Chapter 22
Now
Port of call: Kona, the Big Island
Attire: athletic, easy to move around in
I’ve dreamed about Liam before.
In the weeks after he left, I used to have the same dream over and over. Him on top of me, kissing my neck, whispering how badly he wanted me—needed me. Then, just when I couldn’t take it anymore, I’d reach for him, begging, only to find he wasn’t there, and I was alone.
There were plenty of nights I wore out my vibrator trying to soothe the ache between my thighs when I woke from yet another Liam dream/nightmare. But this isn’t a dream. Liam’s warm hand splayed across my abdomen is very real. As is the hardness pressed against my lower back.
Maybe it’s the hazy film of sleep still clouding my judgment, or because the real thing feels much better than anything my imagination can conjure, but here, in the early morning hours, when my defenses are lower and my excuses are flimsier, I let myself sink against him, savoring the hard press of his body, of parts of him I’m no longer supposed to want.
He smells good. The way he always does—citrus and soap—and it’s like flipping through the dusty pages of an old yearbook, reliving memories of what it was like to be his. His to touch and kiss and tease. His to love.
But the memory lasts only a moment before awareness of what I’m doing—of what this must look like—scatters across my skin and I jerk back, putting as much distance between Liam and me as I can.
But the sudden movement jolts Liam awake, and I watch, frozen in place, as he first registers me and my totally unnatural position on the other side of the bed, followed by the boner straining against the fabric of his boxers.
“Shit,” he mutters, covering his still-hard dick with his hands. “Sorry.”
I force my eyes away, desperate to look anywhere but at Liam’s bare chest, or his not-so-subtle hard-on.
“It’s fine,” I say, not meeting his gaze. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
But it’s not fine, I think as the reality of how we got into this situation crashes over me.
What was I thinking? Drinking together? Asking Liam to sleep in the bed with me? Cuddling up to him like I was still his and he was still mine?
Waves of shame spread across my skin like a spiderweb.
But it was an accident, right? I was emotionally vulnerable after my nightmare.
We were lured together by heightened emotions and alcohol.
Besides, we’ve been spending more time together.
Close time. We were probably just picking up on familiar patterns.
Something to do with pheromones and ovulation cycles and science.
Yes, science, I tell myself, like last night was nothing more than the predictable sum of a mathematical equation.
But the persistent spark crackling under my skin feels anything but scientific.
My heart still galloping inside my chest, I hop off the bed and head straight to the bathroom, where I intend to take a very cold shower.
But the cold shower isn’t quite cold enough to snuff the heat swelling between my thighs every time I think about Liam’s body pressed against mine—about other things pressed against me.
Which is precisely when I remember this ship has four pools and I’ve yet to dip my toe in any of them.
So I throw on my bikini and race out of the cabin muttering something about needing a swim.
I probably look suspicious, but I don’t care. I just needed to get out of there. Away from him. Away from the shameful embers of heat burrowing under my skin every time I catch his eye.
When I arrive on the Fiesta Deck, the pool area is crowded with mothers coaxing children into water wings and older couples with skin that looks like it has already spent several lifetimes under the sun. Overhead the sky is the brightest of blues, matching the ocean framing either side of the deck.
I plop my stuff down on an open lounge chair, peel off my cover-up, and jump right in.
The water is cool and refreshing as I push off the cement bottom and into a breaststroke, where the throb in my joints and the fire in my lungs remind me just how out of shape I am. But I keep going, finding cathartic pleasure in the burn of fatigue.
Maybe if I can focus on the fire in my lungs, I won’t think about the much more formidable fire between my legs.
Or the way Liam held me last night. Or how we’d woken up tangled in each other’s arms, bodies wound together like ancient vines.
Or how good it had all felt. And how ashamed I feel because he’s no longer mine to want.
I wonder if I should tell Abby what happened, but I already know how that will go. She’ll try and convince me that it’s fate. That of course we fell asleep holding hands because we’re meant to be. That it’s some kind of sign. Which is not what I need to hear right now.
We’re getting divorced. We’re over. A decision we both made three months ago.
And sure, we might have gotten friendly—too friendly—last night.
But some drinks and a bit of emotional intimacy don’t change things.
It doesn’t change all the nights that I cried myself to sleep while he worked longer and longer hours, or that he left with nothing more than a curt fine.
And it certainly doesn’t make us friends.
I let the thought take hold, strengthening my resolve, as I push myself harder, deepening my strokes, like maybe if I can wear myself out, I won’t have enough energy to want Liam.
Everything is going well, swimmingly, until I come up for air and find myself face-to-face with a familiar pair of legs over the edge of the pool.
Fuck. How’d he find me? There are three other swimming pools on this ship.
“How’s the water?” he asks.
He’s wearing red swim trunks and—God help me—a backward cap. If I wasn’t already in the water, I’d be wet.
“Great,” I say, looking absolutely everywhere but at his strong forearms.
He lowers his Ray-Bans down the bridge of his nose. “Mind if I join?”
Yes.
“No.”
His lips split into an easy grin, the kind that makes my lungs deflate in a frantic whoosh as he lowers himself into the pool.
“How’s your foot?” he asks, swimming up beside me.
My foot? What’s wrong with my—? Oh. Right. The foot I came down on wrong yesterday. Somehow, in all the drama this morning—and last night—I managed to forget all about my injury.
“I think it’s fine,” I say. “Hard to tell in the pool, though.”
He frowns. “Can I see?”
“Here? Now?”
He gives me a look like What’s the problem? that I don’t know how to argue with, so I lift my foot high enough that he can grab it.
His brows furrow in concentration. “How’s that?” he asks, his thumb brushing along the joint. “Does that hurt?”
A little shiver meets my spine when his hands wrap around my skin, and a part of me wishes it did still hurt, just so I’d have an excuse for him to keep touching me. But I swallow the flutter, forcing my gaze away from his. “No,” I tell him. “It’s fine.”
He lowers my foot back into the water with a plop. “You should put some ice on it. I was going to get you some more, but you ran out of the cabin so fast this morning, I didn’t have time.” He gives me a knowing look that sends shivers all over my skin.
I turn away, not wanting him to see the guilt I’m sure is written all over my face.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says, swimming close enough that his strokes feel like little whirlpools drawing me in.
No.
“Sure.”
His eyes lock on mine, and blood rises into my cheeks. “Are you avoiding me?”
Yes.
While yesterday’s honesty had been nice—refreshing, even—that was before we crossed lines we shouldn’t have crossed.
Besides, what am I supposed to say?
My soul still feels connected to yours and 10/10 would fall asleep in your arms again, but I’m not supposed to want that because we’re getting divorced and now I’m kind of spiraling.
Nope. That’s between me and Jesus.
“No, of course not,” I say, forcing my mouth into a tight smile.
Liam’s brow scrunches. “So, there isn’t any particular reason you sprinted out of the room this morning?” he asks.
“I really wanted to go for a swim.”
“Riiiight,” he says, drawing out the word. “Because you’re such an avid swimmer.”
I search his expression, trying to determine what kind of game he’s playing, but the sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose give his poker face an unmistakable edge.
When I don’t respond, he drifts even closer, until I can make out the tiny, sparkling droplets of water clinging to his beard.
“By the way,” he says. “After you ran off, your sister came by the room.”
“Oh? What did she want?” I ask, forcing my eyes above the neck, and absolutely not at the bead of water sliding down his pecs.
“She asked for the photos of Grammy and Gramps. Something about a collage? I gave her the manila envelope on top of your suitcase.”
The bead of water is instantly forgotten. Instead, my breath stalls and everything goes hazy.
“You gave her the manila envelope on top of my suitcase?” I repeat.
His brows stitch together. “Yeah?”
My vision swims.
No. This can’t be happening. He can’t mean…
“Liam,” I say, unable to keep my voice from cracking. “The collage was in my bag. You gave her the wrong envelope.”
He frowns. “What do you mean, the wrong envelope? I only saw the one.” But as soon as he says it, awareness slides across his features. “Wait…?”
I nod my confirmation. “You gave my sister our divorce papers.”