“It’s called pareidolia,” she said, trying to distract herself from the overwhelming urge to jump on top of him and taste the chocolate on his lips.
“What?”
She repeated the word slowly, and he pushed up on an elbow so he could frown down at her. The wind played with the wavy ends of his hair. The beard stubble on his cheeks and chin gave him a charmingly disheveled look.
Is this how he looks after sex?she wondered, then quickly reminded herself that friends didn’t contemplate how the other looked postcoitus.
“I mean what does pareidoliamean?” He absently wiped a grain of sand from her cheek, and that’s all it took for her to lose her breath. “Is it a name for the clouds? Or their shapes?”
“Both,” she said, or ratherwheezed. “Pareidolia is the tendency to interpret known patterns from vague formations. Like when people see Jesus in a piece of burnt toast or human faces on the moon.”
One corner of his mouth curled. “You ever overwhelmed with all the stuff stored up there?” He tapped her temple. But given the way her heart leapt, he might as well have leaned down to kiss her.
“All the time.” She frowned. “But I’ve found ways to”—she searched for the right words—“quiet the noise, I guess would be the way to describe it.”
“How?” He seemed genuinely interested, so she gave him a genuine answer.
“Like you, I spend a lot of time alone. Away from outside stimulation. I like to sit on the dock. I like to read.” At his look of confusion, she conceded, “I know it sounds weird. But my brain isfocusedwhen it’s learning something new. It’s quiet. It’s concentrating. Also…there’s you.”
“Me?” A line appeared between his eyebrows.
“For whatever reason, when I’m around you, everything slows down.” She wasn’t able to meet his eyes for this next part. “I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because you always seem so calm, so deliberate. Everything about you screamsSlow down. Take a breath.And so…I do.” She shrugged.
When she dared glance into his eyes, his expression was oddly intent. She thought she saw a flicker of indecision flash across his face, as if he was working his way around to telling her something or asking her something, but hadn’t quite figured out how to do it.
“With a brain like yours, you coulda been anything. A doctor, an engineer, a rocket scientist. Why’d you choose history?”
She screwed up her mouth. “Because history holds all the answers. Why we have certain customs. Why we use certain words. Why we celebrate certain holidays. History is the beginning and the end of everything. It’s the alpha and the omega.”
“It’s your religion.”
She thought about that. “Itisthe thing I put faith in.” Tilting her head, she studied all the different striations of blue in his irises. “What would you say isyourreligion?”
He snorted. “I was raised Irish Catholic. Most people don’t expect that. They think I should have red hair and freckles. But I assure you, my great-grandparents on both sides came from the land of shamrocks and shillelaghs.” She wondered if he realized that his accent thickened anytime he spoke of his origins or upbringing.
“Black Irish.” She nodded. “A lot of people believe the darker complexions in Ireland stem from the Spanish Armada that landed there in the 1500s. But most historians agree there were dark-skinned, dark-haired people on the Emerald Isle long before that. The Celts started arriving as far back as 500 BC, and they’re known to be darker people.” She swallowed when a small grin pulled at his lips. “And there I go with the useless trivia, huh? It’s okay if you want to let your eyes glaze over now.”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “Like I said, I like hearing you talk.”
He could say that a million times over and she’d never get tired of hearing it.
She desperately wanted to reach up and trace the shape of his lips, feel his hot breath puff against her skin. Run her fingers over the subtle lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, because each of them was a testament to the life he’d lived. The hard-fought battles he’d won.
Was there a face on the entire planet more fascinating than Mason McCarthy’s? If so, she’d yet to see it.
Instead, she asked softly, “You said you wereraisedIrish Catholic. Does that mean you’re lapsed?”
One of his shoulders twitched. It wasn’t really a shrug. More a gesture of vacillation. “After all the fucked-up stuff I seen in this wide world, it’s hard to believe in a benevolent God who loves us and cherishes us.”
It was a tender subject. She could see that. And since she didn’t want this marvelous day to end, she quickly picked a new topic. “So why the navy?”
His lips twisted. “Kids who grew up where I did had one of two choices. Join the trades or the military.” He was quiet for a moment before adding, “I wanted to see the world.”
Once again, she thought she saw something strange move behind his eyes. Only this time, it looked suspiciously like regret.
“You wish you’d chosen differently?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “All the years of running and gunning changed me. I’m not the same person I was when I left Boston.”
