We don’t talk about last night or what it means as Wyatt shows me where to find the sea lions, and suddenly it doesn’t matter. The salt air is sharp in my lungs, and the sun is warm on my skin as I stare at the massive, sleek creatures basking on the rocks. And there are so many of them. Dozens splash playfully in the waves with their barks and calls echoing across the water. I feel a wave of awe and excitement, and for an hour, I do nothing but watch them, taking in the moment.
When I turn to Wyatt to point out how incredible this is, I find him watching me. His eyes are so intense they start a fire I thought was well and put out last night when he made love to me.
“Is this what you were hoping for?” he asks, voice deep and husky.
“It’s more,” I answer, and I’m not sure what I’m admitting to. Only that this place and this moment is more than I could have ever expected. And last night… no, I can’t talk about last night when I’m not certain of his feelings. Maybe for him, sex doesn’t have to mean anything. I shouldn’t let it mean anything to me either.
And yet, I find it hard to look away. To think clearly when he’s standing so close to me.
“I’ll give you space to work,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets almost as if he doesn’t want them to touch me. “I won’t be far. Just call out if you need me.”
“Wyatt.”
He stops. Turns back slowly, like he already knows whatever I’m about to say is going to cost him something.
I close the distance between us before I can think better of it. It’s three steps—maybe four—and then I’m in front of him, and his eyes drop to mine, and whatever careful thing he was about to say dies on his face.
“Last night—” I start.
“Sylvie—”
“I’m not sorry,” I say quickly, before he can be noble about it. “I want you to know that. I’m not sorry and I don’t want you to be either.”
Something shifts in his expression. The carefully neutral look he’s been wearing all morning cracks, just slightly. “I hurt you.”
“You didn’t.” I hold his gaze. “Or—you did, at first. And then you didn’t, and I didn’t want you to stop. That part was real, Wyatt. All of it was real.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, those hazel eyes searching mine like he’s looking for the lie in it. He won’t find one.
“I couldn’t stop,” he says finally, his voice rough.
“I know,” I agree. “And I should have told you before. So we’re even.” I reach up and curl my fingers into the front of his jacket—lightly, giving him every chance to step back. He doesn’t. “I only have a limited time on this island. I don’t want to spend them pretending last night didn’t happen.”
Something loosens in him. I feel it before I see it—his shoulders dropping a fraction, the tension around his jaw easing. His hands come out of his pockets.
“Neither do I,” he says quietly.
I tilt my face up, and he meets me halfway, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that’s nothing like the desperate heat of last night. This is slower. Deliberate. A question asked and answered at the same time. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, and I lean into him and feel the knot that’s been wound tight in my chest since I woke up this morning come undone.
When he pulls back, those hazel eyes are closer than I’m ready for. “Get your work done,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
The promise in it does something warm and reckless to my chest.
“Don’t go far,” I tell him.
The corner of his mouth moves—the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen from him—and he steps back and tucks his hands into his pockets again, turning toward the cliff edge. I watch him for a moment, then turn back to the sea lions with my bag in my hands and a completely foolish grin on my face that I make no effort to hide.
I reach into my bag and take out my camera, taking as many photos as I can before grabbing my notebooks to record my observations. I force my thoughts away from the man standing somewhere behind me and focus on work.
Those sea lions are depending on me not to fail!
Chapter Six
Wyatt
The crossing back to Adak takes just over an hour. Sylvie spends most of it at the bow with the old man’s grandson, Amakvik, asking him questions I can’t hear over the engine. I watch her from the stern without trying to hide it anymore. The wind pulls her hair across her face, and she laughs at something the kid says, tucking it back with one hand, and the knot in my chest that’s been there since I woke up beside her this morning pulls tighter.
She’s not mine to watch. But I keep watching anyway.
