She gave his forearm a squeeze, and relief rushed through him. “Thank you for staying.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re a good friend, Wolf.”
Friend.
There it was again. That wretched word.
He didn’t want to be her friend. He wanted—
Suddenly, he wasn’t edging toward that epiphany; he was tumbling over it. Head over heels. Ass over tits. One long somersault that left him dizzy and yet somehow completely clear-eyed.
What he wanted was…her.
And not only for some naked, sweaty times—although he certainly wantedthat. But no. He wanted all of her. All the time. For all the things from sunrise to sunset. For lazy Sunday mornings and sensual Saturday nights. For dancing in the dark and laughing in the sun. From now until eternity because…
I’m in love with her.
The words went off inside his head like a mortar round, leaving him stunned. Leaving him breathless. Leaving him more than a little dismayed.
Letting go of his forearm, she entwined her fingers with his. Her palm was cool and her fingertips were callused from hours spent servicing diving equipment. It was her turn to ask, “This okay?”
“Mmm,” was all he could manage given his mind was spinning in ever-tightening circles.
I love her, but I won’t have anything to offer her if we can’t find theSanta Cristina.
I love her, but I fucked up and now she only wants to be friends.
I love her, but she doesn’t love me.
I love her, but…
But nothing, he decided.
He loved her. Full stop. End of sentence.
“Sing me a song, Wolf.” Her voice was garbled with sleepiness. “Sing me a song so I can’t hear the heart monitor beeping in the next room.”
She could hear the heart monitor in the next room over the thunder ofhisheart inside his chest? How could that be? The damned organ was drumming to beat the band.
“Any particular song you have in mind?” Could she hear the hoarseness in his voice?
“Didn’t you tell me your grandmother loved to hear you sing?”
He remembered that morning on Wayfarer Island. She’d been standing in the sunlight, fishing pole in hand, the lithe muscles in her tanned arms moving rhythmically as she reeled her lure through the surf.
Christina of the Seahe’d called her. She’d looked so at home with the ocean breeze in her hair and her bare toes buried in the sand.
It was the day she informed him she only wanted to be friends. This was right afterhe’dinformedherhe very much wanted to shake the sheets with her. They’d met in the middle by agreeing to be pals if Chrissy conceded to granting him one favor at some point in the future. No questions asked.
At the time, he hadn’t known what the favor would be. Hell, hestilldidn’t know. But he was now certain it would need to be good. Something tender and romantic and guaranteed to make her reconsider their current relationship status because…he was determined to make her love him too.
“Yes. Myelisiloves it when I sing,” he admitted quietly.
“What’s one of her favorite songs?”
He grimaced. “She’s an indigenous woman who was born and raised in Oklahoma. In her mind there are only two forms of music worth a damn. The first is traditional, and I wouldn’t shame my ancestors by attemptin’ one of those songs. And the second is country and western.”
“So sing me a country and western song then.”
He thought of the one his grandmother hummed whenever fall rolled around and she gathered up the hickory nuts that fell from trees. She let them dry in the sun for two weeks before using them to makekanuchi.
