My fingers grip the overhead handle hard, and I catch myself holding my breath more than once as Caleb navigates through the streets and back up to Watchmere Light. Finally, he parks, then basically vaults out of the truck.
Gaping, I watch him run around the front of the car — well, as best as I can considering the high beams are off and it’s a torrential downpour — and a moment later Caleb’s opening my door and hauling me up against him. Gunner barks and jumps out as I squeal, effectively thrown over Caleb’s shoulder.
“I’m not gonna melt. I can walk.”
I kick my feet a little, trying to wriggle my way out of his grip, because what the hell is he thinking? I am fully capable of walking and I am absolutely not going to melt in the rain. And even if I were going to melt in the rain, carrying me inside wouldn’t help.
Unfortunately for me, wriggling around only serves to highlight just how strong Caleb has gotten… and all the years we’ve spent apart. The thought has me ceasing to struggle at all. Then we’re passing through his front door into the lighthouse and all I can think is that it smells like him.
Twelve
He sets me down on my feet, and for a moment we just watch each other. Thunder cracks outside and the glass shakes in the window panes. Gunner barks, and Caleb reaches around me.
For a split second, I think maybe he’s about to pull me into a hug… or maybe even — my heart skips a beat at the idea — a kiss. But his gaze skitters past my face, and the door closes behind me, partially silencing the sound of the thunderstorm outside.
Feeling foolish, I look anywhere but him, my cheeks heating so fast that I touch my fingertips to them without thinking.
“You okay?” he asks, and I force myself to look back at him like anything about this is normal.
It’s not. It’s not normal. Somehow I’ve ended up back here at Watchmere Light, alone with the only man I’ve ever loved.
Gunner barks again, running figure eights around the two of us, clearly delighted by this happenstance. Lightning flashes again, followed by thunder, and I swallow hard, realizing I still haven’t answered him.
“I’m fine,” I make myself say, sounding anything but fine even to my own ears. I clear my throat. “I’m just surprised that it rained so hard. I didn’t even know it was on the forecast.”
Great, now I’m talking about weather, which is probably the dullest, simplest thing that I could have come up with to say.
He nods, though, like this is perfectly appropriate, and part of me mourns the closeness we once shared. How is talking about the weather the only possibly safe topic?
“Is the light working again?” I ask, feeling foolish knowing that it probably is working, because why else would it be doing anything else? Caleb’s in charge. Caleb fixes everything he always has.
He grunts, not even bothering to answer, and jerks his head in the affirmative before turning away and heading towards the kitchen.
“Do you want some tea?” he asks. “Or something stronger?”
He gestures vaguely to the cabinet full of whiskey I know his uncle always kept near the window. Briefly I consider it, because what’s the worst that could happen if I had some whiskey in my ex-boyfriend’s lighthouse during a stormy night?
“I’ll just have tea,” I say quickly. So quickly that he turns around with a raised eyebrow.
“Are you afraid to have whiskey with me?” he asks, a tense undertone to the question that has me second guessing my choice for tea leaves in favor of something stronger.
“I have Earl Grey or Chai,” he says. “I know that’s not the kind that you like, unless…”
His voice trails off, and I know that he’s referencing the fact that he may no longer know what I like. We’ve both changed. We’re both grown adults.
How is it that you can know someone so well, that you can almost imagine what it is they’re about to say, what it is they’re thinking with a slight quirk of expression, only to find yourself strangers because you were too scared of something bad happening if you let yourself love?
“Well?” he asks, and I realize I’ve probably been staring at him sadly, kind of like Gunner looks at me when I’m cooking bacon in the mornings on Sundays.
“Just thinking,” I say. It doesn’t sound suspicious at all. Not one bit. Not even a little. Okay, maybe a little.
“Maybe just some water,” I tell him.
Caleb shuffles around the cabinet, pulling out what looks like an ancient paper packet of Swiss Miss.
“Hot cocoa?” he asks, shaking the packet. “This one comes with marshmallows.”
“You know what,” I say, “I’ll live dangerously. I’ll take that hot cocoa.”
