“I worry about everything.” She sounded beyond grouchy. “That’s not a fair question.”
He waited.
Eventually, she sighed. “But yes, maybe I’m a bit concerned about how I can reconcile this”—she squeezed his fingers—“with our work relationship.”
“Callie…” Might as well say what he meant. All of it, while he had the chance. “As long as you still have doubts about me and our future together, I don’t want to become more intimate. Because if you and I kissed or made love and you regretted it afterward, I don’t know how I’d be able to move past that.”
It would destroy him. Leave him desolate, the ground salted beneath his feet.
Her voice had turned quiet. Tentative. “At work, you mean?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “Also in every other aspect of my existence.”
Finally, she understood him. He could tell by the glaze of shock in those dark eyes.
“You want me that much?” The words vibrated with a kind of emotional intensity he couldn’t quite decipher. “You care about me that much?”
“Yes.” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “Which means I need your assistance. Until you’re completely, unequivocally sure you’ll want to be with me once we return home, please take pity on a besotted former academic. Help me keep a certain amount of distance.”
“No one can promise forever,” she reminded him.
He acknowledged that with a lift of his shoulder. “Right now, I’m not asking for forever. Just next week.”
One side of that lush mouth tilted. “So don’t tempt you. And don’t kiss you until I’m absolutely certain I won’t regret it.” Her head inclined a fraction. “I can do that. Or, more accurately, not do that.”
“Thank you.” He nudged her arm with his. “I’m grateful.”
“And in return, will you promise to trust me if and when I say I am sure?”
Her brows were raised in challenge, and he smoothed each of them with a stroke of his free thumb. “I promise.”
“So we’re good now? I can eat breakfast, take my anxiety meds, and stop having intense conversations before I’ve consumed even a single cup of coffee?”
He laughed. “We’re good.”
She eased her hand from his and headed for the room’s little coffee station.
“Want to see whether the resort is offering a snorkeling cruise this morning? We should have time to do it before we need to make our”—she crooked her fingers—“big decision. Especially since Gladys surrendered to our charm offensive and didn’t schedule anything specific for this morning.”
Callie wanted him to spend several hours staring at her in a wet bathing suit?
Oh, no.
But also: Oh, yes.
“Reserve the tickets,” he told her, and promptly left the bedroom in search of a cold, cold shower.
Callie eyed the water down below, those tempting lips pursed.
The captain of their vessel had zipped to the side of the island that boasted a sunken ship—sunken via holes strategically placed by the island’s owners, because they’d wanted a snorkeling feature nearby—and tossed a rope around a cushioned wooden pole sticking out of the clear water. The pole implied the water wasn’t too deep in that spot, and there were multiple employees watching out for the safety of all the tourists aboard.
Still, Callie hesitated.
The colorful trim on her goggles almost matched that heart-stopping coral suit she wore, and her flippers fit perfectly. Which Thomas knew, because he’d checked. Her mouthpiece swung from her clenched hand with every restless movement. An inner tube waited for each of them in the rippling waves below, held by another patient crew member, so she wouldn’t need to worry about staying afloat once she ventured in the water.
The single cameraman who’d accompanied them to the boat had braced himself against some sort of fiberglass bulwark and was capturing every moment on film, as Gladys had insisted.
Everything was ready. Everything but Callie.
