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Last night, she’d eaten a four-course dinner alone and tried to convince herself she enjoyed it. Today, the beach. The pool. A drink, and then shopping. New dress. New shoes. A not-quite date at the bar with Jared from the pool at some not-quite-defined time after dinner, because she hadn’t felt like saying no when she could shrug and look at the horizon.
She hadn’t led him on, precisely. Hadn’t batted her e
yelashes or laughed at his jokes. She’d only been present, and her presence didn’t give him the right to touch her. They’d had a misunderstanding about that. About what he thought she owed him, just by existing in this dress. By having tits and an ass and wearing lipstick.
She was so weary of being touched.
She was so weary of everything, and she didn’t know what she’d thought her mini-makeover would accomplish, but it hadn’t. She’d stood naked in front of the mirror in the suite’s bathroom and stared at herself and felt … not nothing, precisely. An absence of pleasure. An absence of anticipation.
She hadn’t cared what happened with Jared until he’d put his hand on her back and some of the ice had started to crack.
Don’t, she’d thought. Don’t, or I’ll break.
And then she’d seen Tony across the room. A hammer blow, delivering back to her all the blood beneath her skin. All the sweat, the joy, the fear. So much fear, she’d had to clamp down hard on the need to smile. She’d had to. Because when she saw him, she felt that kiss he’d given her—that last firm press of his mouth against hers before he got in the van and left the island—and she’d thought, I was waiting for you to come back.
She had been. Or she hadn’t.
Had she?
Amber had no idea. No grip on anything.
God, it was terrifying. Why not have a drink?
“What is it?” he asked.
“Absinthe.”
One eyebrow went up. “I’ve never had that before.”
“It’s interesting.”
Tony hailed the bartender and said, “Two more of those.”
After the drinks were in front of them, the tip pushed across the counter, he lifted his glass and said, “Cheers.”
Then he tried it, and his brow drew in, darkening his eyes. Casting a shadow over the planes of his face.
He hated it.
Was it terrible that she loved how much he hated it? She soaked up the barely disguised loathing in Tony’s expression, and she let herself acknowledge how dangerous his arrival was.
It meant something that he’d come back. His arrival was a declaration, and it gave her so much lift—such anticipatory excitement—that she wanted to crawl into a corner and hide.
You can’t fix this, her fear whispered. Neither of you knows how to fix this.
But here he was.
Here he was, and he smelled like Tony, and he looked tired and a little rumpled and a whole lot good. So maybe he knew how. Maybe they could.
“That’s … different,” he said.
“Indeed.”
She sipped at hers. It tasted like licorice and ass.
She’d only ordered it because she remembered reading an article once that said absinthe wasn’t available in the United States. Some vague danger in the way it was produced that alarmed only Americans. She liked the idea of drinking such a forbidden, evil substance. She liked how ugly it was, how smoky and green.
“I’m Steve,” he said, and stuck out his hand.
