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My heart sinks.
I knew this was coming. How could I not? Despite his polite assertion that his job isn’t more important than mine, it is, in the big scheme of things. He’s running a company developing research that could change hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of lives. I might love my job, but I teach children. Technically, I can do that anywhere.
Deep down, I feel a stab of resentment, but it’s small, and it’s short-lived. He’s not being selfish, or belittling my career and my problems. His brows have drawn together, and I know it wasn’t easy for him to say all that. He doesn’t want to ask me to move for him. He’s just stating the obvious—if I don’t move back to New Zealand, our relationship—or our fling, our affair, however I want to define it—is over.
I feel a rush of emotion, and swallow hard, dropping my gaze to where he’s holding my hand. He sighs, leans over to the small table at the side to put his glass down, then comes back to pull me into his arms. “Come here,” he murmurs, and he hugs me tightly, while I bury my face in his neck.
“I can’t believe I’ve just found you,” he says, “and I feel close to losing you. I don’t know what to do about it.”
I hug his strong body, feeling his sorrow in my bones. I keep trying to tell myself that it’s only been a week, and it can’t mean anything. I hate stories and movies about instalove, and I’ve always mocked them when I’ve seen them. But I can’t deny how I feel right now.
The intensity of our passion will fade once we’re apart. I don’t need to be told that. But I can’t vouch for regret. I have a sneaky suspicion it will consume me once I let him go.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper.
“I don’t want to lose you, either.”
“It’s not enough time to make a decision like this.”
“I know.”
“But walking away from you is going to kill me.”
“Ah, Heidi. Me too.”
There are plenty more fish in the Pacific. Lots of other men who will treat me well, who are sexy, and gentle, and clever. Who’ll make love to me passionately, while holding me as if I’m something precious. Who’ll make me feel loved, and wanted. Aren’t there?
Or is Titus the one man in the world I’m meant for? My soul mate? Is there such a thing? What if there is, and I’m about to walk away from him?
I rest my forehead on his shoulder. “I wish we had longer together. It would be wonderful if we had months to get to know each other so we could decide how serious this is. But we don’t have months.”
“No, we don’t. I suppose that all we do need to know, right now, is if we want to be with one another. If we want to try to make it work.”
We sit quietly for a moment.
“Do you?” I ask in a small voice. My heart races as it occurs to me that he might be trying to pluck up the courage to tell me it’s over.
He looks into my eyes for a long while, long enough that I think I might go into cardiac arrest if he doesn’t say something soon.
Then he blinks, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “All I can think is that the thought of letting you go makes me feel as if someone has reached into my chest and is pulling my heart out with their fingernails.”
“Me too,” I squeak, overwhelmed at the thought that he doesn’t want to let me go.
He nods. Then he pushes himself up on the pillows. I sit up with him, sensing a change in his mood. A determination that wasn’t there before, now we’ve admitted to each other that we don’t want it to end.
“Okay,” he says firmly. “We don’t have months. But you are in New Zealand for three weeks. You’re supposed to be staying with Chrissie, aren’t you?”
“Yes. She has a spare room in her apartment.”
He reaches over for his drink again and has a mouthful of whisky. “Would you rather come and stay with me?”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ll be working, but you can go and visit your friends and family during the day, and then we could meet up in the evening…”
Joy fills me at the thought that we don’t have to say goodbye. Yet, anyway.
It’s not an answer to our conundrum. But I do understand that he’s saying he doesn’t want to let me go, and he’s going to do everything he can to try to keep me.
