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She twisted the lid off and dabbed her finger into the salve. “May I?”
Darien’s answering nod was immediate.
She slid closer, blankets bunching up around her waist, and carefully dabbed some salve that smelled of peppermint and eucalyptus to the cut in his brow, the touch instantly cooling the searing pain.
Darien watched her the whole time, her beauty mesmerizing him. What he wouldn’t give to finally touch her. Hold her. Kiss and taste her—
Loren dropped the salve, the tin clattering across the floor.
Darien got up. “You okay?” He bent to scoop up the tin that was spinning like a top, his damp hair shifting into his face.
“Yeah,” she breathed, looking dazed. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Have we done this before?”
Darien froze.
Was this it? Was she finally remembering?
Loren blinked up at him. “Sorry, that’s a stupid question.”
“No, it’s not,” he said softly. His heart began to race, that spark of hope in his chest spreading into an inferno. “Loren…”
“I’m really tired,” she said suddenly, the words rushing out. “I think we’re both tired.” She took the tin right out of his hand. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
Darien just stared at her, the words dying to come out. But he said, “Yeah, okay.” She wanted him to go—he could see it in the way she avoided his stare, her shaking hands continuously smoothing her hair behind her ears.
So he made for the door, desperate to make her happy. “If you need anything, come and get me, okay?”
She managed a nod.
Darien left, closing her door halfway.
She was remembering. And it clearly scared her. Confused her.
He’d pick the right time, and he’d sit her down and tell her the truth.
Tomorrow. Or the next day—no later.
And hopefully, once he told her, he would get her back. He couldn’t handle waiting any longer. He needed her to know the truth.
But that didn’t stop him from being afraid. Afraid that he’d lose her in a different, far worse way.
Because as long as she had no memory of him, of their history together, he was nothing more than a stranger. There was no love there, just facts. Cold, hard fucking facts.
It took Loren a while to fall asleep after Darien left. She found herself staring at her door. Hoping he would come back.
She’d practically demanded he leave, and she felt sorry for the way she’d just booted him out like that.
But another memory had come back. One of her kneeling on the floor between his legs as she applied a healing salve—the very same tin that now sat by the salt lamp—to some cuts on his chest.
The chest that had calla lilies tattooed on it. The ink was made up of more than just lilies, but… She couldn’t help but wonder.
And then a second memory had come to her, one of her dabbing that same salve on the wounds on his handsome face. They were in a big, beautiful bathroom together, him staring up at her with affection from where he sat on the lip of a deep bathtub.
Just how close were they?
And why was no one telling her if it was closer than she thought?
“This,” Dallas hissed, poking Max in the chest, “is the stupidest thing any of you idiots have ever done!”
