Page 38 of Unhurried Hearts

“Everything sounds good then. Why are you so sullen?”

My arms twitch with the urge to cross them over my chest. “She’s out of town.”

“Aww, you miss her.”

I gesture to the tool in my hand. “I’m holding something kind of sharp, you know.”

He laughs.

The short phone calls and texts I’ve had with her while she’s been away this week aren’t close to enough. And the photo she sent of her bare thighs stretched out over the hotel bedding that accompanied a message that simply said, ‘Thinking of your hands,” destroyed me.

“And I, uh, haven’t had sex in almost six months,” I admit with a groan.

“Oookay. Thank you for sharing.”

I run my hands through my hair. “Great advice.”

“What the hell kind of advice do you need? What, you forgot how?”

I stick my hands deep in the pockets of my work pants. “I’m…onasexban,” I mumble.

“Huh?”

“For fuck sake. I’m on a sex ban,” I enunciate my words and Isaac’s eyes are sparkling with amusement when I finish.

The lights in the workshop hum, rain patters on the glass, and if you really listen, you might be able to hear my dickcry.

“You’re telling me that you’ve never gone six months without having sex before?”

“I mean, I probably have, but not on purpose. This is, like, a thing I’m trying.”

“Because…” He gestures for me to continue.

“Because I’m ready for more. And if Anna isn’t more, I don’t know what is.”

Isaac blows air out of his cheeks. “Great so it sounds like you can, you know...”

The idea of sleeping with Anna after nearly six months of celibacy is almost more than I can take. It’s too early and she’s too far away for me to get this turned on.

If Anna is ready, then so am I. I’m more than happy to do slow or medium or whatever she begs for next time she’s in my arms.

Chapter seventeen

Anna

Any islander knows the combined stress and sweet relief of being the last car on the ferry. Watching the vehicles ahead inch forward while you’re at the mercy of the man wearing the high visibility vest and the glowing traffic control baton.

“Please, please, please,” I beg, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.

It’s merely a numbers game, but I pretend that my pleading played a role as I drive down the ramp into the belly of the ship. I could stay in my car and sleep, but I’m starving. Almost everything at the terminal was closed as the wind caused delays and multi-sailing waits. Learninghow to improve as a hair stylist is usually a dream, but this week away was a nightmare. My budget hotel room had crappy water pressure that barely rinsed the conditioner from my hair, I tossed and turned without my night lights, and now I’m on the absolute last ferry. I still have a forty-minute drive ahead of me.

The trip is rockier than anyone would like. My stomach roils as I pick at a stale muffin and try tiny sips of ginger tea that burns my hand through the paper cup. I rest my cheek on the cold glass of the window next to me, wishing it wasn’t dark so I could distract myself with watching tree covered islands and passing vessels. Was part of the reason this trip sucked so bad because I had someone to miss? When the intercom announces our approach to Departure Bay, I’m among the first to return to my car. I don’t want to go home to my quiet apartment. To the empty bed and fridge. Besides, Chris’s place is closer by fifteen minutes. I think of the way he held me close while I sunk into a deep sleep after giving me that delicious orgasm. When I yawn so hard my eyes water, my mind is made up.

***

Forty-five minutes later I’m standing outside Chris’s door in a freaking windstorm, alternating between holding myhand up to knock and turning back around to face my car. I feel stupid. Like, monumentally stupid. Why the hell would he be happy to see me when I’m about to wake him up in the middle of the night? On the next particularly icy gust of I rap my frozen knuckles against the door and try to keep my legs from running away down the driveway like I’m playing Nicky Nicky Nine Doors. Inside, a light clicks on and a second later the door swings open to reveal a very bleary-eyed Chris. He scrubs a hand down his face as he processes me standing on his doorstep.

“I’m so sorry for waking you up—”

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