WHERE
SEA MEETS SKY
KARINA
HALLE
A new adult novel that
perfectly captures the existential angst of your early twenties with raw wit,
fresh insight, and true feeling from a critically adored USA TODAY bestselling
author.
Title: Where Sea Meets Sky
Author: Karina Halle
Synopsis: Joshua Miles has spent his early twenties spinning his wheels. Working dead-end jobs and living at home has left him exhausted and uninspired, with little energy to pursue his passion for graphic art. Until he meets Gemma Henare, a vivacious out-of-towner from New Zealand. What begins as a one-night stand soon becomes a turning point for Josh. He can’t get Gemma out of his head, even after she has left for home, and finds himself throwing caution to the wind for the first time in his life. It’s not long before Josh is headed to New Zealand with only a backpack, some cash, and Gemma’s name to go on. But when he finally tracks her down, he finds his adventure is only just beginning. Equally infatuated, Gemma leads him on a whirlwind tour across the beautiful country, opening Josh up to life, lust, love, and all the messy heartache in between. Because, when love drags you somewhere, it might never let go—even when you know you have to say goodbye.
About the Author
Karina Halle is the New York Times bestselling author
of Where Sea Meets Sky, The Pact,Love in English,
and other wild and romantic reads. A former travel writer and music journalist,
she lives on an island off the coast of British Columbia with her husband and
her rescue pup, where she drinks a lot of wine, hikes a lot of trails, and
devours a lot of books.
Find Karina Online
Website: authorkarinahalle.com
Twitter: @metalblonde
Instagram: @authorhalle
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Don’t miss Karina’s next book, RACING THE SUN, on sale July 28th!
EXCERPT:
We motor away from the mountains and toward
the cloud-filtered sunshine and rolling brown hills of the east. Lake Tekapo
seems to be a popular stop, and as we get closer I can see why. The lake is
even bluer than Pukaki was and the town along the banks is a pleasing slice of
civilization.
But
we don’t stop there like I thought we would. Gemma keeps driving until we come
to a turn-off and then she’s gunning it toward the lake. On one side of us the
road curves along pine trees and holiday homes; on the other there is a stream
and a picturesque stone church surrounded by snap-happy tour bus groups.
At
a gravel lot at the very end, not far from the shore, she angrily slams Mr.
Orange into park and jumps out of the bus. Instinctively I do the same, jumping
out after her.
As
I stand there watching, I know the memory is being ingrained into my head. The
van is still running and “Comfortably Numb” is blaring from the speakers as
Gemma strips down to her underwear and runs to the edge of the lake. She’s
barefoot and she doesn’t even slip on the rocks as she goes. She’s running from
something, she’s running to something. The water will be ice cold.
It’s
just what she wants. She wants to be numb.
I’ve
listened to this album enough damn times now to know that “Run Like Hell” will
play soon. So I do. I run like hell toward her. I leave Amber in the back of
Mr. Orange, puttering on Lake Tekapo’s shore, and I’m sprinting toward the
water, unwilling to let her out of my sight.
She’s already splashing into the water,
like a mermaid returning to a kingdom of blue milk. If the cold is shocking
her, she doesn’t show it, it doesn’t slow her down. The lake splashes around
her in Technicolor brilliance, her darkly tanned skin shimmering from the
reflection.
In
seconds she is diving under and I hold my breath as my legs and blood pump me
forward. I’m bizarrely, acutely, aware that she might not come up again. I
think about what she told me, huddled in my rain jacket. I think I ache for
things I may never get. I long for purpose, for life and yet sometimes I think
I’m too afraid to live.
My
fear is in not living.
We
need to meet in the middle.
So
I go into the lake after her. I’m stripped down to my boxers and T-shirt, my
dusty jeans and flip-flops discarded somewhere between me and the bus, in a
patch of purple and pink foxgloves.
It’s
so cold I think I’m going to die. My lips open to yell, “Fuck me!” but my mouth
is more intent on chattering my teeth together. Each step stabs stones into the
soles of my feet and jagged knives of ice water into my legs until the
feeling—all feeling—subsides.
I’m
breathless, surrounded by ice blue, a color I’ve created myself when I’ve
touched too much eggshell into too little cerulean. The shores are granite, a
soft warm grey, peppered by the unimaginable greens and pinks of foxglove and
whatever plants happen to spring up in this country. I’m swimming in a
painting, numb, and I’m going for her, the bronze mermaid who wants to swim
forever.
But
she’s not mythical. She’s very real. It seems to take forever and eventually
she breaks the surface, shrieking out in surprise and agony from the cold. It
doesn’t numb her after all. Perhaps
in this case, the number you are, the closer you are to death.
Though
she swam for a while under, it doesn’t take me long to catch up with her. I
used to be an avid swimmer for years.
“What
the hell?” I say to her between chattering teeth, spitting out lake water.
She
stares at me, wide-eyed, her head above the surface as she treads water. Her
wet, dark hair is slicked back from her forehead, an inky wave between her
shoulders, her cheekbones highlighted by sun and water.
“I
told you I wanted to come here,” she says, as if suddenly abandoning your van
and stripping to your underwear in public is the norm.
I
can’t help but smile at how blasé she tries to be about it. “A little warning
would be nice.”
“Don’t
worry about me, Josh,” she says.
I
pause because something in my heart has swelled. “But I do.”
Oh
god, how I fucking ever.
She
holds my gaze and my fingers itch to reach through the water and touch her. A
few days ago I wouldn’t have, not in public like this. But I want to see just
how numb she is.
My
hand glides forward, sluicing through the water in slow motion until it rests
on her light and silky waist.
She
stares at me, her eyes glowing white against her brown irises, and her brows
thread together in contemplation, as if she’s trying to unravel me, uncover
some truth. I know something is bothering her and I know it’s about me more
than anything else. It should be a good thing that it bothers her because it
means she cares.
I
want to tell her that she’s all I’ve ever wanted. I want to show her.
She
relaxes into my touch for one sweet moment of victory before she slowly ducks
her head under the water. I’m not sure what she’s doing so I take in a breath
and submerge my head.
The cold shocks my face and when I open my
eyes under water they seem to immediately freeze. Gemma is a hazy vision of
pale blue, her hair swirling around her. She is so beautiful it makes my chest
ache more than the cold does.
Her eyes hold mine and I see that yearning
in them again. She reaches forward, grabbing my face and pulls my head toward
her. She kisses me, full on the lips. It is so warm against the cold and I’m
afraid I’m about to drown from happiness. I want this and I want more than
this.
I don’t know how long the kiss lasts – we
seem to float through time and space – but our bodies foolishly decide oxygen
is equally as important. She breaks away and I am left sucking in ice water
before I break through the surface.
I gasp in the dry air, fingers touching my
lips as if I can’t believe it, but she’s back to the way she was before.
Impassive. Immovable. Numb.
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