Chapter 1 On the Island #7
John turns to face me, sliding his long legs from the chair and planting his feet on the ground. “I know.”
“I haven’t been to Florence in years. That article—did you see the article? It was completely false.”
“Meg.”
The way he says my name stops me. Focuses me.
He rests his elbows on his knees which brings his face closer to mine. “I don’t listen to Internet trolls. And I knew as soon as I read it that the article was false.”
“You did?”
His gaze is intense. “We haven’t spent a lot of time together, but I’m pretty confident I know the kind of person you are.”
Which is something I couldn’t say about him—at least, not before this week. I had no clue what kind of person John was, but I hadn’t really looked. Hadn’t tried.
“How did you find out about that article anyway?”
“I got an email from a sketchy address. That was my first clue. I shouldn’t have even opened it, but I saw your name and…” He shrugs.
“It could’ve been a virus.”
“It totally could’ve been a virus.” He lets out a chuckle. “What can I say? I’m not the smartest when it comes to you.”
I swallow. Can’t take my eyes from his. “I know how that feels.”
The moment grows thick between us. The air charged. Somewhere a bird squawks, breaking the tension.
I fumble in my purse before remembering that my phone isn’t inside. I start to get up, but John stops me.
“What do you need?”
“My phone. I’m not sure where I left it, but there’s something I want to show you.”
He holds up his finger and then disappears into my room, returning a minute later with my phone in his hand.
“It was on the bed.” His fingers linger on mine as he hands it over.
I click on the screen to an insane amount of Instagram notifications—probably about the retraction—plus multiple missed texts and calls, all from John. I glance up at him. “Oops.”
He laughs.
I turn my attention back to my phone. I’ve also got some unread emails. I click open the one I was hoping for, the one from my editor.
I scan the email before handing the phone to John.
“Read this.”
He glances at the phone, then back at me.
“And the attachment, too. Please.”
I wait while he reads what my editor wrote, how she loves the honesty in the piece, although she’s worried about how audiences will react to me owning my obvious mistakes in the last review.
Then he clicks open the attachment and reads the first draft of my article. While he does, I watch him unabashedly.
I was so wrong about him, about this place. I know that. What I don’t know is how I went from despising him to drinking him in. Being breathless in his presence. Aching to touch him, kiss him. Wanting him to repeat the question he asked me last time I was here. To stay.
When he’s done, he puts the phone down and looks up at me. I expect him to say something. Ask me if I believe what I said. Maybe he’ll doubt my change in opinion, now that I heard how bad the resort is doing. Maybe he’ll thank me. Or maybe he’ll tell me he doesn’t need this.
Instead, he reaches out his hand and places it against my cheek.
He leans in and I sit up, my knees knocking against his as I try to nix the space between us.
His lips hit mine. My hands grip his shirt, pulling him closer.
Eventually, we end up on the same chair.
His hands tangle in my hair. Mine slide along his skin. He smells like coconut and the ocean.
Like the ocean, his kiss—his touch—wakes me up.
But he doesn’t ask me to stay.
My luggage sits on the curb. John stands before me, his hands on his hips causing the fabric of his shirt to stretch across his chest. I love it when he does that, and I think he knows because he does it all the time.
“Tell your parents hello for me,” he says.
“I will.”
He pulls me into a hug. He buries his nose against my head. I think he’s inhaling me like I’m inhaling him. Scent memory is strong, and I don’t want to forget.
A car pulls up to the curb. My ride to the airport.
“I’ll let you know when the article goes live,” I say.
“Oh, I’ll be talking to you before then.” He runs a hand over my hair. “Count on it.”
I grin. “Good.” And then my heart stutters. My breath hitches. My grin dies. The words I want to say are stuck in my throat.
He kisses me lightly. “You should probably go so you don’t miss your flight.”
My hands fist around his shirt, not that there’s much to grab since it’s so tight. “I was thinking…”
“Yes?”
I can’t look him in the eye. “I was thinking about coming back. I don’t know when. I have to think about my next piece, and my mom, and—”
“You’re going to come back?”
In my remaining days here, we never talked about the future, or what would happen between us after I left. He never asked me to stay like he did last time. I gave him no promises.
“I mean, I really like it here,” I say. I look up at him. “And I really like you.”
He smiles. “I really like you too.”
My hands relax against his chest. His heart thuds against my palm. We still have lots of learning about each other to do. And there’s my mom, who I can’t be too far from. And the resort—my review will help, but we don’t know if it will be enough.
The future is uncertain, but the one thing I know is I want to see him again.
John kisses me, slow and sweet. His kiss lingers on my lips as I get in the car.
As the car pulls away, I twist in my seat and look back at him. He waves and I smile, imprinting this last image of him on my brain. Already anxious for the day I can be with John Thornton again.
Melanie Stanford reads too much, plays music too loud, is sometimes dancing, and always daydreaming. She would also like her very own TARDIS, but only to travel to the past. She lives outside Calgary, Alberta, Canada with her husband, four kids, and ridiculous amounts of snow.
Melanie Stanford’s other books include: Sway, Collide, Clash, Then Comes Winter (Anthology) and The Darcy Monologues (Anthology)