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He absolutely cures me one bruising kiss at a time.
* * *
We’re walkingoff the small chartered yacht and he’s carrying my kayak before he goes back for his stuff.
“You didn’t have to haul it, Shepherd!” I call after him, running to keep up. “I’m not helpless.”
“Maybe not, but after the time we’ve had, I know you feel like you were flattened by a Mack truck.” He rolls his eyes at me, knowing it’s too true. “You want me to strap it on Ladybug or what?”
“You remembered his name? How sweet!”
“God help me,” I hear him mutter, but I think his mouth twitches up again.
That tiny half smile might just be my Achilles heel.
Before, I thought it was his abs and flashing blue glances, but it turns out a good smile can turn my stomach into a butterfly house. I try to swallow past the emotion.
It’s not easy with that rock creeping up my throat, knowing this is it.
“Thanks,” I say, helping with the straps. “I don’t usually play damsel in distress.”
“Shocking. You’re rather good at it, Dess.”
Dess.
When did we become nickname familiar and why do we have to go back?
I almost cringe at the thought of him Miss Lancastering me again, which he will if we only see each other in some stuffy, formal spotlight appearances for Young Influencers.
“Thanks. Did you like the way I fluttered my eyelashes?” I bat them at him now, before stopping, because the weekend is over with its easy smiles and soul-shattering sexy times.
We’re almost home.
Back in Seattle, destined to be strangers again.
It’s funny when you think about it, how a man you shared so much with has to be unfamiliar again. But that’s the story of every bad breakup and heart-wrenching divorce, isn’t it?
Becoming unfamiliar enough to smother love.
Somehow, this hurts worse because we never even had a proper romance.
Just a couple days of incredible, messy mistakes in the wilderness hinting at something too amazing to ever be.
Silently, I strap the kayak down on the roof of my car and Shepherd nods at me. “Are you sure you’ll be okay when you get home? Are you going back to your family?”
“I’ll be fine,” I lie. Somehow, I have to be. “You don’t need to worry about me. And I keep a small apartment here I sublease to a friend when I’m not around. I’m looking forward to some alone time to rest up, honestly.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re not just saying that?”
“Dude, I told you, I’m no damsel in distress. I just really like watching you carry heavy things.” I would also really, really like seeing him in my apartment.
Which is so impossible he’d probably laugh in my face if I outed it.
But I hope I’m right.
I just need time to heal.
Why should the heart be any different from the muscles killing me in my arms and legs?
