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Any luck? No, not really. No answers, just more questions—and he must see the despair rising again like the tide, must see the panic squeezing my throat, because Mac curses and shakes his head.
“Stupid question. Come on, Cocoa.” A hand reaches out, etched with faded scars and calluses. When I take it, my fingers are dwarfed by the size and heat of his palm. “I ran you a hot bath.”
I trip after him. “Will you be in it?”
Crap. I shouldn’t flirt like this, not with the man who saved me, and especially not when I’m all snotty and bedraggled. Who wants that? Sure enough, Mac makes a choked noise, but doesn’t reply. He tows me through the back door into the kitchen, past the checkerboard tiles and the gleaming pile of washing up, through the cottage hallway to a rickety staircase.
“Up there, first door on the left. I laid out spare clothes and a towel.”
Guess that’s a firmnoto my shameless proposition.
That’s for the best. It shows he’s a good man, one who wouldn’t take advantage.
So why do I feel like crying?
“Take as long as you need.” He’s frowning everywhere but at me, like he can’t even bear to look me in the eye. My stomach twists, and my mouth tastes sour. Did I make him uncomfortable? Ugh. Whoever I am, I’m the worst. “I’ll be close. Call if you need anything.”
It’s not an invitation; not flirtatious in any way. It’s a clipped instruction, one that is clearly only meant to be followed as a last resort. The harbor master glares at a wooden beam in the ceiling.
“Thank you,” I whisper, trudging up the stairs.
His gaze is hot on my back the whole way.
* * *
When folks talk about ‘muscle memory’, they’re talking about dance routines and sports drills, right? Not literal secrets that your body is keeping from you.
And yet as I sink into the harbor master’s tub, a shudder rolls through my whole body. I gasp, the sound bouncing around the simple bathroom, echoing off the vintage tiles.
Heat.
So much heat. Jeez.
I’ve been cold to the core since the moment I woke this morning, the shivers coming from deep inside. Probably because of my mystery dunk in the ocean, then sleeping in a wet dress outdoors, right? It’s summer, but it’s notthatwarm around here. It’s perfectly logical that I’d be numb.
Still, as I tilt my head back and let my body float, it feels deeper than that. Like my soul has been cold too. Frozen with horror. My muscles have been locked tight, my stomach tense for hours, and a headache squeezes my temples.
And now…
Mac’s bath warms me from my toes to the tips of my hair. He’s put some kind of scented oil in the water, something that makes my limbs extra slippery and soft. When I suck in a deep breath, the steam smells like rose petals.
“Oh mygod.” The tension drains from my body, and I sag in the water. The bathtub cradles me, and I blink tears from my eyes. The dark wooden beams waver overhead. When will I stop sniffling already?
So Mac didn’t want to join a strange, bedraggled girl in the bathtub. Of course he didn’t. It was crazy to blurt out that offer.
I’m a hot mess, but even if I knew everything, even if I could recite my social security number by rote, we still only met this morning—and in the hours since, I’ve caused that man nothing but trouble.
Plus Mac is older than me. Definitely. In his late thirties, at least, and maybe even older. There are specks of silver in his beard, and creases at the corners of his eyes, and he’s a respectable man with an important job.
What could I ever offerhim? Right now, I don’t even own shoes.
I’m distracting myself again. Hiding from the real problem.
Scrubbing my body down with soap feels good. Like I’m scrubbing off my nonsense along with the salt and grime, until the bottom of the bathtub is gritty with sand. I drain the water and refill it—only halfway this time, don’t want to be wasteful—then work shampoo through my brown, tangled hair.
No conditioner. Typical man.
See, why do I knowthatand not my own name? It’s like I’ve kept all my general cultural knowledge, but no specifics. Such bullshit.
