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His eyes met mine. He drove into me once, twice, then buried himself deep and came with my name against my mouth. The sound of it went through me. His body locked above mine, then shook, hard. I held onto him while the last of that impossible restraint left him in waves. Even then, even at the edge, his hand cradled my head with unbearable care.

For a long time, we lay joined and silent, both undone and remade.

“You came back to me,” he said.

“Back to the truth,” I said.

His thumb traced my cheekbone. “And you found me there?”

“Yes.”

He kissed me softly then, the desperate hunger gone. Just warmth and damp skin and a new peace that was still laced with the aftershock of coming together.

I lay against his chest, my eyes closed, and wished we could stay like that forever. But we were nowhere near finished with what we’d started. We’d just survived the first fray.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Morning came too soon, and I was wide awake in a blink with the pool party already spiking my blood pressure. But I took a breath and smiled when Damian stirred beside me. Yesterday I’d thought I’d have to do this after breaking up with him. The relief of him there beside me felt like sunlight.

But there was no time to lie around basking in it. I had so much to get done. I showered quickly, then dressed. Damian watched me pull on a linen wrap skirt and a square-neck tank I’d paid far too much for. I was hoping the quiet luxury aesthetic was enough to conceal what the last thirty-six hours had done to my nervous system.

I wasn’t used to having his eyes on me so unapologetically, like he’d finally allowed himself the liberty of looking everywhere he wanted to. It made me smile nervously. He smiled back, and I blushed as I slid my feet into sandals.

We hashed out a plan over rushed cups of coffee. We’d stop by his place so he could grab some poolside-appropriate clothing. Then he’d drop me off at the estate early so I could handle the last few headaches Vivienne would undoubtedly inflict on me and Sofia. He’d turn up a little late, so every woman there would notice his entrance.

Can you call Kai and remind him that ‘babe’ is not a thing he can call my boss? Neither is ‘man.’ No ‘yeah?’ at the end of every sentence. He calls them ladies or by their actual names. And he needs to keep his shoes on. I’ll drown him in the infused water if I see a bare foot.

Damian leaned against the counter, shirtless and divine, and laughed. I decided there and then that I’d never get tired of hearing him laugh, even in moments like these, when my pulse was bouncing from anxiety.

“I’ll remind him.”

I paused, distracted by his half-nakedness. “Does he have something to wear that doesn’t look like it lives in the back of a van?”

“Yeah. And I believe he knows how to use an iron.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

We were on the road ten minutes later. I’d never seen Damian’s apartment before. It had always felt like another part of him he’d kept close.

We pulled up to a narrow, brick-faced building on the back edge of Old Town, where restored storefronts began to lose their polish and the streets ran downhill toward warehouses, boatyards, and the gray of the bay. It had tall second-floor windows and a faded sign ghosting through the paint above the door. Downstairs, behind wired glass, I could see stripped redwood doors leaning against the wall, bins of old brass hardware, and the curved back of a church pew waiting to be mended.

We walked up a narrow, hollow-sounding flight of wood stairs, the air smelling of sawdust and wood varnish. A horseshoe hung on his front door.

I found myself in a sparse, open-plan apartment with a view of the fog rolling over the gray water of Humboldt Bay and a narrow slice of the restored Old Town, just out of reach. Every corner had a jar of salt, and iron nails had been driven into the perimeter of the space with a diligence and exactness that made me shudder. Damian had been shielding himself routinely, the way others brushed their teeth. Day after day, year after year. The salt and nails had been a crisis measure for me. For him it was just a Tuesday.

There was nothing pretentious about the place, but I quickly realized the furniture had a price tag way beyond his pay grade. I brushed my hand over the hardwood of a bookshelf.

“You made all this?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little bashful.

I looked at him. “Why carpentry?”

“It’s honest. Useful. There’s no ulterior motive.”

I followed him into the bedroom, where a simply made bed sat under a row of black-and-white photographs. They were the only decorative things in the apartment. Not of people. Of places. I leaned in to study them.

I recognized a few of them: the Samoa dunes, Big Lagoon at dusk, the Trinity Alps.