Page 174 of Modern Romance November 2024 5-8

Santos might not be aware she was there, butshecertainly was. And it offered her battered, wounded heart a comfort she knew she needed...more than Santos would ever know or believe.

CHAPTER THREE

SANTOSBLINKEDINthe bright morning light as he looked around his cabin in sleep-fuddled surprise.What on earth...?What had happened?

Fragmented memories came back to him in jagged pieces: Mia at the bar; that evening gown, that stupid guy; the haughty way she’d looked him... And then, back at the yacht, the sadness he’d seen her in face; the things they hadn’t said; the crushing sense of impossibility...and then the blazing pain.

How had he got to his cabin? He couldn’t remember. What he did know was he was nearly naked, wearing only boxers, and the yacht was creaking and swaying beneath him. They weren’t moored in Puerto de Ibiza any more. Why not? How long had he been asleep?

Groaning a little, Santos eased himself up. His head still hurt, but it was an echo of the blinding pain from...when?...last night? Surely no longer? His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick. He glanced at the table by the bed and saw a jug of water, with a glass already poured, and next to it a sticky note with Mia’s familiar, loopy scrawl.

Drink some water! You are probably dehydrated.

He smiled at that, and then felt the ensuing flash of loss. At the start of their brief marriage, she used to leave sticky notes for him everywhere. Nothing too mushy or saccharine; often they’d been practical reminders such as this one, to drink some water. But they’d made him feel loved, and he’d enjoyed the sight of her rounded letters; even her handwriting had seemed carefree and insouciant, just like her. She’d stopped leaving those notes weeks before she’d left. Right after...

But, no; they hadn’t talked about that last night. They’d never talked about it because, Santos suspected, it was simply too painful; there were too many things they didn’t want to voice out loud. And yet it had been at the root of all their problems...hadn’t it?

Or was it really simpler than that—were they just incompatible? Mia wasn’t the woman he’d thought she was, back at that bar. Or maybe he wasn’t who she’d thought he was. Either way, they’d run into trouble pretty soon after they’d said the vows. But they’d said them, and he’d meant them: to have and to hold, for better or worse... He couldn’t go back even if he wanted to, and he wasn’t sure that he did. But what did Mia want?

Santos’s head was starting to ache again. He didn’t want to stir all those memories up like slimy, dead leaves at the bottom of a pond swirling up into an unpleasant, opaque muck, muddying every truth he’d known. He didn’t want to...but maybe he had to. The only way he and Mia could possibly have a future was if they faced the past—as difficult a prospect as that was.

The door creaked open and Santos looked up to see the blue-green of Mia’s eyes gleaming through the crack.

‘Hello,’ he said, his voice coming out in a rusty croak.

‘Hey.’ She opened the door wider and slipped through, then closed it behind her and leaned against it. Her hair was in a loose French plait, a few curly wisps framing her heart-shaped face, and she wore a well-worn T-shirt with some faded logo on it and a pair of cut-off jean shorts. She looked just like she had when he’d first met her: young and free. It made him realise how she hadn’t looked like that for most of their marriage. For most of their marriage, she’d looked pale, tired and worn down. The realisation was an uncomfortable one.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, and he gave a small, rueful smile.

‘Better than before, at any rate. I’m sorry to have subjected you to such a sight.’ He didn’t want to think about last night and how he must have collapsed, or as good as, in her presence. He despised such shows of weakness and had hid his incapacitating migraines as much as he could. It was definitely not the way he’d wanted to begin their reconciliation...if such a thing was even possible.

Mia came to perch on the edge of the bed. Her legs in the cut-off shorts were long and golden, lightly freckled, and the end of her plait hung over one slender shoulder. She rested one hand on the bedspread, her fingers spread out. She was still wearing her wedding ring, Santos saw with a pang—a simple platinum band. He was glad.

‘I didn’t know you got migraine headaches,’ she said quietly.

Santos managed a wry grimace. ‘It’s not something I spread about,’ he admitted. ‘And I don’t get them very frequently—maybe once a year, if that. I hadn’t had one for quite a while.’

‘Still.’ She fell silent, gazing down at the bedspread, at her outspread hand...at her wedding ring? He wondered what she was thinking or feeling. Then he registered the purring movement of the yacht beneath them once more.

‘Why have we put out to sea?’

She glanced up at him, her blue-green eyes wide and clear. He could count every freckle on her nose. ‘You’d only reserved the mooring in Ibiza for twenty-four hours.’

‘Surely it hasn’t been more than twenty-four hours?’ he protested in surprised alarm. ‘I arrived last night.’

Mia shook her head, the end of her plait swinging. ‘No, Santos. You’ve been asleep for almost thirty-six hours.’

‘What?’ He tried to sit upright, but it caused his head to hurt again, and he was forced to sink back against the pillows as he stared at her in shock. ‘How can that even be possible?’

‘You were out for the count.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t even think a tropical storm would have woken you.’

The painkillers he had taken had been strong, Santos allowed, and had been mixed with alcohol. Plus, he’d already been exhausted from looking for, and worrying about, Mia. Still,thirty-six hours—a whole day and a night—and he couldn’t remember any of it. What had Mia done for all that time?

‘I can’t believe it,’ he murmured, and then he glanced at Mia, registering what her presence meant. ‘You’re here,’ he said, stating the obvious. She smiled wryly in acknowledgement. ‘I mean...you could have gone, left.’

‘I know.’ The wry smile flickered at its edges, but she kept his gaze.

‘Why?’ Santos asked baldly. ‘Why didn’t you go?’

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