Page 18 of Stranded

I trail off and shrug as a flush of embarrassment creeps up the back of my neck. This is where the story usually stops, and people jump in to sympathise with me and scoff at the idea.

After all, nobody would be dumb enough to say yes, right?

But Ronan’s figured it out already. He’s watching me quietly, sipping his drink as he waits for me to go on.

“I said yes. They really needed a hand,” I sigh. “But I didn’t feel good about it.”

“Oh?” Ronan murmurs. “How so?”

I scratch the back of my neck. “Helping them out made me happy at first. But little by little, they started to take advantage of my time, and so did my ex.”

Ronan’s eyes widen. “Oh, lord. Messy situationship? Did you get back together?” There’s no judgment in his voice, just curiosity.

“God, no,” I snort. “Kind of the opposite. She didn’t care that I wasn’t into her—to be honest, maybe I never was. But she wanted me to run the rest of her life anyway.”

“Ouch,” Ronan hisses, touching my hand across the table for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, I feel dumb enough—or brave enough—to tell Ronan the part I’ve only told a few people, and never out loud.

“At one point she was like,This is the kind of husband I want.A guy who’ll do whatever I tell him to, and then leave me alone. Like I was a robot vacuum or something.” I huff a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

Ronan’s lips are slowly parting. His brows snap together as he stares at me. “What the hell? You’re—you’re not a robot.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t marry her,” I force another laugh. “It was a good wakeup call. I came back home to help my brother get back on his feet, and then I got this job… and here I am.”

Ronan smiles crookedly and holds up his glass for another toast. “To you being here tonight.”

I laugh as I pick up my beer to clink against his glass, but Ronan’s watching me with a real sincerity that makes me stop and look at him again.

He doesn’t just mean rescuing him from the beach.

That brand-new feeling is back.

My stomach flips with dizzying excitement. My heart is surging against my ribs like it wants to bust right out. Heat simmers along every inch of my skin, right down to the tips of my toes, until my pants feel tight again.

I know what this is—but only because I’ve never felt it like this before.

Desire.

Ronan’s bright green gaze is still fixed on me. He smiles and holds up his glass again. “And to choosing ourselves.”

I can’t look away. Slowly, I raise my bottle and clink it against his glass again. “To choosing ourselves.”

We both drink to that.

Ronan clears his throat. “I guess it’s my turn now,” he says, sliding his glass around the bar table with one fingertip.

Then, he shrinks in on himself, right here in front of my eyes.

Ronan’s shoulders climb up, closer to his ears. He pulls his elbows in and tucks his knees together. His feet rest neatly on the bottom rail of the bar stool, and he even drags his glass a little bit closer to his chest.

Whatever the hell is going on, I don’t like it.

The more Ronan furls up, the more I want to dive into whatever place he just went mentally and drag him out with my bare hands. But, as painful as it is, I know better.

Ronan has to move at his own speed. I promised myself when I moved back here that I’d never chase someone who isn’t ready to be rescued. And when I sayready, I mean where I found him today: teetering on the edge of the wharf, calculating how far and fast he can leap.

But is that where he’s living with whatever this darkness is? I don’t know yet. All I can do is stretch a hand out in the darkness... and pray that I’m not about to run aground.

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