Page 48 of Second Tide's the Charm
Laden with gear, I trail the rest of the group down the dock at the end of a long, exhausting, productive day. The marina is mostly deserted, with the other boaters at dinner or out on an evening cruise. Sylvia and Liam are chatting excitedly about the outcome of our day with Marissa and Gabe. We wound up examining and tagging eight sharks, three of whom were pregnant. A successful day, and I didn’t freeze in front of the camera once, not even after Gabe caught Adrian and I in a spontaneous hug.
The quick embrace seems inconsequential now that several hours have passed. I was probably blowing it out of proportion in my mind. It was just a hug. A joyous, ecstatic hug, born of adrenaline. Nothing intimate, even though it felt that way.
We load the gear into the vehicles, and Sylvia asks for my number to keep in touch about the program in Santa Barbara. When she says she’ll send me a text to confirm her contact, I pat my pocket to check my phone and realize I must’ve left it on the boat.
Not wanting to interrupt the flow of the others’ conversation, I catch Marissa’s eye. “Gotta find my phone. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, but hurry. We want to grab a table before it gets busy.”
She invited the others out to dinner before they make the long drive home. The thought of a crowded restaurant makes my shoulders sag, but it would be rude to skip. I want nothing more than to head home and eat reheated leftovers on the couch while the TV drones in the background.
Nights in with Adrian were my favorite. When he was in town, I never felt the need to entertain him or dress up my life for his visits. We’d walk for hours on the beach or sit entwined on the couch and just talk. Just be. Just love one another. And when I went to his place and discovered nothing but peanut butter and sliced bread in his cupboards, I never felt compelled to drag him to the grocery store for a pantry makeover. We’d eat toast for dinner and vent about work, or gush about a breakthrough, or complain about family, and it was perfect.
But now he’s making pizza dough from scratch and spending his free time lifting weights. He’s changed, in so many ways, and yet the man I kissed is the same Adrian I loved. The man who kissed me on the beach and wrapped me in his arms on the boat for that brief moment today is the same person I lost my heart to years ago.
But I promised myself I wouldn’t fall for that man again. Promised myself I’d get over him. And I will not think of how amazing it felt to have him hold me again. Head down, I clamber aboard, pushing thoughts of Adrian aside.
I will not think of his lips, or his talented tongue, or his—
Naked chest, right in front of me.
His head pops through the T-shirt he’s in the act of putting on, glorious abs on full display. He wobbles, unsteady and dangerously close to tripping. I act on reflex and throw both arms around his waist—no one else is falling overboard on my watch. His skin is warm but erupts with goose bumps under my fingertips. Shifting my weight, I haul him upright, no easy task given his size.
As soon as he’s steady I let go and all but leap backward.
“What are you doing here?” He wrestles his shirt down, which is a pity.
“Looking for my phone.” I go from flustered to indignant in a heartbeat, his proximity wreaking havoc on my emotions. “Maybe you should make sure no one’s around if you’re going to run around naked.” Naked is a stretch, considering he’s wearing shorts and shoes, but he keeps catching me off guard.
“I thought I was alone.” He gestures around the deserted marina. “Maybe you should announce your presence when you go prowling around someone’s boat.”
“Call me a bandit again, I dare you.”
We’re toe-to-toe, and I’m staring him down like the self-righteous pain in the neck he is. The kind of pain in the neck I want to wrap my legs around and kiss senseless.
My chest is heaving, and his eyes are fever-bright, the color of polished onyx in fading light. “What would you prefer I call you?”
Mine.I want him to call me his. To stake his claim and not give up on me. On us.
Our lips are a whisper apart and he closes the distance with a kiss that’s fevered in an instant, no hesitancy this time. He walks me backward two quick steps until my shoulders hit something solid and I let out a muffled, “Oof.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but I pull him back down for another kiss, because I don’t want his sorry—I don’t want apologies or looking back. I want his mouth on mine and for his kisses to never end. He rocks against me, and I gasp, his lips curving into a smile I can feel. Then I match the pressure of his hips, take satisfaction when his grin dissolves into a guttural groan that has him sliding his calloused, tender hands down my curves, over my waist, his thumbs slipping under my shirt to expose my skin to the dewy evening heat.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and I ignite under his touch. Until the other day, I hadn’t felt this good in ages—years—and from his ragged, wanton breathing, he’s as far gone as I am, kissing me with reckless abandon for what’s only a moment but feels like eternity.
A loudsnapsounds from the water below, and Adrian springs away. I whip my head around just as an enormous bird flaps up out of the water and lands on the dock. It waddles in an ungainly half turn, shaking water out of its brown-gray wings.
“Pelican.” Adrian’s face is grim, like he’s meeting an old nemesis, and I press my lips together to keep from smiling. He gets creeped out by large birds—big birds, I said once, which he did not appreciate, though I was thoroughly pleased with myself—and I’m sure the pelican’s ill-timed arrival is going to be added to his already extensive list of reasons why he prefers scaled creatures to feathered ones.
The weight of desire is shattered, but it’s for the best. We can’t keep doing this. Kissing. Wanting. Trying to resurrect what’s lost.
I do a quick scan for my phone and spy it on one of the benches. Bending to retrieve it, I say, “I need to go before anyone comes looking.”
Adrian’s posture is stiff, nothing like the pliable way he fit against me only a moment ago. “I don’t think this is working,” he says, and I straighten up, on guard.
“What?”
“The kissing, it’s not...” He looks away. “I can’t keep things separated.”
