Page 25 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

“Joel…”

He cups my cheek, his hand warm on my cool skin, and leans forward. My lips part as I inhale, but I don’t discover whether I’m about to utter a protest or a sigh of pleasure, because he just touches his lips to my forehead for a moment before moving back.

“I’ll meet you out here at eight a.m., okay?” he asks.

Dumbfounded, I just nod.

His eyes look black in the semi-darkness, the pupils huge. “Goodnight.”

“’Night.”

We touch our key cards to the doors and go inside.

I walk through to the bedroom, toss my bag on the bed, and take off my sandals. Then I walk across to the window that overlooks the resort and, beyond that, the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The moon is high in the sky and has cast a silvery path on the sea that looks almost traversable.

I can see the moon in your eyes.

Frowning, aching both physically and emotionally, I turn away and head to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

*

I sleep well, tired from the champagne and the dancing and the whole emotional rollercoaster of being near Joel all the time. My alarm wakes me at seven, and I rise and shower, then dress in shorts, a tee, and flat sandals. There’s no point in dressing up as I’ll be in a wetsuit for most of the day, and I don’t bother putting makeup on either.

I separate my belongings, putting my wetsuit and anything else I might need for the day like sun lotion, hairbrush, and bottles of water, into my backpack. A few minutes before eight, I head out of the door and discover Joel standing outside with his case, looking at his phone.

“Morning, Aquaman,” I say.

He looks up, and his gaze slips down me so briefly that I think I imagined it before his eyes return to mine.

“Normal service has been resumed,” I add, taking in his scruffy hair, his stubble, his faded gray tee and swim shorts, and his incredibly old and well-worn Converses that are frayed in several places. He has nice legs, though—tanned and well-muscled with just the right amount of hair that the sun has turned a light golden-brown.

Come to think of it, now I can see him clearly in the bright January sunshine, his dark-brown hair also has lighter brown and golden highlights. His eyes look very blue, with orange and gold flecks near the pupil that make them look like clear water brushing over a stony beach.

Jesus, listen to me. He’s turning me into Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

“There’s not a lot of call for tuxedos in maritime archaeology,” he says. “Last night was an exception.”

“You do brush up well though,” I say as we start heading toward the foyer.

“Well, thanks for that.” He glances at me, amused. “I suppose you want a compliment now, too?”

“Of course not. Although it would be polite.”

He chuckles, then stops as we approach the desk to hand in our key cards. “I told you how beautiful you looked.”

“That’s true. That was last night, though.”

He looks at my mouth for a moment, and I have to fight not to moisten my lips.

Then he leans close to me, so his mouth is near my ear. “I thought of you last night,” he murmurs.

I blink and frown at him. “What do you mean?”

His lips curve up. Without answering, he takes my key card from me and goes over to the desk to hand them in.

While he chats to the receptionist, I stare at his back. Did he mean… was he saying he thought of me while he was alone?

While he touched himself?

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