her, the more he wants. Rush was a man who was torn.
Torn between his family, and the woman he was starting to fall for. Nan as terrible as she may be is one of those people.
It was nice to see that he really did have a lot of internal conflict about how things were going with Blaire. The coconut trees were hard to climb, so limb-free and tall, and Grandmama gave Nonso a long stick and showed him how to nudge the padded pods down.
Grandmama cracked the coconuts against a stone, carefully so the watery milk stayed in the lower piece, a jagged cup. Everybody got a sip of the wind-cooled milk, even the children from down the street who came to play, and Grandmama presided over the sipping ritual to make sure Nonso went first. It was the summer you found the slough of a snake on the lawn, unbroken and fine like see-through stockings, and Grandmama told you the snake was called the echi eteka — tomorrow is too far.
It was, however, the summer you got lice, and you and Dozie dug through your thick hair to find the tiny black insects and squash them against your fingernails and laugh at the tart sound of their blood-filled bellies bursting. It was the summer you discovered that the strongest of your emotions developed in direct proportion to one another: that your hate for your brother Nonso grew so much you felt it squeezing your nostrils while your love for your cousin Dozie ballooned and wrapped around your skin.
It was the summer you watched a mango tree crack in two near-perfect halves during a thunderstorm, the kind when the lightning cut fiery lines through the sky.
It was the summer Nonso died. Grandmama did not call it summer. Nobody did in Nigeria. It was August, nestled between the rainy season and the dry season, when it could either pour all day, silver rain splashing on to the veranda where you and Nonso and Dozie sat and slapped away mosquitoes and ate roast corn, or the sun could be blinding and you would float in the water tank Grandmama had sawed in half, a makeshift pool.
Grandmama screamed at him — at his limp body — saying i laputago m, that he had betrayed her, asking him who would carry on the Nnabuisi name now, who would protect the family lineage? The neighbours came over when they heard her. Madness lurked in her eyes.
You knew Grandmama had never liked your mother, and would not like her even if she was Nigerian, even if she had not been an American. You heard Grandmama say this some summers before to a neighbour — at least the woman gave me one grandson. But watching Grandmama on the phone, you realised that for the first time, and for the last time, she and your mother were united, although they did not know it.
You were sure your mother had the same red madness in her eyes.
When you talked to your mother, her voice echoed in a way it had never done all the years before that you and Nonso spent summers with Grandmama. Are you all right?
She kept asking you. She sounded fearful, as though she suspected that you were all right. You played with the phone wire and said little.
She said she would send word to your father, although he was somewhere in the woods where there were no phones or radios. She did not say exactly where he was but you thought it was Peru or maybe Cuba, you knew it was a four-letter country with Spanish-speakers attending a Black Arts festival.
It made you think of her normal laugh, a hohoho laugh that started deep inside her belly and did not soften as it came up and did not suit her willowy body. Most times you pressed your palms to your ears to keep the sound out, and kept your palms pressed to your ears even when she came into your room to say goodnight, darling, sleep well.
She never left your room with that laugh. He belonged to this hard earth that had failed to absorb the shock of his fall. He belonged to the trees here, one of which had let go of him. It has been thirteen years and the trees in the yard look unchanged, they still reach out and hug each other, still cast umbrella shadows over the yard. But everything else seems smaller: the house, the garden at the back, the water tank copper-coloured from rust.
The grave is covered with a thin coat of cement, and you stand next to it and picture it in ten years time, tangled weeds covering the cement, choking the grave.
Dozie is watching you, and you wonder if he wants to see you cry. You want to tell him that would be a bit of a stretch, crying now. He did not ask about your father and you wondered if it was because he knew where your father was.
The last time you heard from your father, two years ago, when he sent you a card after your graduation, he was in Mali.
You move towards the avocado tree. Dozie is still watching you and you look at him and try to remember the love that used to clog you up. There is a gentle sorrow in the lines across his forehead, a humility in the way he stands with his arms by his sides. You suddenly wonder if he longed too, like you did.
You never knew what was beneath his quiet smile, beneath the times he would sit so still that the fruit flies perched on his arms, beneath the pictures he gave you and the birds he kept in a cardboard cage, petting them until they died. You wonder what he felt about being the wrong grandson, the one who did not bear the Nnabuisi name. When he called you in Virginia a month ago to tell you that Grandmama had died, you had remained silent on the phone for so long he hung up and called back, thinking the line had cut off.
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