Page 25 of Whispers on the Water

I jerk my hand away from his grip more forcefully than I intended. “No!” My voice is louder, and my patience is thinner. He looks back at me with a depressed hunch in his back. But I stiffen my upper lip. “Look, I’m sorry, but if we go back to your place for a movie, I’m gonna...” My hands find my hips as I gesture towards him, impeccably dressed in his suit. “Well, look at you! I won’t make it two minutes!”

His expression shifts again; a smile flashes, nearly as bright as the sun sinking over the ocean. “You’re saying you won’t come to my apartment because you don’t want to sleep with me?”

Closing my eyes, I face the ocean again, seeking solace in its vastness. “Not that I don’t want to. Just, everything happened so fast. I want to know you, without that… you know?”

“Is this Tilly or you saying we need to slow down?”

I feel heat on my cheeks. It doesn’t seem possible that he already knows me and my friend so well. “Well, Tilly suggested it, but I agree.”

“Okay then. I can slow things down.” His words are sincere, but there is a spring in his step that I half want to hit him for. Why is he excited about taking our time? Unless he knows why. Because I like him, really like him, and don’t want to ruin it by just making our relationship about sex.

Whatever the reason, he seems to have gotten the message, because he doesn’t reach for my hand.

As we lined up for the cruise with a half dozen others, a shiver ran through me, not from the cold; it’s never cold here in Costa Rica but from the thrill of spending more time with Greg. His presence is so overwhelmingly intimate that it sends goosebumps across my skin. And he’s not even touching me.

“You okay?” he asks, draping an arm around me. I nod, not daring to comment on his touch. I do like it, arguably too much. But after my little freak-out a few minutes ago, I’m surprised he’s willing to try anything again. But soon enough, his touch banished all the shivering. Maybe my problem isn’t his touch but his lack of it. That’s it. That’s how I’ll fix this. I’ll just hire him to ride around piggyback on me all the time so I don’t go crazy.

That’s normal, right?

I don’t have time to dwell on my slowly declining mental health as the line to board the small ship begins to move. Our waitress leads us across the deck to a tiny round table covered in a white cloth that looks far more expensive than the sheets on Tilly’s bed. Greg, ever the gentleman, pulls out my chair and then hurries around to his own seat.

His every gesture, the lightest touch, sends tremors through me. How in the hell am I going to get through dinner without doing something foolish? And why am I not supposed to give in? I’m beginning to think that whatever the reason, it’s dumb and stupid and the worst decision I’ve ever made.

Thankfully, the waiter returns before either of us has a chance to say anything. They present the wine options, and Greg chooses something sophisticated sounding, so it’s beyond my recognition.

Once the waiter pours our glasses of red wine, Greg lifts his in a toast, and I follow suit, albeit a bit clumsily.

“To getting to know the real Sam,” he says, his smile teasing yet sincere. The word ‘real’ makes me gulp down a knot of fear, but I clink my glass against his. As I drain the entire glass, I silently hope to drown all my apprehensions in the process. But all it does is confirm that having sex with Greg wasn’t the dangerous part. Getting to know the real Sam is exactly what I should be afraid of.

Chapter sixteen

Greg

I meticulously cut into my steak, appreciating the chef’s skill in searing it just right. Not too tough, not too raw. Having a still-bleeding hunk of dead cow wasn’t my idea of good food, but I didn’t enjoy burnt beef jerky either. Thankfully, my meat was in the Goldilocks zone. Perfectly pink in the middle. The cost of the evening suddenly seemed a bargain, given the quality of the meal and the romantic setting. The ship is small, but the ambiance is intimate, with round tables adorned in white tablecloths under a canopy of twinkling lights.

After devouring my chunk of dead animal and potatoes, I leaned back, feeling content and a bit overstuffed. “I have a food baby,” I joked, chuckling at my own analogy.

“Food baby?” Sam asked. It takes a moment for the words to register. Though I’d just eaten my fill, she was looking like a snack, and a different hunger began to build.

After a beat too long, I smiled. “Yeah, I look like I’m pregnant but only because I ate too much.” Watching her dab away a trace of pasta sauce at the corner of her mouth wasn’t helping the situation below my belt, but I kept my eyes on hers. As if she could read my mind, her face broke into a sultry smile.

Before she could comment on my ridiculous bloating or the sex-crazed gaze I was giving her; the speakers began to play a light melody. Sam’s entire face brightened as others got to their feet. She sprung up from her seat, her enthusiasm infectious. “I love this song, come on.” Her hand in mine feels electric as she pulls me to the dance floor, and I’m temporarily star-struck by her lithe movements. It doesn’t get any better when we reach her destination. The way she wraps her arms around my neck and smiles feels like a gift. I know I’ve got a dumb look on my face; I’m practically drooling. If she’s noticed, she says nothing about it. Instead, my hands find a natural place at her hips as we began to sway to the music.

“Why are you here?” she asked with a glint of playfulness in her tone.

“Cause there was a coupon—” I tease, earning an eye roll from her.

“Not on the ship. In Costa Rica!”

I sighed, weighing how much to share. “I came for work,” I silently hoped the vagueness would suffice.

No such luck. Her brows furrow. “And what do you do?”

“Investigate things,” I’m being deliberately unclear to avoid further questions, but she doesn’t seem intent to let it go. Before she can ask for clarification, I shift gears. “And why are you in Costa Rica?”

“To start over.”

Never breaking eye contact, I ask, “Running away?” Maybe I was poking a bear, but the deepest part of me needed to know. Why? Why run when I know deep inside myself that whatever happened couldn’t possibly have been her fault.

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