9 #2
she’d fail. Maybe she’d grow too attached. That was a risk she was willing to take, as long as she got to take him in the bargain.
“Shit, Maria.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, then lowered them to his sides again and twisted his upper body toward
her. “You know I want you. I couldn’t hide it if I tried.”
Without thinking, she dropped her gaze to his lap.
His laugh—no longer bitter, merely rueful—sounded tired. “And to be clear, I have tried. My need to fuck you isn’t the issue here, though, and neither is my... uh, affection. How charming and smart and
funny and talented I think you are, and how much I just— like you.”
Absently, she rubbed at her chest, which seemed to be... melting somehow?
“Okay.” After such lovely compliments, now she really didn’t understand. “So what is the issue, then?”
Those dark eyes of his were solemn and steady. “If we got involved that way, and things went sour between us, we’d have nowhere
to hide. Nowhere we could lick our wounds until we got over whatever happened. Instead, we’d be forced to confront each other
day after day, week after week, no matter how angry or hurt we were. It would be terrible for us, and it would be terrible
for everyone on the crew forced to endure the awkwardness and tension alongside us.”
He wasn’t wrong, of course. But wasn’t it worth a gamble?
She opened her mouth to ask that very question, but he wasn’t finished.
“Maria, we may spend years together on this island. Years . We’re the only two actors on the set, and we both know you’re the center of everything here. You’ve made us a team. Hell,
you’ve made us a goddamn family , and you’re what holds our family together. But if things went bad between us, the community you’ve built, all the camaraderie
you’ve nurtured, could disappear”—he snapped his fingers—“like that.”
He’d never strung so many words together at one time in her presence.
Funny. After months of wishing he would talk more, express his thoughts and feelings more clearly, she now wanted him to shut
the hell up, because his words hurt.
“It would be unbearable.” Gods above, he was still fucking talking . “And the work would suffer too. You know it would. All the strain off camera would bleed into the footage, and I’d have
ruined this once-in-a-career opportunity for what? Sex?”
For me , she wanted to tell him. You’d have risked everything for me .
Instead, she swallowed past the burn in her throat and pointed out the obvious. “Peter, you’ve already endangered your career
for me. Today, as a matter of fact.”
“That was potentially a matter of life and death.” With a decisive shake of his head, he dismissed the only good argument
she had left. “The state of my dick isn’t.”
If this was just about his dick, he probably wouldn’t be so worried.
But that didn’t really matter, did it? He’d said no.
And despite the faint prickling in her sinuses, everything was fine. She and Peter might have fucked, but they’d never been
lovers. Now she guessed they never would be.
That was fine too. Or at least it would be, once her stupid chest stopped aching.
After all, she’d still have him as a valued friend and colleague, and nothing he’d said changed what he’d done for her today.
For a man like him, risking his career even that much was a testament to how deeply he truly cared about her.
So she would make things easy on him. She would make things easy on them both.
“Very well,” she said. “Friends?”
Her hand rock-steady, she extended it toward Peter. But because he truly was a fucking skitstovel , he didn’t shake it. Instead, he raised it to his mouth and brushed a kiss over her knuckles before letting go.
The brief, glancing contact might as well have blistered her.
She needed to get the hell out of his suite.
The soft curve of his lips was bittersweet. “Good friends.”
“The best of friends,” she confirmed with an answering smile that stretched her cheeks painfully, then hopped off his bed.
Just as she was set to leave as quickly as possible, the silver-framed photo on his nightstand caught her attention. Unable
to stop herself, she paused and studied the only real decoration he’d added to his suite.
The picture’s colors had faded slightly, and no wonder. It had to be over two decades old.
In the photo, a boy of maybe eleven or twelve, indisputably Peter, stood next to a woman who looked almost exactly like him.
Long-limbed and solidly built, she had wavy, deep brown hair, dark eyes snapping with intelligence, and a smile that somehow
encompassed both genuine, affectionate joy and wariness.
A blue expanse of water sparkled in the background, and fiery autumn leaves on the trees bracketing them seemed to rustle in an invisible breeze. She had her arm wrapped around his shoulders. His smile echoing hers with eerie similarity, he’d cuddled close to her side.
There was no mistaking the photo. “This is you and your mom.”
Any trace of softness in his expression, however conflicted, disappeared in an instant. He grunted out an affirmative sound,
mouth now grimly shut.
“I suppose I don’t have to ask whether you’re adopted too.” Because maybe a little ironic humor would help relax that now-stony
jaw. “She’s lovely.”
Not delicate or ethereal, but undeniably striking. If Maria fully understood Nava’s explanation of the term a few weeks back,
handsome .
Another low, rough sound of agreement as he stared at his childhood self, at his mother.
When he finally responded with actual words, though, they were bland. Stripped of any inflection or emphasis. “She was.”
Oh, fuck. She’d hoped it was simply a favorite photo among many others taken over their years together, not a memento of a
parent gone too soon.
“Peter, I—” she began.
“She died the next year.”
Each carefully neutral word landed in her heart like an anvil.
She bit her lip. “I’m so sorry.”
What else could she say, really? The pain of death, of loss, wouldn’t be eased by any facile words she might offer. Only time
and love could do that—and he’d had plenty of the former and wouldn’t let her offer the latter.
“It’s fine,” he told her in casual dismissal, and it wasn’t just a brush-off and an obvious falsehood. It was an impenetrable wall constructed between them in the space of a heartbeat, tall and solid and entirely unnecessary.
If he didn’t want to talk about his childhood, she—of all people—understood. She certainly wouldn’t force him.
“Okay.” With firm resolve, she turned away from the photo. From him. “Well, I’d better get going, friend. It’s time for breakfast.
And of course, I shouldn’t linger in your suite. I wouldn’t want to catch your terrible illness, would I?”
After directing a breezy wink in his general direction, she put a bounce in her step as she headed for his door and offered
a jaunty wave before leaving.
“See you—” he started to say, but the door shut behind her before he could finish.
As she started down the hall, she kept smiling until the expression didn’t feel forced anymore, and she could greet Conor
and Fionn and her crew with the good cheer they deserved from her.
Honestly, she couldn’t imagine why she felt so unsettled. Because, really, all was well, and nothing much had altered between
her and Peter. Even good friends didn’t share everything, and even close friendship and mutual attraction didn’t guarantee
a romantic or sexual relationship.
He was a good friend, and those didn’t come along every day. That was definitely something to appreciate. Nej , to cultivate . Also, the next time someone tempting offered a potential hookup, she knew not to turn them down, which was certainly useful
knowledge to have.
As he’d noted, they had years ahead of them.
She’d make the best of those years. In a variety of fun ways.
And if she now had a new set of words she’d like to watch Peter eat, that was no one’s concern but hers.