14
I’m jerked through the swirling water, a hand clutched tightly around my wrist yanking me to the surface. I break through the grasping, choppy water and drag in a painful, coughing breath. The air burns my lungs, and my throat spasms and seizes as I cough on salty ocean water.
A wave rolls over me, dunking me again. I come up gasping.
The sun berates my eyes, a bright orange ball in the sky. I blink into the tropical light, my eyes stinging from the salt water. I’m assaulted by color—turquoise sea, cobalt sky, pearl-white sand streaked with gold—and heat—pressing over me, sizzling with surf and sea salt and loamy palms and mangroves.
I’m back.
I’m back in this dreamland.
A man swears viciously. He yanks me toward him, another wave swelling over us. I swallow some of the water and come up coughing again.
“Dammit, Becca.”
I kick my legs, chopping through the water, and Aaron—it’s Aaron—yanks me to him. My hair, blonde and long, is plastered over my head, dripping water into my eyes. My dress tangles around my legs and drags through the current.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
He’s shouting at me. I don’t hear half of what he says. My ears are full of water and the world has a dizzy, dreamlike quality.
He kicks back, his legs cutting through the water, and tugs me to lie against him so we float with the waves, our heads bobbing above the water.
I’m plastered against his chest. His T-shirt is coarse and wet, lifting with the current and flashing the flat, hot plane of his abdomen. I press against the heat of him. He wraps his arms around me then, holding me between the planes of his chest and the firm strength of his biceps.
He kicks in powerful bursts, propelling us back to shore. He’s still shouting at me—something like “. . . foolish. . . can’t swim, . . . riptide. . . die. . .”—and the whole while I stare up at him, bobbing in the clear blue ocean with canary-yellow and neon-blue fish darting between our legs and bumping our toes.
Aaron’s dark face has bleached of color. His full mouth is a thin white line and he’s dragging in short, sharp breaths. I press my hand to his chest and feel the heavy, startled beating of his heart.
“. . . can’t swim worth a damn and?—”
“I can swim,” I interrupt.
He blinks, pulled from his soliloquy. “No. You can’t.”
“I can. I just don’t like to.”
And then, because he looks so scared and so confused, I reach up and press my hand to his cheek. I scrape my fingers over his stubble. He’s warm, wet, and I drag my hand over his jaw. A wave crests and we ride it, pushed toward the shallows.
He draws in a shaky breath, and so I press my thumb to his lip, smoothing out the tight line of his mouth. He closes his eyes and waterdrops fall from the dark lines of his eyelashes.
“Thank you,” I say, floating closer to him. Then, because I want to, and because this is a dream and he’s the man who tried to rescue me, I take my thumb from his mouth and replace it with my lips.
He tastes like salt and sea, almost like tears caught at the edge of your lips, salty and sorrowful on your tongue. His mouth is hard, but as I brush my hands over his checks and tangle my fingers through his smooth, wet hair, a wave presses me closer to him and his mouth opens to mine.
He makes a low, broken noise, and then he grabs my hips and pulls me closer. I wrap my legs around his middle, grip his face, and dive into his kiss as if I’m diving into the sea.
He stumbles as his feet hit the sand, the water shallow enough for him to touch, and then his hands are on my back, reaching down to my thighs. His fingers dig into my legs and tug me to him, pressing me against him.
A sharp jolt jumps through me as I settle against the hard length of him. Then I kiss him, lick his lips, touch the tip of my tongue to his, and delight in the heat that arches between us and lights my insides as bright as the noonday sun.
His hands scrape over my thighs, and his fingers and the current drag my dress higher. The buoyancy of the water presses me closer, and all around us there’s salt and ocean and heat.
Aaron kisses me as if he’s never kissed me before, as if he’s drowning and the only way to survive is to press his mouth to mine and devour me. He kisses like a man given a second chance at life.
He doesn’t kiss like a man married fifteen years. He kisses as if this is our first time and he’s been aching for me for years.
His hands draw over me, as soft as the salty sea. His mouth is firm, slanting over mine, breathing me in. He tugs me into him, pressing every wet inch of us together, as the waves rock us closer.
And then, as suddenly as he dove in, he yanks his mouth from mine. The shock of his sudden absence has me blinking, stunned, into the bright light.
I’m panting, blinking at the blinding sunlight glinting in crystal sparks off the sea. Aaron takes a heaving breath, and his chest shudders as he slowly exhales. Finally, looking away from me, he carefully takes his hands from my thighs, setting me back from him to float free.
Even though I’m the one who—in this dream—almost drowned, he’s the one who looks shaken and pale.
On the beach, the three old women under the tree stare in our direction, their hands shielding their eyes from the sun. The four men, working to set up the party, are all turned our way. Not worriedly, but more curious. Except for one of them—a long-limbed, taller one with copper-colored hair, who is jerking the chairs open and punching them down into the grass with a force that borders on angry.
On the porch of Aaron’s house, the teenage girl dressed in her bikini and shorts peers our way. There’s a toddler in her arms, waving a yellow plastic beach shovel in the air.
“Why did you do that?” Aaron asks. His shirt is plastered to his chest, now see-through and showing the outline of his abs and the lines of his tattoos.
“Kiss you?”
He turns to the side, his jaw hard. I’m not sure why, but I get the impression he’s angry about the kiss. Although that doesn’t make sense considering earlier he wanted to take me back to bed and make long, sweet love.
Hmm.
“Why did you run into the water when you know there’s riptides and you know you can’t swim? And you know what happened and how it?—”
He cuts himself off, his mouth closing again into that tight, rigid line.
What happened?
“What?”
His eyes darken, the brown tinging to velvety black. “I know you haven’t been happy. Not for a long time. But . . . don’t . . .”
I scared him, this dream man.
“I’m sorry.” I smile. “I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?”
His eyebrows rise, and I get the feeling I said something he didn’t expect.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re happy?” He doesn’t seem to believe me.
I look around. Feel the soft, air-like salt water cradling me. Take in the colorful island cottages on the beach. Feel the sun stroking over me in hot-tongued heat. Smell the sea and the loamy tropical scents bursting with spice and floral perfumes.
This place is uncomplicated. It’s far from life, and I don’t have to worry about missing anything, because when I wake up I’ll be back in Geneva.
I can be happy here.
“I am,” I say, smiling at him.
He still looks skeptical. His brow is furrowed and water runs down the side of his face and down his neck, back to the sea.
I wonder . . .
“Aren’t you?” I ask, wondering about this morning and the rescue and the kiss.
His gaze moves to my lips and then just as quickly flickers back to my eyes. Then he forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up and make banana pancakes. We have a busy day.”
He takes my hand and pulls me from the water. The sea flows off us in rivulets as we climb from the sandy shelf onto pink seashells and rounded sea stones. The shells poke my bare feet and the cool, frothy surf pools around my toes, trying to tempt me back into the water.
Aaron’s grip is firm, his hand slick and hot as his fingers twine tightly through mine. He tugs me up the beach and my feet sink into the soft, wet, powdery sand. The breeze has kicked up and my wet dress, sticking to my skin, flops in the wind. The wind prickles as the salt and water wicks away.
At the edge of the sand and the grass, Essie calls out, “What’s in your head, girl? Aaron dropped the cake to go after you, and now look! No chocolate box cake!”
Aaron’s grip tightens on mine, and I take a step closer to him as I turn to look where Essie’s pointing. In the spiky grass and the sand the chocolate cake is smashed and goopy. All three chickens parade through the mess, pecking and gobbling, white, blue, and pink frosting painting their beaks in icing lipstick.
It reminds me of the cake Mila tipped over last night, only a wilder version. I wonder if my subconscious pulled that scene into this moment. It’s like when I have a stressful day at work and one of my VPs shows up in my dream juggling flaming clocks or cracking open chocolate cauldrons.
“Sorry, I’ll get another.” I stare as the rooster makes a dash at one of the hens and they slide around the frosting.
“There isn’t any more box cake on the island. Junie said this is the last.” Essie gives me a disgusted look and then stares pointedly at my wet white dress.
That’s when I realize I’m wearing white, it’s wet, and now see-through. Everyone can see my lovely pink heart cotton underwear and bra. It’s like those dreams when you’re naked in front of people—oh wait, it is a dream where I’m practically naked in front of people.
Thankfully, the men aren’t staring—they’re all politely turned away, arranging the tables and chairs—and all the women except Essie have their attention on the cake remains.
Aaron steps closer, shielding me from the men’s view. “We’ll figure something out,” he says to Essie, then he squeezes my hand.
I look up at him and he stares down at me, his eyes clear of the hunger and need that was there when we were kissing.
“Mom, can we eat yet?” the girl calls from the porch.
I startle and pull my hand from Aaron’s grip.
The toddler lets out a babble and a shout that sounds a lot like, “Bana pan bana pan!”
I frown. This could be trouble. I’m a terrible cook—this is why Annemarie cooks for us, and even Daniel, and sometimes Max. Not me. My cooking repertoire consists of cheese toasties, beans on toast, and eggs on toast. Even porridge is beyond me—it always ends up tasting like half-dried glue with the consistency of pebbly cement.
But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s a dream.
I can swim. I can kiss. I can love. And I can cook.