Chapter 14
Fourteen
Alaric
The air smells like salt and roasted pork as I step onto the sand. The last streaks of sunlight stretch across the water. It’s been a long day of lectures. I look around, but no one looks familiar. That’s okay. I’m here to learn—and to relax.
A woman in a red hibiscus dress greets me with a smile bright enough to match the firelight. She loops a lei around my neck. “Aloha,” she says, pressing a drink into my hand. “Welcome to the conference luau.”
The glass sweats against my palm and the scent of pineapple and rum hits before I take the first sip. Strong, sweet, dangerously easy. A mai tai. The official welcome to Hawaii.
I thank her and move farther in, shoes sinking into warm sand as I look over the spread. Long tables run under a white tent strung with lights, making everything look softer. People gather in groups, laughing, clinking glasses, voices rising over the surf.
The sun eventually drops behind the horizon, leaving a soft bruise of purple across the sky. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a reminder that I promised to check in with my office, but I silence it. Not yet.
I scan faces. Too many leis, too many bright shirts, too many people pretending they’re not reading badges for titles they recognize. I should be mingling, talking, maybe even enjoying myself. Instead, my chest tightens with that familiar pulse of anticipation I don’t like to name.
She’s here. I know it before I see her.
It’s been years since that hospital in North Vancouver, but I can still picture her leaning over her computer, brow furrowed, lips pressed together while she worked through a challenge.
The thought catches me off guard, stirring something I came here hoping to leave buried.
I take another sip of my drink, ice clinking against the glass, and tell myself it’s just nostalgia, a trick of air and music.
But even as I think it—and especially after this morning—I know it’s a lie.
“Alaric Dempsey?”
I turn, blinking against the torches until the face clicks into focus.
“Dr. Sato,” I say. “I’ll be damned.”
He laughs, clapping a hand to my shoulder. “Please call me Peter. Haven’t seen you since your practicum days at North Van. You’re looking good, man. Hawaii suits you.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “I’ve been here less than a day.”
“I’ll trade our rain for this heat any day,” he says. “Are you in town for the whole week?”
“Yeah. Keynote tomorrow, panels Tuesday and Wednesday.” I pause. “You still working in Vancouver?”
“Emergency department in Surrey,” he says. “Teaching part-time at UBC. You?”
“Still in Paradise, balancing a private and hospital practice.”
“Good for you. That’s a solid hospital.” He nods, and then leans in a little. “We should catch up. I’ll be at the bar after the hula show. You remember how we used to close down O’Malley’s back in North Van?”
I smile despite myself. “I remember the hangovers.”
“Then I’ll see you later.” He’s already backing into the crowd.
I lift my glass in acknowledgment, but my thoughts drift—to the practicum, sleepless rotations, and the woman who made all the noise fade. The one I left because I thought it was the right thing to do.
I inhale slowly, trying to shake off the memories. The ocean wind catches the torches, and they flicker like they’re waving.
When I turn back toward the tent, the laughter feels louder. I scan the rows of tables. She’s easy to miss at first. The tent is crowded, but then my eyes find her.
She sits halfway down one of the long tables, hair loose around her shoulders, a flower tucked behind one ear, and a purple orchid lei at her neck. The light catches the gold in her hair, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
She’s talking to someone. A man. He’s sitting too close, leaning in, his hand resting a little too near hers.
She laughs politely at something he says, but I know that look.
The polite smile. The slight tilt of her shoulders away from him.
She’s being pleasant, but she’s not interested.
When he touches her arm, I see the faint stiffening, the tiny pause before she pulls back. It’s subtle, but I catch it.
The sound of the luau fades. I can’t look away.
It shouldn’t bother me. She doesn’t owe me anything after the way I left. But the sight of his hand on her arm twists something hot in my gut.
I take a slow sip, ice melting against my tongue, and try to talk myself down. We slept in the same bed last night, but it means nothing. We’re here for work. She deserves to be happy.
Still, the possessive thought slips through. She was mine once.
Her head turns, maybe catching movement in the crowd, and her gaze sweeps past me. My pulse jumps, as if she’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t. But she doesn’t see me. She’s already smiling again, tight, polite.
The man leans in closer, saying something I can’t hear. Her fingers curl around the stem of her drink, knuckles pale.
That’s enough.
Before I know it, I’m moving. Across the sand, through the tables, past clusters of colleagues talking shop. My pulse beats in time with the drums from the stage, fast and low, each step tightening the line between memory and impulse.
By the time I reach her table, I’ve already decided what I’m going to do.
I stop beside her before she even looks up. The man’s hand is still on the table, too close to hers. Her shoulders tense again.
I lean down, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo and press a light kiss to her temple.
“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear. “The kids wouldn’t stop talking about their day. You know how they are.”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide. For a heartbeat, she just blinks at me, stunned. Then I see it click—the slight lift of her brow, the way her lips twitch into a small, knowing smile. “They did okay, though?” she asks. “How was school today?”
The guy’s mouth opens and closes once. “Oh,” he manages, glancing between us. “Didn’t realize you were, uh—”
“Married?” I offer with a grin. “Yeah. Still getting used to it myself.”
Liz hides a laugh behind her glass. The man mutters something about grabbing another drink and disappears into the crowd, leaving a trail of awkward behind.
When I glance down, Liz is shaking her head, fighting a smile. “You just scared off a perfectly decent human being.”
“He didn’t look decent to me,” I say, sliding into the empty seat beside her.
She tips her head, conceding without giving me the win. “I can’t believe you did that,” she murmurs.
“I can’t believe I had to.”
Her eyes flick up, sharp but curious. “You don’t have to protect me. But I’m glad you stepped in. He was a little friendlier than I like.”
“Old habits.” I swirl what’s left of my drink. “You didn’t look like you wanted him there.”
She doesn’t argue. Just exhales slowly, fingers tracing the edge of her napkin. The light catches her face, softening her jaw, and I realize I’ve missed this. Her calm in the noise. Her focus. The way she always seemed more grounded than anyone in the room.
I clear my throat, aiming for casual. “You look good.”
Her gaze lingers a beat too long. “You too.”
Then applause breaks out as the host steps onstage, thanking everyone for coming.
Liz sits back, lips curving. “Guess the show’s starting.”
I smile, but my pulse hasn’t settled since I touched her.
The lights dim, and the crowd quiets, anticipation rolling through the air like the tide.
A dancer in traditional Hawaiian clothing and ankle shells steps into the firelight, skin gleaming, smile wide. With a shout, he scales a palm tree barefoot, muscles bunching. The crowd gasps as he swings one arm out, machete flashing, and slices clean through the top of a coconut.
He slides down in a rush and lands light. With a showman’s grin, he pulls a straw from behind his ear. He scans the crowd, eyes catching on Liz.
Of course.
He struts toward our table, holding the coconut high like an offering. The crowd laughs and claps as he stops in front of her and bows.
“For the lovely lady,” he says, presenting it with a flourish.
Liz laughs, cheeks pink, and accepts it. “Thank you.”
I watch her take a sip, her lips wrapping around the straw, and something unreasonably primal stirs in my chest.
“You okay over there?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“Fine,” I lie. “Just wondering if I should get a machete.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The drums kick up, echoing off the surf. A line of dancers step onto the stage, hips swaying, arms flowing like waves. The smell of roasted pork drifts closer as servers appear with trays, moving between tables.
Plates land in front of us—kālua pork wrapped in ti leaves, laulau, lomi lomi salmon, bowls of poi, squares of haupia gleaming white like moonlight.
Liz murmurs a quiet, “Wow,” and I can’t tell if she means the food or the dancers.
We eat, drink, and watch. The firelight paints her skin gold, the ocean rumbling just beyond the tent. Every so often, she glances my way, half smile, half question, but neither of us says what we’re thinking.
By the time dessert arrives, the night feels softer. The noise around us fades.
Liz leans back, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “This is beautiful,” she says quietly.
“It is.”
She looks at me. “You’re not talking about the beach, are you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Her breath catches, small but real, and she looks away. The drums fade, the crowd claps, and torches flare as the dancers take a final bow.
The moment slips, but the air between us doesn’t move. If anything, it thickens, like everything we’ve never said is right here, waiting.
When the music fades and the crowd scatters, the beach feels different. Eventually, the torches burn low, smoke curling into the night sky.
I pull off my loafers, Liz slips out of her sandals, and we carry our shoes as we wander down the shoreline. The sand’s still warm, the tide inching higher with each wave. I shove my free hand into my pocket, unsure what to say, afraid of saying the wrong thing.
She breaks the silence. “I called every hotel on the island,” she says. “There’s another convention this week. Some kind of comic thing. Everything’s booked solid.”
I look at her, already knowing what I want. “Then stay with me.”
She stops walking. The ocean fills the space between us. “Alaric…”
“It makes sense,” I say. “The room’s big enough. It’s just for the week. I don’t want you stranded.”
Her gaze holds mine, wary and steady. “You think this is a good idea?”
I shrug, chest tight. “It’s practical.”
She gives a short laugh. “You always were good at making things sound reasonable.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Her voice is quiet, but it cuts clean. “It was when you left.”
I let the words land. Don’t argue. I already did that once, and it didn’t save anything. “It wasn’t that I didn’t care,” I say. “I was wrong.” I don’t know how to explain this to her.
She exhales, shoulders sinking. “You don’t get to say things like that, Alaric.”
I take a step closer, careful not to touch her. “I’m not asking for anything. Just…stay. Let me make sure you’re okay while you’re here.”
She studies me, searching for the angle. “Nothing can happen between us.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “I’ll behave. Mostly.”
That earns the smallest smile. Not forgiveness. Just permission.
We stand there, the water sliding in and out over our feet. I want to reach for her. But I don’t. I stay beside her instead, close enough to feel her warmth without claiming it.
When she finally nods, it’s hesitant. “Okay. I guess that’s my best option.”
“I guess it is,” I repeat.
I really hope that’s true.