“By my count, I’ve still got at least a dozen questions left,” she told him, unbuckling her seat belt.
“I would expect nothing less,” he said, a low note of amusement rippling through his voice. “You are quite a woman, Georgia May Jackson.” It sounded like a compliment.
She got out of the car, laying his fleece across the seat.
“Don’t forget your pickles,” he reminded her, grabbing the jar as he opened the driver side door and jumped out.
“You keep them,” she said.
He came around the front of the car, and they lingered for a moment in the bright wash of the headlights. She hesitated. She was reluctant to end the evening. She had started off the day viewing Cole as a slightly antagonistic enigma and now found that he felt like far more than that. He felt almost like a friend.
Spending time with Cole didn’t feel like it had with Etienne, who had wooed her against her better judgment, who had enjoyed the chase. She’d felt like she had to always be on her toes with Etienne, always trying to be smarter, bolder, sexier, brasher—the most vivacious version of herself at all times just to prove her worth. But with Cole, it felt different. She felt like he saw her, saw who she really was, the flaws and desires of her heart, her courage and hot temper and determination, her soft underbelly of vulnerability and failure, and yet he did not seem to judge her for any of it. He simply listened, not trying to fix anything, not turning away. The thought made her smile. She was used to having to impress, to put her best foot forward and hope it was good enough. She’d been doing it since she was a child, fighting for every bit of attention and encouragement. But not with Cole. With him, she could be real and raw. She had never felt more exposed, and yet she had never felt more accepted. It was remarkable. He was remarkable.
“You’re wrong, you know,” she told him.
“On what subject?” He sounded a little amused. “There are a lot to choose from.”
“You said if I knew your story I wouldn’t want anything to do with you, but you’re wrong.”
He stilled, searching her face, then nodded. “I’m glad,” he said softly.
“Should I call you Cole or Cabot, which is, by the way, a very cool name?” she asked, taking a step closer to him.
Cole considered for a moment. “Let’s stick with Cole. That’show people know me here, and honestly, I’ve always preferred it. It reminds me of Aunt Justine. She was one the who always called me by my middle name, and it just sort of made sense to keep it once I came to the island.” He leaned back against Martha’s hood. “But it’s... nice to have someone know my full name again.”
“Okay then. Bonne nuit, Cole,” she said. On impulse, she stood on tiptoe and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. Then she opened the white picket gate and started down the crushed oyster shell path.
“Good night, Georgia May,” he called out. Through the darkness, his voice sounded a little huskier than normal. He didn’t budge while she walked up the path. As she mounted the steps to the front porch, she could sense him behind her, waiting. When she turned at the door, he was still there, leaning against Martha’s hood, cradling the giant jar of pickles in one arm and watching her intently in the silver bright moonlight.
26
COLE
Cole watched Georgiaall the way up those porch steps. The spot where she’d kissed him burned like a brand on his cheek. This was a very bad idea. He could not fall for Georgia May Jackson. It was true that she had surprised him tonight. He’d told her who he was and what he had done. He’d laid his failures bare, and she had not rejected him. He’d been honest, expecting the worst, but she’d surprised him with her acceptance and compassion.
But she had also made her own priorities quite clear. She was intent on returning to Paris. Her life was there, everything she’d worked so hard for. And he could not see himself ever leaving the island. No, their lives were too divergent. Getting close to her was playing with fire.
And what would happen when she found out the secret he was privy to, the one that wasn’t his to tell? He had a feeling things might go very badly when that happened. And it would sooner or later. The truth, in his experience, had a way of making itself known whether you wanted it to or not. And on this island, things came to light. He didn’t believe the island had a special sort of magic, not like Star did, but there was something about this place... hidden things didn’t stay hidden long. He was amazed he’d managed to get away with his own secret identity for as long as he had. The island didn’t like secrets. Itwas only a matter of time until this last hidden thing would be revealed.
He sighed and pushed himself up from Martha’s hood as soon as Georgia was safely inside the house, then drove the few hundred feet to the oyster farm and parked in his usual spot. As he headed through the trees toward his little cabin down by the water, he forced himself not to look toward Star’s house. He knew he should keep his distance from Georgia and keep his feelings in check. Fat chance of that now.
He let himself into the cabin and shut the door behind him, instantly enveloped by the silence and the calm. The little one-room space was rustic and smelled faintly of seaweed, but it was free and weathertight and a place to call his own. When he’d come five years before, it had been a refuge, a place of solace. The simplicity had felt almost monastic to him, as though he were taking personal vows of poverty and chastity in living there. It had been healing for him as he struggled through those first hard years. But now... tonight, it just felt a little lonely.
He set the giant jar of pickles on the simple pine table. It made him smile, picturing Georgia biting into that big pickle and shrieking that she could taste the brine. She’d looked exhausted from nine hours on her feet cooking in a strange kitchen, and yet she’d been positively vibrating with energy. Hermès scarf askew, cheeks flushed, a nimbus of curls around her face, her green eyes bright.
“You don’t want to go there, buddy,” he muttered to himself, but it was too late. Telling her his story today, seeing the compassion in her face as she listened without judgment or pity, had cracked open some sealed portion of his heart. Georgia had touched some tender place that had been closed tight since Amy’s accident. He cared about Georgia May Jackson. It was as simple as that. Watching her open up with that heartbreaking mixtureof honesty, pluck, and vulnerability, he’d felt protective of her. He wanted to reassure her that she was more than enough exactly as she was. He wanted to do more than reassure her. If he was honest, he wanted to bury his hands in her glorious riot of curls, put his mouth on hers, and kiss her until her knees buckled, until they both came up gasping for air.
“You’re an idiot,” he told himself in disgust. “This is what happens when you live like a monk for five years.”
It was cool in the cabin, but he was feeling too warm, a little irritated and feverish. He paced restlessly for a few minutes. It made him feel guilty to talk about the accident and Amy, then think about kissing Georgia. It felt wrong, disloyal to Amy, although he knew she’d long since moved on with her life. But he couldn’t deny that Georgia was filling his thoughts more and more each day. Cole shut his eyes, but all he could see was the pale scoop of Georgia’s neck where it met her clavicle, the half-moon scar on her thumb as she reached up and pushed her curls out of her eyes. He had the strongest desire to brush his lips against the pulse in that pale, soft hollow of her neck, to press her against the side of Martha and...
“Get a grip on yourself,” he admonished, annoyed by his heated thoughts. He shrugged out of his shirt and jeans and opened the cabin door, picking his way down to the edge of the bay in his boxer briefs. The water was shining black in the silver moonlight, still and calm. The shore was sharp with oyster shells and rocks. He winced and waded in a few yards, then dived down shallow, the icy temperature of the salt water making him come up gasping for air. He swam out farther, staying in as long as he could stand it, until his body felt like he was being electrified with a thousand little icicles, until he couldn’t quite draw a deep breath. He stayed there until his heartbeat slowed to normal, until his blood was no longer boiling with longing forsomething he couldn’t ever have. Then he swam back to shore, feeling once more in control of his emotions.
“Don’t make this situation any harder than it already is,” he muttered. He rinsed quickly at the outdoor shower, then pulled on a pair of flannel pajama pants. Inside the cabin, he reached for a book, Heidegger’sBeing and Time, from the crab trap he was using as a nightstand. Perfect. Heidegger was quite a buzzkill. Nothing like a dense German treatise on existentialism to cool any errant thoughts. He sprawled shirtless across the scratchy wool army blanket on his bed and started reading the heavy work, resolutely trying to put all thoughts of Georgia May Jackson out of his head.
“She’s going back to Paris and you’re going... nowhere,” he told himself firmly. “Stay the course, and everything will be back to normal before you know it.”
But he knew as he spoke that he was lying to himself. Georgia very well could be returning to Paris, but there was no way his heart was going to return to normal anytime soon.
