He gives a thin smile. “Thankfully not.”
He hovers uncertainly by the bed.
I want him to sit. To stay with me.
I don’t want him to see how much I need him, but I can’t hide it, either.
Deep brown eyes search mine, and a familiar jolt of awareness shoots through me.
Gosh. I want his touch—more than I should. But I feel so small, so fragile, my head thick and fuzzy like it’s stuffed with cotton wool.
Is it so wrong to want this one small comfort?
He holds my gaze, tension rippling through me in delicate waves.
I reach for his hand without thinking. His fingers meet mine halfway, steady and strong. The touch is cautious, like we’re both waiting to see if the other will pull away.
I’m not ready for anything more, but this… This I can handle.
His thumb brushes lightly across my knuckles, and something in my chest unravels, my breaths growing shallow.
Without releasing my hand, he settles into Ellenor’s chair. It feels natural, and I’m absurdly grateful he doesn’t let go. We’ve been orbiting this moment for weeks.
The butterflies almost make up for how battered I feel.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” I murmur.
“You don’t need to thank me. I’m just glad you’re safe. You gave me quite a scare. When I found you, you weren’t responsive.”
“I don’t remember much. There was the beach…and I heard you talking to me, trying to keep me awake.” A blur of memories surges back. The wail of a siren. Lightning. Black. “There was an ambulance.”
“Yes. They arrived shortly after we moved you off the beach.” His gaze flickers away. “I wasn’t sure whether I was doing the right thing by moving you. Or by waiting for the ambulance instead of driving you ourselves. I keep replaying it.”
“I’m here because of you.” I squeeze his hand, my thumb tracing slow circles, mirroring his earlier touch. He watches the movement.
“Thank you,” I say again, my chest tightening as another thought bubbles up. “My guitar…?”
His gaze drops. “I asked Sean to take it back to our cottage.”
“Is it…is it okay?”
His mouth tightens. “A little worse for wear.”
“How little?” I ask quietly. “Did the water get it?”
“Surprisingly, no. Not enough to cause water damage.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I prompt, “Please, just tell me.”
He takes out his phone. With a few swipes, he finds the photo and shows it to me. “It landed on the raised stones.”
My heart twists. My Cole Clark lies on a table in the picture, the sound hole splintered, the delicate wood cracked around it. Unplayable.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I know how special it was.”
“Yeah. It was.” My voice wobbles. “I should’ve taken better care of it.”
Even as I say it, I let the guilt slip away. I’m too worn down to startpunishing myself, and it won’t fix anything.
