Eric rolled onto his back, and his breathing deepened, sliding toward sleep with the easy trust of someone who felt completely safe. I realized with startling clarity that I was no longer the same person who'd fallen asleep alone in my bed for sixteen years. I was now a man who wanted more.
Wanted love, even if I didn't quite know how to hold it without breaking it.
Eric mumbled something in his sleep, words too soft to decipher. He turned and pushed closer to me, pressing his face against my neck.
His body fit against mine like we'd been designed for each other. Maybe love wasn't about deserving anything. Perhaps it was about being brave enough to accept what was offered, even when you couldn't understand why someone would choose to offer it.
I pressed my face into his hair, breathing in the scent of island air. In the morning, we'd have to figure out what this meant, what came next, and how to navigate the space between his inevitable departure and the fragile thing we'd begun to build between us.
Tonight, I was content to hold him close and pretend that some things—some people—were worth the risk of believing in forever.
Chapter thirteen
Eric
The scents of coffee grounds and metal polish pulled me from sleep. My body remembered before my mind caught up—the warmth of his skin against my skin.
I stretched beneath the sheet, muscles pleasantly sore in places. The space beside me held only the impression of where Wes had been, the pillow still dented from his head.
From somewhere else in the cottage came the metallic scrape of tools against cast iron, punctuated by occasional muttered commentary. I pulled on yesterday's jeans and padded toward the kitchen.
I found Wes crouched beside the stove, torso bare. A collection of small parts lay arranged on a dish towel—screws, gaskets, and what looked like the guts of the pilot light assembly.
"Morning." I kept my voice soft, testing his mood.
"Pilot light's been acting up." He didn't turn around. "Figured I'd better fix it before it decides to quit completely."
I moved closer. "Need help?"
"Got it."
I leaned against the counter. "Coffee smells good."
"Made it early. Might be strong."
"I like it strong."
He gestured toward the tool collection without looking at me. "Hand me that Phillips head screwdriver."
I passed it to him, letting our fingers tangle around the handle. His breath caught—just barely, but I heard it. "About last night—"
"Last night was..." He turned around briefly. "Last night was good."
Good.I searched his profile for more, but he was already turning back to the stove's innards, shoulders squared against whatever conversation he thought I was trying to start.
It was the word you'd use when you shared a decent meal. It didn't begin to cover having done something that made the cottage feel less like a place I was visiting and more like somewhere I belonged.
An hour later, I walked the rocky beach path with my phone pressed to my ear. I needed distance from the cottage and Wes's vigilant avoidance of eye contact.
Ziggy picked up on the second ring. "Took you long enough."
"What do you mean?" I kicked at a piece of driftwood, sending it skittering across wet sand.
"I mean, I've been waiting for this call since you texted me about intensive research." I knew by the tone of his voice he'd already figured out most of what I could tell him. "So. Spill."
I watched the ocean waves chase themselves up the shore. "We kissed. Actually, more than kissed."
"Holy shit, Eric."
