He needed air. He needed distance. He needed to stand outside in the salt-scented darkness and think about what the hell he was doing.
The stars were out. Same constellations he’d seen from his Manhattan terrace, but brighter here, more insistent, like the sky was making a point about what you could see when you got out of your own way.
He was thinking about Marina’s cheek under his thumb. The way she’d leaned in. The way she’d looked at him with those sea-glass eyes, like he was something she wanted to keep.
He took out the trash. Stood there holding the empty bag like an idiot. Went back inside.
He was thinking about what would have happened if Mrs. Thornberry had walked in five seconds later.
Or ten seconds later.
Or if she hadn’t walked in at all.
The dragon in his blood stirred—restless, wanting, completely unhelpful. He pushed it back down. Controlled the heat that wanted to build in his chest. Reminded himself that this was temporary, that they were temporary, that in thirteen days the bond would break and he would go back to Manhattan and everything would return to normal.
Except nothing was ever going to be normal again. He knew that now. Even if he left Sweetwater Cove. Even if the bond dissolved. Even if he never saw Marina Pearl again.
He would spend the rest of his life remembering the way she’d looked at him this afternoon. The way she’d leaned in. The way she’d wanted him to kiss her.
And the way he’d wanted to kiss her back.
Inside the bakery, in the dark kitchen she knew better than anywhere else in the world, Marina stood by the counter and touched her cheek. The warmth of his fingers was still there.
He almost kissed me.
I almost let him.
I wanted him to. God help me, I still do.
She pressed her hand harder against her cheek, as if she could trap the sensation there.
Thirteen days. That’s all they had left.
Below her, a floorboard creaked. Alessandro, pacing. She could feel the restlessness like her own pulse.
“Stop pacing,” she whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear her, knowing he’d know exactly what she meant anyway.
The pacing stopped.
Chapter Twelve
MARINA
“And THEN,” Dante Draven announced to the crowd of delighted regulars, “Alessandro tried to cook dinner. For a girl. My brother, who once set fire to a microwave trying to reheat soup, attempted homemade pasta.”
“I was twelve,” Alessandro said through gritted teeth.
“You were seventeen and she was the mayor’s daughter and you had to pay for the kitchen renovation yourself.” Dante grinned, all white teeth and deep-set dimples that belonged on a cologne ad. The Draven genes were apparently distributed equally between the brothers: they were both unfairly beautiful, but Dante wielded his looks like a weapon of mass destruction while Alessandro treated his like an inconvenience.
Mrs. Thornberry clutched her chest. “Oh, he was a romantic even then!”
“He was a disaster,” Dante corrected cheerfully. “Still is. Did he tell you about the time he tried to give a presentation and accidentally?—”
“Dante.” Alessandro’s voice could have frozen the harbor. “Perhaps you’d like to see the town.”
“I’d rather stay here and share stories.” Dante winked at Marina. “You should hear about his college years. There was an incident with a library, a fire alarm, and a very confused dean.”
Alessandro’s mortification prickled across her skin, the kind that came from having your worst moments exposed to someone whose opinion you cared about.
