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While he’s in the bathroom, I place Burke’s untouched container of bone broth on his nightstand and set both of our trays in the hallway, outside the bedroom door, before returning.
A minute later, the toilet flushes, followed by what sounds like a robust handwashing/toothbrushing session.
“Sorry about that,” he says when he steps out, red eyed. The scent of mint mouthwash and lemon-honey hand soap drifts off him. Climbing into bed beside me, he flicks off the lamp, folds his hands over his chest, and closes his eyes. “So much for being on the mend.”
“It’s all good. You get some rest.” I tiptoe to the bathroom, run a clean washcloth under cold water, wring it out, and return to place it on his sweaty forehead.
“Thank you,” he says. “For the record, you’re going to make one hell of a wife someday.”
“Appreciate the kind words, but I’m never getting married,” I tell him. “Ever.”
“You sound like my brother,” he mutters, his eyelids floating shut. “You know, last summer, he told me he met someone special . . . claimed she was different from anyone else he’d ever met. Said he had no intentions of marrying her, but he was going to spend the rest of his life with her.”
My stomach tumbles.
Burke is all but passed out already, but I have so many questions.
I don’t want this conversation to end.
Not yet.
Not like this.
Burke adjusts the washcloth over his eyes and nestles his back against the mattress, drawing in a long, deep breath.
“What . . . what else did he say?” I ask because I can’t help myself.
Only my question is met by silence.
He’s out cold.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DORIAN
One Year Ago
She lies in my arms for hours—until the horizon transforms from midnight black to indigo, violet, and then orange.
It won’t be long before the shore fills with early-morning fishermen and beachcombers looking for some shells to sneak home in their suitcases.
I’ve had sex on the beach before—a few times—but it was different with her.
“We should probably head to our rooms, don’t you think?” She breaks the hours-long silence with the inevitable.
“Yeah.” I exhale, still tasting her on my lips and tongue, still feeling the stinging warmth where her nails dug into my back again and again.
Briar tugs her dress into place, and I cinch my slacks and fasten my belt. My shirt is somewhere on the beach, probably doused in sand, but I’ll have to find it as the hotel has a strict dress code.
“I have no idea where those flip-flops are,” she says, scanning the cabana before pulling one side of its fabric back. “Oh, I see your shirt.”
Without a word, she hops up, traipsing through our footprints from hours ago and returning with the rest of our things.
The walk to the hotel is over in an instant, much like this night. There wasn’t a damn thing I could say or do to make each minute with her tick by slower.
“What floor?” I ask when we step into the elevator.
A family of four corrals themselves into one of the corners, causing the two of us to exchange silent laughs. I can only imagine how we look right now.
“Seven,” she says. “You?”
“Same.” I press the button for the seventh floor.
The family of four gets off on the fifth.
“Oh, good lord.” Briar catches her reflection in a strip of shiny metal as she fusses with her hair. “No wonder we scared those people.”
I pull her hand away. “Stop. You look fine.”
“I look like I stuck my head in an electrical socket and then rolled around on the beach.”
“You’re welcome,” I tell her with a wink.
We must have been going at it for hours.
She’s lucky she can even walk after the things we did . . .
The elevator dings and the doors part, dropping us off on the seventh floor.
“What room?” I ask when we reach the sign that points left or right. I suspect our rooms are close together since Vivi and Benson reserved a block of them, but I don’t want to assume.
“Seven thirty-two,” she says.
“I’m seven thirty-three. Right across from you.”
We follow the signs, our paces going slower with each step.
“You hungry at all?” I should’ve asked earlier.
“Starving,” she says. “But I should shower . . . get this sand out of my hair . . . get some rest.” She turns to me, poking her finger against my shoulder. “I’m still getting my beach day. I don’t care how tired I am.”
Stopping outside room 732, I scratch my temple and ignore the heavy sinking sensation in my chest.
If I’m not mistaken, then I think I might be missing her already . . .
“What?” she asks, obviously picking up on something I had no idea I was broadcasting on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I try to brush it off with a half smile.
“No, you looked like you were about to say something.” She plants her feet firmly against the terra-cotta floor of the hallway.
