I’ve been blind too many times before. I need to make informed decisions. I cannot live by someone else’s will. That’s how I wound up here—solo parenting, with only a semblance of the career I envisioned, no time for myself, being eaten alive by financial worry.
He bites his lip. Slowly nods. I have gotten through to him. Somehow, in the midst of a disagreement, he has heard me. I can tell by the way he hangs his head.
I have to admit, I’m a little impressed. Admitting you’re wrong in the middle of an argument? Now,that’smy idea of sexy.
“Sasha,” he says, sending another wave thrumming through me. “Of course you should have had that right. I thought I was being helpful, but… I totally fucked up.” He takes another step toward me so that he can’t be more than a foot away. He is trying to see my face in the dark when he says, “I’m really sorry.”
I can tell he is. And our eyes are glued to each other when I rasp, “I know.”
There’s a beat as we absorb this.
“For what it’s worth, once you took the job, I really did think you knew I was the editor,” he says hesitantly, swallowing hard. “I thought you knew and were choosing to come… with that knowledge.”
The subtext of what he’s saying hits me like a freight train. Hethought I had agreed to come, knowing he’d be here. That we’d be on this island… together. It’s an acknowledgment of something I’ve been studiously ignoring—every time I’ve rationalized trying to catch a glimpse of him at drop-off or revisited Cotton Candy Gate in my head.
Maybe since the hoodie showdown. Maybe since we spoke on the park loop. Definitely since Monster’s Ball.
I might hate this guy, but I also love to hate him.
Now, we stand staring at each other wordlessly, in the dim glow of the lantern light.
I can see his chest rise and fall. So close. I know this is a bad idea, but my mind is at odds with my body—and, currently, my body is in charge. Blame the balmy breeze. Blame the ginger mojitos. Blame my years of sexual sabbatical. But, despite what my mouth has been saying, I’ve got tunnel vision for his full lips—and, before I know it, I’m rising up on my toes, leaning in, closing the gap between us until we are only centimeters apart. I can feel his breath on my skin.
His heavy gaze drops to my lips. He is a statue, still, like he is afraid to startle me away.
He hesitates. Waiting for my whistle to blow.
I give up. I givein.
I lean closer, so a whisper separates us. We’ve come too far to turn back. Time is suspended. The air crackles.
I forge ahead. Close the gap. Press my lips against his as he responds. And, for an electric instant, heat sears through me in a way that shocks me senseless, melting any remaining resolve to syrup. Place and propriety are no longer a thing. There is just his mouth and mine as we fall deeper.
But then, just as quickly, a sharp sound startles us from our shared stupor. Stephanie’s throaty laugh, carried on the breeze.
We break apart. I take a step back. Disoriented. Bring a hand to my lips.
What the hell am I doing?
My whole body is tingling. With embarrassment, with possibility, with… him. It’s been a while since I had a first kiss, but I rememberenough to know they don’t usually feel like that. And we’d barely even gotten started.
Which is going to make everything harder.
Damn.
“W-we should go to bed,” I say, looking anywhere else.
Why am I incapable of phrasing anything in a benign way? And why can’t I stick to my own rules with this man?
“I meanIshould get to bed,” I mumble, starting down the path again in front of him and away from what almost happened. “You can do whatever you want in your bed. I mean, obviously.”
I am dying on the vine.
“I’d like to go to bed,” Ethan says. “But I’m all tied up.”
Ugh! I storm ahead. “Funny!”
“I thought so.”
