Page 215 of Better When Shared
“No?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Then what is it like? Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve spent the last two months fucking a married couple who were on vacation, and now you’re moping around like someone killed your puppy because they went back to their real life.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You’re always drawn to the out-of-towners, like maybe you’re afraid of feeling something real. And I warned you not to get involved.”
“Well, I got involved!” I spun my chair away from her, staring out the window at the trees surrounding our converted barn office.
She wasn’t wrong. I’d built my life around temporary connections—intense but brief, like perfect waves that couldn’t last. The difference was, this time I couldn’t shake it off. Every morning I woke up reaching for bodies that weren’t there, expecting Hamish’s quiet breathing or Imogen’s sleepy murmurs.
“If I’m afraid to feel something real, what does that say about you?” I turned back to her. “When’s the last time you went on a date? Those gaming guys you sext don’t count.”
“Nice deflection.” Skylar rolled her eyes. “But my sex life isn’t the issue here. You’re just pissy because for once, you care about someone leaving.”
“I barely know them.” I picked up a pen from the desk, clicking it repeatedly. “It’s only been what? Six weeks?”
“Six weeks of practically living together.” She took the pen from my hand, stopping the annoying clicking. “Six weeks of you bringing Hamish along on tours. Six weeks of you coming in late, leaving early, and talking about nothing but Hamish’s progress on the surfboard or Imogen’s amazing job.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. Had I really been that obvious?
“Look,” Skylar’s voice softened. “I’m not judging what you guys have going on. It seemed... I don’t know, good for you? But they live in fucking England, Makai. In some massive estate with horses and servants or whatever. That’s not exactly compatible with your surf bum lifestyle.”
“They don’t have servants. Only a housekeeper,” I mumbled. “Maybe a groundskeeper, too.”
“Whatever.” Skylar reopened her laptop. “The point is, you need to talk to them before they go back to Downton Abbey for real. Tell them how you feel.”
“What if I talk to them and they still go back?” I whispered. “What if they’re planning their exit from the island as we speak?”
“It’s better to try and fail than to always wonder, isn’t it? You need to stop being afraid to put your heart out there.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall, then checked my phone again. Their flight would land at Sea-Tac in just over five hours. Neither of them knew I was coming to pick them up—they’d planned to rent a car and drive to the ferry themselves. The surprise had seemed romantic when I’d booked my ferry ticket yesterday. Now it felt desperate.
The truth was, their sudden departure had left me uneasy. Three nights ago, we’d been tangled together in my bed, making plans for a weekend sailing trip. Then, without much warning, they were packing for a red-eye flight to London.
I thought of the night before they left—Hamish’s body tense against mine, Imogen unusually quiet as we lay in bed. I’d tried to lighten the mood, cracking jokes about British emergency protocols for country estates.
Now, watching Skylar click through the website updates, I tried to ignore the knot in my stomach. What if they didn’t come back? What if whatever “estate business” had called them home kept them there? The summer tourist season would wind down in another month. Maybe they’d simply decided our island fling had run its course.
My phone buzzed on the desk, making me jump. I snatched it up, heart racing, but it was just a notification from the ferry service reminding me of my upcoming sailing.
“Expecting someone?” Skylar asked.
“Nope.” I pocketed the phone. “Just a reminder.”
“For what? You don’t have any tours today.”
“Supply run.” The lie came easily. “We’re low on snacks, and I wanted to pick up two more children’s wetsuits. Thought I’d head to that place in Seattle.”
She frowned. “Since when do you voluntarily handle inventory?”
“Since you’ve been bitching about it for three weeks.” I stood, stretching my arms overhead. “Figured I’d be proactive for once.”
“Bullshit.” She closed her laptop. “You’re going to the airport, aren’t you?”
I froze mid-stretch. “What? No. Why would I—”
“Save it.” She held up her hand. “Stop lying. You’ve been checking the time every five minutes, you’re wearing a clean shirt, and you’ve got that stupid look on your face. The same one you had when you snuck off to meet them at the marina that night.”
I dropped my arms, annoyed at being so transparent. “Fine. Yeah. It’s a surprise. I… I don’t know what to do. But I want to spend as much time as I can with them.”
