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He’d taught her every one of his mother’s signature dishes—she now knew how to cook everything from crawfish étouffée to a mean batch of blueberry pancakes. He also had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the local flora and fauna, which he’d been determined to share. After dragging her off on a couple more hikes through the island’s interior he’d taught her the difference between a hawk and a raptor, a red alder and an Oregon white oak. His boundless patience and energy had also paid rich dividends when he’d dedicated their final two afternoons in Pirates’ Cove to teaching her how to surf.
There had been no j
udgement, no cutting remarks, no impossible demands, no ultimatums—even though she wasn’t the most able student. Instead there had been only encouragement and excitement at her achievements, however meagre.
The stinging in her eyes got worse. She blinked furiously.
Don’t you dare cry. It’s just the salt water. You have nothing whatsoever to cry about.
He caught her wrist, dragged her fist away from her face. ‘Rubbing them will only make it worse,’ he murmured.
Leaning down he grabbed the bottle of water from his pack, uncapped it.
‘Here, hold steady.’ He cupped her chin, tilted her head back and held one of her eyes open, then the other, to douse them with clean water. ‘Okay?’ he asked, as he handed her a towel to wipe her eyes without re-contaminating them.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, trying to smile as her stomach bottomed out.
What had she done? And how did she take this yearning back? They were flying to San Francisco tomorrow. This moment was almost over.
‘Let’s head home,’ he said, gathering up the surfboards to lock in the container he had at the far end of the beach. ‘How about we hit the hot tub, then nuke one of Mrs Mendoza’s pot roasts or something?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
She made herself smile as she packed up the rest of their stuff for the kayak journey back around the point. But her swollen heart had already snagged on the word ‘home’.
Luke Broussard might be a natural nurturer at heart. But he wasn’t hers—could never be hers.
She swallowed past the raw spot forming in her throat. Somehow or other she was going to have to hold it together tonight, because tomorrow she had to return to reality.
* * *
‘Hey, come here.’
Luke gripped Cassandra’s wrist and tugged her into his lap. They’d done some heavy petting in the hot tub, and filled their stomachs with Mrs Mendoza’s enchilada bake, but he’d been itching to make love to her again ever since that moment when she’d stood triumphant on the board and a swell of pride had burst in his chest.
But as he cupped her cheek, leaned in for a kiss, she braced her hands against his chest and pushed him back.
‘Problem?’ he asked, surprised by the edge in his voice.
He didn’t pressure women. But he’d got used to her instant response. That spark of hunger, of need, that had become as natural as breathing—for both of them—every time he reached for her.
Her golden eyes searched his face. ‘No, it’s just... I’m exhausted. I thought I’d head to bed now. In... In the guest bedroom. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow,’ she added hastily. ‘As soon as we get back to the city, I need to check in at the office and start working on my investment report so I can take something tangible back to Temple in a week’s time.’
She was babbling, her nerves evident in the way her body was vibrating under his hands. He stroked her waist, far too aware of the need still thrumming through his system and the instant spurt of anger at the mention of her boss.
Her job was important to her. He got that. And he thought he knew why after spending the last week in her company.
Cassandra was sharply intelligent, focussed and loyal. She was also extremely conscientious. He’d noticed that about her after teaching her everything from how to make a gumbo to how to spot the difference between an oystercatcher and a cormorant. She had an adorable way of processing every single instruction as if her life depended on it... He could imagine she made a brilliant executive assistant. Even if he’d generally tried not to think about her relationship with Temple.
But they’d had an agreement. No work on the island. And she’d broken it. He hadn’t wanted to mix this...whatever this was...with their professional lives.
The truth was, he didn’t want to think about her returning to the UK. And to Temple. Up to now it had been easy to lose himself in the sex and the companionship—which had surprised him more as each day passed. But as she shifted, ready to get off his lap, he found his grip tightening on her waist. He knew he didn’t want to let her go—wasn’t ready to let her go. Not yet.
And, weirdly, he knew it wasn’t just because of the sexual connection that had blindsided them both. Sure, that had been diverting—and intensely pleasurable. But what had captivated him more was her. Her willingness to try new things, to overcome what he’d begun to realise were some fairly major insecurities. Insecurities he suspected she’d hidden behind a shield of competence and capability.
He already knew her father had been a bastard, but when he’d watched her this afternoon, overcoming her fear of failure as she came shooting towards him on the board, her face a picture of pure and uninhibited joy, he’d known he could easily become addicted to that look.
‘I should go to bed...’ she said, sounding exasperated, but he could hear the uncertainty she always made such an effort to hide.
