Chapter 6
Claire
I’m staring.
The sand is white-hot under my towel, fine as powdered sugar.
Turquoise water stretches to the horizon, so bright it hurts to look at without sunglasses.
A few palm trees lean over the resort’s tiki bar to my left, their fronds rattling in the breeze that does nothing to cut the humid air pressing against my skin.
I know I’m staring because I’ve read the same paragraph of this thriller three times and retained nothing.
Hunter’s fifty feet down the beach throwing a football with Franklin and the groomsmen, and every time he stretches his arm up, his shoulders do this thing that makes my clinical detachment evaporate.
Sun-bronzed skin. Water still clinging to his chest from an earlier swim. The kind of muscle definition you get from actual labor, not gym equipment.
I force my eyes back to the page.
“You’re staring, Doc.”
My head snaps up. He’s standing right there, board shorts low on his hips, that slow smile already forming.
“I’m reading.” I was totally staring.
“I’m willing to bet you’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.” He drops onto the sand beside my chair, close enough that sand grits against my leg. He smells like coconut sunscreen layered over his woodsy scent as if Texas followed him to the Caribbean. “Want to swim?”
Me and him in the ocean? Wet? Bodies not fully covered in clothing?
“Come on, Claire.” He stands, extends his hand.
Every rational part of my brain says no. Stay here. Maintain distance. Remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
I take his hand. His palm is rough with calluses, the kind earned from gripping axe handles and chain pulls, not weight room equipment. The scar on his right palm presses against my skin.
The sand shifts under my feet as we wade in, shell fragments scraping my toes. The water is bath-warm at the shoreline, cooling degree by degree as we go deeper. Salt coats my lips, my tongue. I taste it with every breath. Sun glints off the surface like shattered glass.
He doesn’t let go even when we’re waist-deep, waves pushing at my ribs. My light green bikini top feels suddenly inadequate under his gaze.
“You look good in green.” His eyes drop, then drag back up. Deliberate. “Really good.”
“Hunter—people are watching.”
He pulls me close as a wave crashes around us. His arms in all their muscular glory feel great around me. When the water calms, I step back, sad to lose the comfort he brings.
“How’s your arm?”
He rotates his left shoulder. It’s been eight weeks, and he has nearly full range now, just the slightest compensation at the top of the movement. “Kapoor cleared me for light work. Should be back at the mill next week.”
“Good.” I track the motion automatically, the surgeon in me cataloging his recovery. “You’ve been consistent with PT.”
“Had motivation.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist. “Wanted to be ready for this weekend.”
A wave lifts us both. Our bodies bump together before the current pulls us apart. My pulse kicks.
“Ready for what?”
“This.” He steps closer, crowding me. His hand finds my hip underwater, its work-roughened palm sliding over my soft skin, his thumb pressing just above my bikini bottom.
The roughness against my soft skin sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the water temperature. “You. Whatever happens after tonight.”
“Maybe nothing’s happening after tonight.”
“Liar.” His other hand skims up my side, fingertips brushing the edge of my top. Water laps between us, warm and insistent. The only sounds are waves and my pulse hammering in my ears and his breathing, harsh and uneven. “You’ve been thinking about it since the fitting.”
He’s not wrong.
I’ve thought about it constantly. His mouth. His hands. The way he looked at me in that boutique like he wanted to wreck every careful boundary I’d built.
His mouth hovers just above mine. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this.”
I should. Should push him away and swim back to shore and remember all the very good reasons I don’t do this.
Instead I grab his neck—sun-hot skin over corded muscle, the kind of strength you don’t get from gyms—and kiss him.
He groans into my mouth, low and rough, and then his hands are everywhere.
His callused palms slide up my ribs, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just below my bikini top.
His grip is firm, the kind of strength that comes from swinging axes and hauling logs, hands that know exactly how much pressure to apply.
He pulls me against him and I feel every inch of hard muscle, the scrape of chest hair against my stomach, sun-warmed skin over iron.
I wrap my legs around his waist and he lifts me like I weigh nothing, one arm banding across my lower back to hold me steady against the current.
His other hand slides into my hair, fisting the wet strands and angling my head exactly where he wants it.
The kiss goes deeper, rougher, his beard scraping my jaw, my throat, everywhere his mouth goes.
He kisses like he works… deliberate, skilled, making sure every angle is right before applying more pressure. When his teeth catch my lower lip I gasp, and his grip tightens at my neck.
“Claire.” My name sounds wrecked, scraped raw from his chest.
A wave crashes over us. Salt water floods my nose, my mouth. We break apart sputtering, his arms still locked around me so I don’t go under.
I taste salt and Hunter and something deeper I can’t name. My lips feel swollen, scraped raw from his beard. When I open my eyes, his pupils are blown wide, nearly black in the afternoon sun. Water streams down his cut chest, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.
“You okay?” He’s grinning, hair plastered to his forehead as he shakes it free.
“I’m fine.” I’m breathless and aching and very much not fine. “We should get back. Rehearsal dinner’s in two hours.”
“Right.” He doesn’t let go. “Claire—”
“Don’t.” I press my fingers to his mouth. “Whatever you’re about to say, just... don’t. Not yet.”
He kisses my fingertips. Releases me.
We swim back in silence. The beach stretches empty in both directions except for a couple walking their dog near the resort. Our footprints from earlier are already erased by the tide.
The rehearsal dinner is open-air, string lights overhead, steel drums playing something slow. I’m in a white sundress, hair still damp, trying very hard to focus on Esme instead of the man watching me from across the patio.
The restaurant overlooks the water, three sides open to the Caribbean breeze.
Candles flicker on every table despite the string lights crisscrossing overhead.
The steel drum band is set up on a small platform, and the scent of grilled fish and lime hangs in the air.
Beyond the railing, waves foam white against black rocks.
Hunter’s in linen and a cream shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He hasn’t stopped looking at me since I arrived.
Franklin gives a speech about soulmates, and Esme cries. The bridesmaids make appropriate sounds while I stare at my bestie’s happiest moment.
Through it all, I feel Hunter’s eyes on me like a brand.
And part of me feels guilty, like I betrayed my best friend’s day. The other part of me knows she’d love this war of emotions playing underneath my skin.
After dinner, Hunter finds me on the path back to the rooms, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. I track the corded muscle of his forearms, the pink scar tissue beginning to fade.
“Walk with me.”
Not a question. I nod in agreement because what I have no control over my emotions at this point.
We take the path that winds along the cliff’s edge, away from the music and laughter. The moon is fat and low, turning the water silver. Night-blooming jasmine hangs thick in the air, sweet and comforting.
We end up on a stone bench overlooking the water.
The bench sits at the edge of the resort property where manicured gardens give way to wild coastline.
Bougainvillea climbs the stone wall behind us, hot pink against white stucco.
Below, waves crash rhythmic and relentless, throwing spray high enough I taste salt on my lips.
“About earlier—” I start.
“I want you to come to my room tomorrow night.”
Direct. Unflinching. Exactly like him.
My breath catches.
“After the wedding.” He turns to face me fully. “I’m asking you to spend the night with me, Claire. No games. I want you in my bed.”
Heat crawls up my neck, my chest. “That’s—”
“But there’s a condition.”
I blink. “A condition?”
“Three dates when we get home.” His eyes hold mine. Steady. Sure. “Real dates. Not wedding stuff. Just you and me, seeing if this works outside of island sunsets and open bars.”
My heart hammers. “And if I say no?”
His hand is warm in mine, rough palm against my softer skin. Below us, waves crash against rocks, the sound violent and rhythmic. Spray mists my bare shoulders, cool against sun-heated skin.
“Then I walk away right now.” His jaw tightens. “I can’t do one night with you, Doc. Either we’re trying for something real, or we’re not doing this at all.”
The vulnerability in his voice cracks something open in my chest.
This man who plays the field. Who keeps things casual. Who told me himself he doesn’t do serious.
He’s asking for more.
“Why?” It comes out smaller than I mean it to.
“Because you’re not a one-night woman.” He reaches for my hand, laces our fingers together. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t want more than one night.”
“You don’t know that about me.”
“I know you pulled yourself off my case because you couldn’t stay professional. I know you’ve been running since the moment we met.” His thumb traces my knuckles. “And I know when you kissed me today, you weren’t thinking about tomorrow. Just right now. What it would feel like to let go.”
Damn him for being right.
“Three dates,” I hear myself say. “And then what?”
“Then you decide if you want a fourth.” His eyes search mine. “But you have to show up for all three, Claire. No bailing after the first one. No hiding behind work. Three real chances.”
The smart thing is to say no.
Thank him for the kiss. The offer. Explain that I don’t date wedding party members or men who make me feel this unsteady.
But I’m tired of being smart.
“Okay.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay?”
“Three dates. After we get home.” My voice drops. “And tomorrow night. After the wedding.”
The smile that crosses his face is pure relief and heat and something that makes my stomach flip.
He pulls me toward him. Kisses me slow and thorough, like he’s sealing a contract.
“Tomorrow night, then,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Tomorrow night.”
He walks me to my room, the path winding through gardens lit by solar lanterns.
It’s in the far building, tucked into the hillside where every window faces the ocean, and it’s there that he kisses me once more at the door.
It’s different somehow. Slower, deeper, his hand cradling the back of my head like I’m something precious.
I taste the beer he drank at dinner and feel the rasp of his thumb against my jaw.
He smells like night air and that ever-present pine, and when he pulls back, my knees are weak.
Then he disappears down the hall.
I lean against the closed door, my heart racing, my lips still tingling where his beard scraped them raw.
Thankfully, the wood is cool against my overheated back.
Through the open window, I hear waves and wind chimes and, faintly, music from the resort bar.
The jasmine smell has followed me inside, or maybe it’s just in my hair, clinging.
What the hell did I just agree to?
My phone buzzes.
Esme: I SAW THAT. You’re GLOWING. Tell me EVERYTHING while we get ready tomorrow.
Me: Love you, Es.
Esme: Love you back, Claire.
I silence it and toss it on the bed. Only a best friend would be thinking of others the night before her wedding.
What did I agree to?
Tomorrow night. Three dates. Hunter Ashe in my life for real.
I should be terrified.
But Instead? I’m counting down the hours.