“They’ll just leave us out there? With no way to get back?”
A smirk pulls at my mouth. “Having a change of heart?”
“No,” she says, lifting her chin. “I mean, no. I’m not having a change of anything.”
“You know,” I drawl, leaning against a post to watch her. “Staying on the island is dangerous because the Bering Sea isone of the most treacherous stretches of water in the world. Even in summer, the weather can turn in an instant. You understand what you’re agreeing to by going on this excursion?”
“You’re not going to scare me out of this trip,” she says with a glare, and then she steps past me and heads toward the boat. I try not to watch her, but goddamn, she’s the most intriguing thing I’ve seen in years. So goddamned sexy even when she’s irritated.
I watch her the entire boat ride, studying every expression that crosses that gorgeous face as we cut through mostly calm water. She’s nervous—I can see it—but she holds it together, keeps her chin up, and doesn’t complain once. When we reach the far island, I help her off the boat and into the small inflatable boat we’ll use to travel the short distance from the fishing boat to the shore.
“See you in three days,” the grandson calls, waving at us as I start to paddle us toward shore.
“Three days?” Sylvie’s wide eyes whip to me. “They won’t come to check on us every day? What if something happens?”
“Like what?” I challenge.
She opens her mouth, and closes it. “I know there aren’t snakes or scorpions out here,” she says, and there’s a hint of self-awareness in her voice that makes me want to smile. “I just—it’s different, reading about a place and actually standing in it. What if there’s a storm? What if someone gets hurt?”
“Then we handle it,” I say, simply. “That’s why you’re out here with me.”
Something in her shoulders settles at that. Good.
“We’re here,” I say when we stop. I climb out first, drag the inflatable clear of the water, then take her hand to help her out. I unload the rest of our gear then drag the boat to a small inlet where I tie it down. I glance at my watch and realize that it’s already getting late. Sylvie’s nerves seem to calm down as she helps set up camp. She doesn’t say much as we have dinner, other than to ask about plans for tomorrow.
“Get some rest,” I tell her after dinner. “We have a long day tomorrow.”
“Now?” she asks, gesturing at the sky. “It looks like four in the afternoon.”
“It’s after eight,” I assure her. “We need to be up by six.”
“But it’s so bright outside. How can anyone sleep when it’s basically daytime?”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I really don’t think I will. I can’t sleep with the lights on—I never have.”
I give her a look. She gives me one back. “Try,” I tell her.
I hear the rustle of her settling into her sleeping bag as she turns away, and I lie back and stare at the roof of the tent and question every decision that led me here—like the wisdom of bringing one large tent instead of two smaller ones. I don’t do this. I don’t bring strangers onto my excursions, don’t share my space with them, definitely don’t lie awake in a tent with a woman I can’t stop thinking about. And I cannot stop thinking about her. Her scent is everywhere in this small space, that amber-and-citrus warmth that has no business being this distracting. Every small sound she makes—the shift of fabric, the soft exhale—pulls at something I’ve kept very deliberately locked down for a very long time.
I’m as hard as steel. And I’ve been hard since she climbed into my truck this morning.
It makes no fucking sense to have this painful of an erection when the woman is covered to her chin, but her presence alone is enough to send static heat sparking over my skin. I consider going out for a walk to cool down, but I can’t leave unless she’s asleep. So I remain silent in the quiet evening, hoping the distant sound of waves will lull her to sleep.
“Wyatt?”
I close my eyes. She has no idea what the sound of her voice does to me in the dark.
“What is it?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
“How long have you had Sabaak?”
I almost smile. Of all the things she could ask. “Four years,” I say. “Found him as a pup. Someone had left him tied to a post at the harbor in the middle of January.”
“That’s awful,” she says, and I can hear genuine feeling in it. “He’s lucky you found him.”
“We found each other,” I say—and then stop, because that’s more than I intended to say.
